In the Going Down

It's in the going down of the setting sun

the jumping up of fish, the sound of a splash

in the soupy murk of dark water and the buzzing

of the locusts on a warm summer night

that makes me long to be there in here's stead.

It's in the utter beauty of crimson clover

over purple vetch, the Chow's refusal to fetch

sticks thrown and the hound's slappy tongue

that waits in wet anticipation for us to catch up.

It's in the happy fart of a buckskin horse rolling

in a rolling field, the burp of tupperware on the quilt

my grandmother made and the stars that never shine

quite as brightly anywhere else.

It's the knowledge that no matter how far you are

or how many years away, there will only be one place

that makes you feel like this. Only one time that's truly yours.

Poor Monster

In the quiet morning
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead of pinked flesh,
a chill threatens from the door
that won't quite close.

The wind teases
the cracks around the casement,
searches for purchase on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just outside.

The winter sky has gone
dull white, a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth.
And no thousand trees' brown
fingers can pull it back.

It is the season when the weak
tire of waiting and the strong grow tired.
It perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters,
ruffles it feathers and waits
for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only
you. Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

Sweet William

I cannot seem to wipe the image of him,
thin and so very childlike,from my mind.
His sweet hopefulness is counterbalance
to his rage, and one never knows which
you will encounter, though with gentleness
and hesitation, he can be bought like a colt
with sweetfeed on a winter’s day. He nibbles,
gingerly at first, then sure, and follows placidly
along, while hidden from sight, lie the prod
and knife patient and ever sharp,
waiting to bring him home.

Roar

Roar

All around the city sparrows fell
Pigeons lay like litter in the streets.
That's what it took to make us stop,
Look up and think
about the end.

Is this how it begins? Not with
a bang but a flutter? When I
came across the turkey on
the north fork trail I wondered
how long we’d have.

The clouds hung low, like
Dirty cotton in the sky
A nagging ache behind
My brow. I squinted
against winter’s
Stubborn glare. Is it too
Bright? Or is it darker
Now than it has ever been?

If God’s eye is on the sparrow,
Where is his ear? A thousand
Thousand feathers fall like
Prayers from the air.
And everywhere ~~ silence.

This little angel was keeping watch over the grave of a little girlwho died in the yellow fever epidemic in the early 1800s. She'dalways been afraid of storms, so when they dug her grave, they madethe side of the grave glass and dug steps down so her mother couldcome and visit her and comfort her during storms. When I was there,there were a number of stuffed animals and toys on the steps.Someone must still come to visit that child and keep her from cryingduring storms.

The Broken Obelisks

Beneath an old crape myrtle weeping Spanish moss on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River stand two broken obelisks – side by side – in a small cemetery. Two lives cut short. They were brothers.

Their broken pillars are joined by their mother’s, which is complete – a life lived full. The plot was once surrounded by an ornate wrought iron fence, now almost completely gone, leaving only the gate, which seems to warn those who enter that there is much sadness here. And, of course, death.

Joseph Neibert was 11 years, five months, nine days old when he died a year before his brother, Thomas was born.

On Thomas’s obelisk is the following inscription:

Thomas Bird Neibert

Born August 11, 1836, Natchez, Mississippi

Died June 22, 1858, Carrollton, Louisiana

The following lines written by himself and published in the New Orleans Delta almost two years before his death would seem to have been influenced by a foreshadowing or premonition of his early entrance into that new life which he now so fully enjoys:

A New Life

Ever, ever more regarding
Suns that long have had their setting,
Dreading future steeps to climb
I have lingered faint and weary,
Looking backward to the time
When my being, fresh and cheery,
Hastened onward to its prime.

Now, with brighter visions burning
From the past my spirit turning
In the future seeks its home.
Angel wings are folded o’er me
And I listen, rapt and dumb,
To the loved ones gone before me
While they whisper, “Brother, come.”

One unseen is ever near me,
Buried brother risen in light
With his thrilling angel fingers
Clasped in mine, my way is bright.
And my spirit no more lingers,
Murmuring o’er its springtime flight.

My great grandmother had a little boy who died when he was a year old named Joseph Neibert. I suspect we are somehow related to these brothers, but had never heard of them before my trip to the old cemetery two days ago.

I’ve heard tell that a broken obelisk means the person died by suicide. I hope it isn’t true, but wouldn’t be surprised. We’ve had suicides in our family. Poets, too.