Only You Could Catch Me
Only you could catch me. Auntie, this is your memory, But I’ll gladly abduct it, or Let’s say, better yet, whoever Lives longer absconds with it and Is required to tend the recollection: You, just fourteen at the bottom Of steep, basement stairs And me, just four at the top, I seized the chance of flight, Flung my little body at you, And you had no choice but to catch me. It was a good thing you were looking, But I knew only faith, not doubt. Only you could catch me. Still a child trapped like me, We recognized our comradery. Mom shrieked and swore; We escaped; we were free. Only you...
Read Moreall these peach blossoms
all these peach blossoms their wild, earthy green fragrance enough for us...
Read MoreThe Flying Geese
for Gertrude Williams According to folklore, “wild geese flying south always fly in the shape of the initial letter of the island to which they are going.” I thought these stitches would last forever, like her full-throated laugh that still echoes deep through my days, the heart’s proof of what is not forgotten. Etched fine as black scrimshaw, her fingers, that once snapped weevils dead in the hot Alabama sun, slipped thread through needle through scrap until the very end. Nothing was lost — the cast-off shirt became the wings of wild geese; the red curtains were cut to size, a...
Read MoreFall Thunder
There is power in the thunder tonight, kettledrums. There is thunder in this power, the powder blends white lightening flour sifters in masks toss it around. Rain plunges October night; dancers crisscross night sky in white gowns. Tumble, turning, swirl the night away, around, leaves tape-record over, over, then, pound, pound repeat falling to the ground. Halloween falls to the children’s knees and imaginations. Kettledrums. Hear Michael read his poem Fall Thunder by Michael Lee Johnson by Alyce...
Read MoreOn The Island of No Internet, We Went to Listen to Poetry
Poems sprinkle out from the spice canister High yellow vowels, sand scarred s’s, Antigua blue cocktail beaches, Montserrat Black rivers of ash, small consonants And heavy wet k’s with clicks and slides. The sounds gather round the bonfires And the dancers, the drummers, the singers, The storytellers and women of poetry. Trade winds lift the soft vowels And thick consonants high into the air. Words form into imagery and breath, Into word tones, natural rhythms, themes Of courage and love, joy and hope, Greatness and happiness, and somewhere A rope breaks and the poem sets us...
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