The Lasting Melody Made of God

(dedicated to Fahim Ali)

 

When our species decided

to discover

an accessible deity,

one song was slung across

an abyss

we suspected

was only dead space.

 

What we uncovered

was another culture.

Together, we articulated

earth’s universal tongue.

It’s a humming with uncommon notation.

Now it was our bloodless kinship.

 

There is more

beyond our mindscape

than oblivion

or bondage.

 

No, Genesis split

the original, gentle night

with a mother-of-mornings.

In the day, our instincts

naturally listened for hip cats

who carve chords

that quell chaos,

not cause it.

 

The facts are not farfetched:

Prayers progressed into psalms

that grew from a fertile,

gospel womb.

Those notes, hemmed

up in a hymn,

that today resonates as the rhapsody

of God’s first words:

We are all kept safe

in the Old Man’s hands.

Our darkest deeds

are blown free,

like dandelion seeds in a gale.

 

Yet,

if my concept of soul

lacks enough evidence

to earn your certainty,

rely on reason,

sunflowers, starfish,

and spider webs.

The only theology

worth knowing is:

None of this

is meaningless.

 

 

Be on Spring, Good South

 

Up at her home, still sweaty,

the evening is a bulge

of what 20-something

felt like.  I leave loneliness

for a pixie with jet black hair

who navigates by an

orchid petal-strewn pathway.

Last book written,

barbecue eaten,

I am at the midpoint of my life,

and the right way

will find me.  Up!  Up, spring!

 

Tomorrow I’ll

feel the loss of frost.

She will fold me up,

and the oldest kin

spins out,

early.  I keep unexplainable hours.

This day is an epic: Lunch

and dinner

served with onion rings.

Two cats crawl

past a grandmother and young boy.

Closer to Little 5 I find neon

and expensive lipstick.

 

The season plays a lead role

in any conscience I have.

Nature has the only knack

for words.

I am the eye

of an actor.  The faux-persona plays guitar

while I work, now,

in this shorthand that you understand

well enough.

 

Atlanta has been my Lily

many times

since college.

Yellow bloom!  Soft pinks

and abrasive, flaring red!

(I forgive your slow descent

on my South.)

Pen the hour, the pulse,

and the groan of growing

into a man.

Hunker down.

It’s time to emulate

the electricity

a kite can catch.

 

The warmest evenings

are when work

and love

and work (again)

feel like Christmas.

You don’t

fall victim to the Void.

You blow kisses to the

coy mistress in Ball Ground.

 

Sacrifice is an act of earning.

Be on fleek.

Think.  Intelligent attraction

is the best carnival ride

with no line.

The calamity of open flowers

Owns the calm,

the happy, the lonely,

the best, best friends:

Atlanta,

be spring for me.

 

 

The Apartment

with a Narrow

Entry

 

I’ve been here three dozen times.

This apartment

has the appeal

of church.  Not for much

longer. Winter

is a stranger

I’ve come to know too well.

Go tell Jack Frost

it’s the moment for mini-skirts!

 

I howl and then clip

the wick of my Ginsberg-ian penchant

to bark like a drunk.

The cold has sunk,

and I am slinking towards daisies.

The garden sees snow

moving far, far away.

Hyacinths grow like the gospel

memory plays for most my life.

A narcissistic whore-monger,

an acquaintance once echoed.

 

I don’t deny it, them,

her,

her,

they were not/are not

the her I’ll have tomorrow.

I don’t deem this

thinking.

These actions

are absolutely necessary,

but I am far from resolute.

I am in the woods, the breaking light

between branches.

I am fruit in a wren’s beak.

 

My name?No name, no badge,

no nightmare to share.

Shun the sun only

when summer delights in fireworks.

The nomenclature,

the nailing down of pine knots,

pinecones, and pencil shavings

smell like old books.

Spring!

 

More flesh appeals to me

likeapples do in Georgia

whose people go goofy for peached,

Don’t cha’ think?

Yet, does the “out there”

fares well with my mood.

It does.

Indeed I am free

to do the kind deed

of darning sweaters for next winter,

to make the whole of us:

Me, you,

thrive with the right rain.

 

You should come again,

here.

three dozen more times

where we’ll make love, careful,

hugged in a hammock,

door open, and Otis Redding

plying us for tenderness.

He’ll have us by the nape of our necks,

and in debt to no one,

we’ll enjoy

anonymity.

 

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Clifford Brooks is a founder, poet, and teacher living in North Georgia.  He is currently finishing his second book of verse, Athena Departs, it will be published in September of this year .  His first book of poetry (2 books in 1) is still available at a variety of bookstores.  The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics garnered him a Georgia Author of the year nomination, and several nominations for Pushcart Awards.  Please visit the following website for all his, and his literary family’s, efforts at

www.southerncollectiveexperience.com.

http://www.amazon.com/Draw-Broken-Eyes-Whirling-Metaphysics/dp/0983365539