Mother is Here

I am not the daughter of the future
But a mother to my past
Bleeding out what I once remember
From the memory of my aching womb
I will no longer mourn what I was
But rise
In recognition of who I am
Never birthing human life
I will give what life I have
To the voice I silenced
So long ago
To a girl
Awkward in form
An alien amongst the group
She quivered in the corner
Learning to be
But never being
Until I
(taking from a body with nothing to give)
Molded this truth:
Raising a life starts within
Even when we are without.

Speak, my child, Mother is here.

CL March 2022

Bees on Aster in Autumn

This life has fallen below me.
Collapsed under the weight of hope.

I am tired.

My instinct to sleep.

I have given my all to dream, to wonder,
and to the stillness of life’s contemplation.
And yet, I have only this pen, this paper, and these words
no one seems interested in slowing down to read.

I’ve poured my heart out in love.
And yet, I fail to give enough.
All I wish is for others
to see what I see
in this moment of love:
The bumble bees,
The honey bees,
The green metallic bees
on the aster flowers of
early autumn.

To pause and
stare into their being,
their purpose,
their lives lived
under our noses.

I’m certain
they get tired but,
they carry on,
living.

A bee on a flower provokes
the most deeply
felt observations of
love—simple and
understood—I know
this moment;
I feel their purpose.

But I must ask:
Shall I give life for others to notice?

What does it take to
feel beyond the illusionary
life of noise
we have created?
To be in awe of
that which blooms and
gives life just as
the rest of
the world
all around
begins to
fall into
slumber?

Oh, I’m tired.

I’m tired of emptiness,
of ugliness,
of the mess
we’ve made
of life.

I’m tired of willful
ignorance,
of false pride,
of the lies
bought and sold for
profit, milked
from the
the blood and
sweat of
another’s
work.

I’m tired of witnessing
the fall
of human decency,
of common sense,
and of caring;
The simple act of caring of others should be natural.

I’m tired of
the imbalance
between life
and death;
and laughter
and sorrow;
between the proverbial
them and us;
between all of us.

I want balance.
I want to care.
I want to give.

And I want to be;
I want to go
from flower
to flower
and carry on
with purpose.

I want to
be noticed in
love as
I notice in love.

For someone to see what I see…

To rise
together
when
the rest of
the world
falls.

To be a simple reminder of what is simple and understood.

I know this moment.

I’m tired.
And yet, I will carry on.

Like bees, on aster, in autumn.

September 18, 2017

The Lady Bug

In a crowd of people
My focus is
On a single lady bug
Crawling its way
Among human feet
Hurried by
Their ego of
self-importance
unaware that
life lives underfoot.

Bumped by
Bodies
Bigger than
Mine
I lean down
And safely
Pick her up.

I watch as
Her tiny legs
Scurry along
Tickling
The hair on
My hand as
She zigs and
Zags
Her way
Up one finger
Down the other
Exploring
The peaks and
Valleys and
Wrinkles of
My skin
Before opening
Wings and
Flying
Off to
What I can
Only assume are
New
Adventures.

She doesn’t know
I saved her life.

She doesn’t know
She was
One step away from
No more.

But we’re all
One step away from no more.

No matter
How important
We think
Our life is
It’s no more important than
The lives we fail to
Notice,
The lives we fail to
Save,
The lives
we miss when
The only life
We concern
Ourselves with
Is our own.

It’s not enough to
Look straight ahead,
We need to
Look down and
Reach out
A helping hand to
Those who
Might seem
Insignificant to
Our lives,
Who
Might not
Have the
Means to
Help us
Right
Now.

For life to have real meaning,
We need to mean something to all life.

Good luck lady bug.

You meant something to me.

And this poem is for you.

CL May 19, 2019

History Repeating

I wasn’t the student who spoke up in class
Not because I wasn’t paying attention
Or I didn’t do the work
I just
I just didn’t want attention on me
I was afraid of
Screwing up
Getting it wrong
Even when I was so sure I was right
I worried
What if I’m wrong?

But in 1994
In my 11th grade
US History Class
When Mr. Desmond asked, “Could the Holocaust ever happen, here, in the United States?”
My classmates answered
Unanimously
With their collective
Shaking of heads
No, no.
No, it couldn’t happen here
And in between that shaking of heads
I heard around me
The shouting and muttering of
Voices saying
No way.
Not in the US
Not in our country.

As I sat there
Quietly listening to
Their strong conviction of
Patriotism
I felt a certainty of
My own rise up
In me.

From my gut
It came and like
The story of
Mose parting the
Red Sea
It parted my self-doubt
And pushed back
The small feelings of inadequacy
I had always felt because
In this moment
I knew the answer so
Immediately
I didn’t worry if
I was wrong.

I lifted my hand into
The stale
Humid air that
signaled summer’s
Inevitable return that
Always brought the end to
Classroom learning because
Who has time for that
When there’s
Teenage mischief on
The brain but
On this day
There was a lesson to be
Taught and
It felt more important than ever to be the one to teach it

Mr. Desmond caught sight of
My hand in the air
His eyes widened as he pointed in my direction, “Christa? What do you think?”
And without missing a beat
I began to speak up
(while actively noticing I was listening to my own voice)
My nerves do that to me and so
I had to tune myself out as
I said, “Yes, it could.”
“Why do you think that is?”
I paused for a moment and
then I spoke the one word that came to mind
“Propaganda.”
And as his brow dipped low
He softly nodded his head in agreement.
“Yes. Yes. It could.”

Standing here
Thirty years later
In the hot humid air of
A 2024 summer
Long past the days of teenage mischief
There is still a lesson to be learned for us all
I wasn’t wrong.
He wasn’t wrong.
It can
And it is
Happening

History is repeating.

CL July 2024

America, the Hopeless

America,
Our longest day has
Faded into memory like
Childhood summers,
We thought it’d last a lifetime.

But here I stand
reflecting on the past
feeling the warmth of
the setting sun on my back
I look to my eldest tree
an American Ash
for comfort leaning into
its sparce shade as
my elongated shadow
merges with its and
I find myself in tears
Knowing it’s dying just like
our democracy.

Infested with
Emerald Ash Borer beetles
discovered too late to undo
the devastation taking place
within its vascular system,
all I can do now is watch as
this once strong tree falls to
the ground
one limb at a time.

Piece-by-broken-piece,
my hope crumbles with it as
our shadows begin to be replaced by
the darken of
day to night and
with it comes
the nightmares,
not made in childhood but
created by
the withering of
the dreams we made when
hope was all we had.

CL 2022

Children of the Trees

The trees are the angels
Guardians of this planet
For millions of years
They spoke wisdom within
The roots of time
And when we sat in their shade
We heard the whispers of
Our past
The stories of
Our truth:
We are the children of the trees.

We believe we came from the oceans
And as bodies we did
Our ancestors grew legs
Crawled out of
The liquid currents of life and
Began inhaling and exhaling
A new world where what we need is
Carried in the wind but
Our first breath
The breath of
Human life was of
The trees already established
Holding tight to
The structure of
This planet
They embraced us as
New family to
The growing diversity of
Earth.

The trees witnessed
Our birth into
Conscious awareness and
In celebration reached out to
Each other under
The cover of dirt like
Fingers
Spreading
Touching
To share
The news of
Our awakening.

Humans are alive!
Hallelujah!

And with great respect for life
They raised us as primates
As children of the trees.

In our youth
We found safety and
nourishment in
The welcoming of
Their branches and
We lived in awe when
Our sight gazed at
The lifting of
Their crowns
Collectively
Singing
The songs of
The wind.

Yet, in the thousands of
Years we have lived
Side-by-side with
The trees
We have forgotten that
Our breath
The Breath of Life has
Always been with
Them.

They have been
Our protectors
Guiding us
Living their lives to
Give to life for
Millennia on top of
Millennia
Yet, we have abandoned
Their life for
A new Earth of
Our own creation that
Sacrifices
The very essence of
What it means to have
Dignity for
All life.

The trees know
Dignity.

In dignity
They continue to
Stand tall
Guarding the wisdom of life
Passing it on
Through
The roots of
Interconnected
Generation
Hoping
We remember
Our roots as
We sit under
The last of the trees and
Awaken once more to
Our truth:
We are the children of the trees and
It is now
Time for us to
Grow up and be
The caretakers of all life.

Sit with the trees and
Remember:
You are a child of the Trees.

CL 6/16/2024

The Wind Blows

I am not the interpreter of the dreams I wish for myself nor
The force of solitude I crave in the stillness.

I am fear and regret sitting beneath trees that know neither, while
Causing an ache in my neck as I look up toward the peak of their growth,
Wondering how do they do that?

How do they live with such strength and poise in a world that lives to
Tear them down
Dry them out
And build its own dream out of their bones?

Here they stand
Stoic
Strong
Whispering wisdom in the wind
While I cry
Lost in my life
Unable to know if the quaking in my body is meant to
Break me or move me along?

There is no answer.

There is only wind
And trees
And dreams to be as
I move while they stay as
I cry and they sway whispering
Let go.

Let the wind blow.
CL August 2022

The Greatest War

Is won by
The dropping of
The sword
The melting of
Metal into
Tools of
Greater
Use

The Greatest war

Is won by
The emptying of
The chamber as
Bullets fall
Silent without
Striations
One round at
A time
Weakening
The power to
Injury
Maim and
Kill

The Greatest War

Is won by
Stripping
The compounds of
Chemicals to
Eliminate
The mixture of
Death and
Destruction as
We behold
The barrels of
Past tragedy
Laid to
Rest in
Sealed off
Graves where
Its breath
Touch and
Smell can
Harm
No more

The Greatest War

Is won when
We do not
Fight for
National
Pride
Against
The adversaries of
Profit and
Prophet where
The blade of
Honor ceases to
Fall onto
Shoulders and
Through
The necks of
Endless life in
False
Justification of
Ritual lies

The Greatest War

Is won when
We no longer
Rage with
Guns
Against
Skin and
Color—
Against the
Mighty God of
Our deepest fears

The Greatest War

Is won when
We no longer
Dream in
Doom—
When clouds
Do not
Burn
Through
The sky
Leaving
The stillness of
Sorrow
Drifting
In and
Out as
The color
Red

The Greatest War

Is the war
Where
Peace is
Our victory
Where
Justice is
Our King
Where
Picking up
A sword to
Avenge
A wrong is
The greatest of
All wrongs

The Greatest War

Is the longest war
We continue
Fight

And fighting is why
We are still at war…

War exists within
Our memory
Within the
Conscious
Recollection of
Violence done
And being
Done so
We fight
Against

Against
Each other

Against our
Being

Against the
Evil we
Presume in
The darkness of
Our mind

We fight in
Fear

We fight in
Anger

We fight in
Love

To fight is
An illusion that
We are
Without
Choice

Fighting is
Our last resort

And it’s always
A show of
Force

It’s a display of
Strength of
Bravery of
Power in
A world beyond
Our control

And when
We fight—
We are
Out of
Our own
Control

But, the Greatest War

The Greatest War
Is won when
We make
A single
Choice

Peace is a choice.

A choice to
Walk
The path of
Refrainment of
Making
The decision to
Leave
The violence of
Our history to
The Storytellers to
Help us
Understand and
Remind us
Always of
Why we are
Better off
Without
The Sword
Without
The gun
Without
The bomb of
Death

It’s a choice to
Look in
The mirror and
See…

Within us all, the war rages on

The Greatest War

The greatest war
Is won or
Lost by
The choice of
A single person on
Any given day

Every one of
Us has to
Make that
Choice to
Live in
Peace or
Continue to
Fight against.

It’s a battle of
One choice
Affecting
Billions

The Greatest War

Is won when
Our only
Choice is
Peace.

CL April 22nd, 2015

My Desk

Inspiration doesn’t
Come
From where I sit

A desk
4 plants
Half dead
One prickly cactus
Small
Under nourished
Yet still alive
Holding on to
God only knows

A bottle of Dasani water
Cap tight
Condensation held in
Begging not
To be drank
But rather
Sits
In the dark
Reflecting hope
That perhaps
One day
It will be revered
By the three R’s
Reuse
Recycle
Renew

Randomly
Taking space are
Nail clippers
A hair brush
Scissors
For cutting hair
Not paper

Seriously
Have I ever
Groomed myself
At my desk?

Not that I recall

So I have no answer
As to why
I decided
This might be a good place
To keep my
Personal care
Products

But also
More logical items
Have found
A place
Here
CD-R’s
Some old floppy disks
My Dolby Digital Speaker System
Because it’s all about
Surround sound
Baby
It’s a must
In order
To crank the bass
And pimp out
This mother of a computer
While slamming some rhymes
On Microsoft
Word

Actually my brother
The computer whiz
Set it up for me
I was content
With the built in speakers
That pumped out
Music
Poorly
Myself
But hey
If it makes him happy
Hook me up

The miscellaneous stuff found
Looming around
An ear plug
Don’t ask
An old Ani CD
From back in the day
When I was exploring
The wave of
Collective Individuality
An over priced book
Of short stories
Bought
Long ago
That I still haven’t read
An expired credit card
Again
Don’t ask
A few pieces of paper
One with a phone number
That I don’t recognize
So I dare not
Call
Another with a song I like
Butterfly Boucher
Another white dash
Which I finally
Downloaded
From Filetopia
Legally
Of course
Since I am
A law abiding citizen
And I would not want
Butterfly Boucher
To ever be
As broke as I am
After all
That definitely
Would be
A crime
Of the grandest
Proportions

And last
I find
Leaving a ring
Of permanency
On my desk
One
Empty
Faded
Yellow
Cup
I believe I use
To water
The hardy
Hardly forgotten
Plants
That vie for attention
For affection
For encouragement
To grow

And whether
I water
Every day
Or once a month
Whether they grow
Wild and unruly
Or fade
And die
They’ll gladly leave me
Sitting here
At my desk
Lacking inspiration
Much like they
Now
Lack water

Yet unlike
Water for them
Inspiration doesn’t
Just
Come to me
When I need it
I have to find my inspiration
Myself
Where ever I am

And right now
Where I am
Stuck without words
Without reason
Without a thought
On my mind
Or raw emotion
In my gut
When my desk
Becomes a poem
Forever
Immortalized
For it’s content
It is clear
Right now
Inspiration is
Nowhere
To be found

CL 2005

Cold America

Dollar Store frame, not a diploma,
student of the month certificate
dot-matrix printed in 1992
from the Barksdale Boys & Girls Club.

Evicted Xmas Eve, mom and two small kids,
leaves behind plastic tree, hung with a few
painted popsicle-stick decorations,
and a beat-up TV no pawn shop would touch.

The rest of her belongings
shunted down the street
in a cart stolen from the Piggly Wiggly
that left town.

Mercy Mild

Sure, I wish everyone
a merry Christmas
though I’m about as merry
as a root canal.

As the hour of Santa’s
magical flight approaches,
I’m making my way from
Hartsfield to Newark
with a three-hour layover
in Detroit.

Other people are spending tonight
around the spiked punch bowl
with holly jolly pals.
Then again, there’s bombs
falling elsewhere
on earth.

& surely the emergency rooms
under our flickering lights
are full of the lonely and scared
who would joyfully trade places
with any of us
on this cheerless Airbus.
Even me.

Comparing ourselves
to imaginary others
is a fool’s errand.
This fool forgot to pack
socks, underwear
and a toothbrush

Submarine Girl

Theatrical backdrop provided
by wall of graffitied boxcars.
Our player sits sniffing
and sobbing on her cold curb.

Parka hood drawn tight,
concealing her aspect.
Fake fur periscope
tracking my movements.

The director should find no culpability
in my indifference to her weeping,
louder behind each step.
She has a warm coat.

Her sturdy duck boots
appear waterproof, and if they are not,
perhaps she should move her feet
out of that puddle.

Godmonster

Through a labyrinth of
Xmas trees spitting dead needles
Onto rat fur carpet
You see my papier-mâché
Bull mask
And laugh

And all the bulbs
That failed to light
Are wrapped around
My hand too tight
Not so much a man
I am a process that repeats
Not a milking cow
(You know that much now)

Some find me
An ornament, fragile yet still enduring
Among the burning branches
Or under hot rocks fallen
From ancient skies

You have yet to discover
Whether I am a builder of nests
For songbirds
Or scorpions

My Jubilee Year

Against my temple
With rubber mallet struck
On the third
Joggled to consciousness
Am I denied paradise
You, denied opportunity
To replace me in my holy office
Abnego!
Abiuro!
Abnuo!

Still it is my time
Yours could not come

Back from the merry Xmas
Of debt, well met
Not speaking mere ex cathedra
Recognize not oraculum?
Every love-wrought word a jewel
Jewels circling a diadem
Never to prettify
Your mendacious head

For you I have fashioned
This garland of plastic lilies
Which blew over the cemetery fence
It will please me if you wear it
If you must be

In my presence

Operation Wreck You

Shower us with splinters
Crucifix rain
Our centers liquefy
What is made will be unmade
Direct us, kind Virgil
Past she-wolf & greyhound
Alley bat & lecherous professor

Taint us, paint us
Give in to mutilations
Beasts & their marksmen

You have been robbed
Of a thousand Xmas memories
Of purity & appetite
Danger & vision

You have been robbed
Of adventure
Everything is an emergency

White Woods

Like shadows on the face of the moon
Rabbit tracks in the snow

Naked branches twist like snakes
Or reach out straight from trunks
A selection of wands not for sale
Nor for parlor tricks

Why be eager for winter’s end?
I’m finally getting acclimated
Don’t even bother zipping up my jacket
Cold air soothing as it fills my lungs

After all, I will never see as many
Winters as I’ve already lived through
Each could be my last
Of course, that was always true
Particularly when I was young
Skating on ponds
Skiing trails alone
Joy riding on black ice

Like shadows on the face of the moon
My tracks in the snow
Pursuing aloneness
In silent white woods

Save God’s Love

I was seven when she raised her hand to me. I bounded through the screen door to find her hanging socks
on the clothesline. I puffed my chest, in imitation of my grandfather. “Get to work!” I waited for her laugh at
my childish attempts at playing adult.
A storm landed behind her eyes and moved toward me, whipping out to slap my cheek. “Don’t ever speak
to me like that again!”
our faces perfect mirrors of the shockwave between us. My ears heard no more words, only the shakiness
that entered her voice, as it matched and reverberated in my cells.
I turned and walked away, wondering if my words had eviscerated love. Questioning EVERYTHING that
constituted my seven years. Who would I be? Would I cause shockwaves? Would I bring quivers to the
gentlest voices? Did violence exist at the end of careless words? Was I still her bird?
The years passed and she loved me in spite of my puffed chest.
Much later, the dementia made her angry, made her tell me the door knob stopped working. Her recognition
of me faded. The sight of me agitated her. She looked at me and hissed, “Why won’t that woman go away?”
to the men who’d traded my child body.
My cheek turned to the slap of it. The shockwave in my body extended extending extends.
Do not crumble. She built you up to be strong.
Do not crumble. All things fade.
Save God’s love.
Save God’s love.

Brave Speaks

The first gentle man to meet
The little boy inside of me
Was native from a tribe whose name I’ll never know
In the foothills of Alabama, red clay dirt stains everything
Including his bare feet
My bare feet
The dungarees we wore on old plantation land
He never consented
He never consented to aid and abet a criminal
He walked to the barn, with quiet feet
I followed, tag-a-long stolen child standing next to him on stolen land
I watched his hand sling the scratch like a song in the dust
He never touched me
He always walked ahead
He pointed instead of spoke
He taught me about the place between words
Long before I ever lay down with a horse, I knew the safety of silence and heartbeat for an instant
Only an instant, of course
When he had seen too much
When he had heard too much
He spoke for the child
He risked safety
He risked life
In a place that had no respect for
His life
His life. My life.
He spoke.
And change came.
A bed of my own.
A social worker with questions.
I never saw him again.
Sometimes I feel his spirit in the forest and I long to speak through time…
Tell me your tribe… Tell me your story.
Tell me how you were so brave to cross a white man to save his children
~~~

Ancestors Lead Me Home

Do not use your wound as a weapon
As a soldier it will slay
Even you, even you
Long ago, a sword taught your ancestors
To run from pain
A marauding horde of synapses now fires
In you headspace
As echo
You have pick-axes for reflexes
When the jagged knife rises,
Turn to it as teacher; it will cut the path to God