Resilient

In the middle of this tight contraction of time
where I am squeezed between hard and impossible, here
I take a deep breath lying on the stone that
some wish were my coffin and
I breathe
deep solemn redeeming breaths that
I live despite you
despite evil black as the underworld encapsulated
in a palm, I breathe
despite generations of heavy earth lying over me
I consider it brilliant
the changes it draws from me in crushing blows.
I breathe despite loneliness
despite drudgery and commotion
I am alive
here amidst the pounding pummels
lifting my chin and
swinging back.

I’ll admit
sometimes I wish you knew about
my own black storms
the howling, the deep of the cut
the vastness of the hole
I hold
the fine sweet slice of soul
left lying open
I get it
it’s not for you to know
I’ve learned to celebrate the solitude
in suffering
since I’m coming out of it now
one fine day at a time
Sweet Jesus!
Look at me now.

By Melissa Greene
photo above found at:
http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=survivor&order=9&offset=48#/dmd517

Fourteen Year-Old Girl

This particular girl
(you don't know her, but
I do)
she is alone
she doesn't know this yet.
I know it for her and weep.
She is only fourteen
already with multiple
sex partners
the scars arch sideways up
her wrists and forearms, the
residue of abandonment.
When with her my tears harden
like stones,
like hers. When with her
a golden string of knowing extends
from my heart.
She cuts it too.
Who should know this deep a
gorge at only
fourteen?
The building stones of identity
kicked like trash to
the curb?
No one.
When I am with her
we hold this
together before she knows
she is being known--
leaves us both.
She doesn't know this yet, but
she is really
not alone.

By Melissa Greene
photo above found at:
http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=lonely%20teenage%20girl&order=9&offset=72#/dmr12k

The Escape

Wade in the water, children,
beneath the twinkling drinking gourd move
like fire your feet through the lapping freedom.
Don't stop till sweet Ohio grass
brushes your ankles, wade, wade,
God's gonna trouble the waters.

You'll see Mr. Johnson's girl standing
in white, free as the children of
the Israelite, let your steps thrush
the ground
their energy quiet and swift
the same energy of the sun
pounding your back the day before
while splintered fingers dig
for cotton seed.

There is one chance
for the angels to stir the pool
fall deep into its healing
the very soul of God
freeing first the spirit now
the body. Be sure
you get your chance this year
Wade in the water, children,
wade wade.

by Melissa Greene

photo above found at:
http://browse.deviantart.com/photography/?qh=§ion=&q=African+American+slavery#/d23lh0h

Stuck

I am a slippery oiled fish on
a silver tray
plaster-eyed and glassy
skin gray as stone. I've known
a fish-bowled world and
time like a shiny black bomb ticking
to destruction.
You've got me sizzling orange,
stuck, thoughts thick as glue through
my veins
filled halfway now to alabaster pupil--
I lie here
cold as the fish-hooked lip
limp on this altar slab.

I have lots to say and
you really don't care.

Photo above found at:
http://saldaeanfarmgirl.deviantart.com/art/Fish-64210750

Leah in Love

Leah's womb swelled and pushed
seven times
seven children before she knew beyond
her head-- the pale infant
sucking at her breast had nothing
to give. She lost
another porcelain tooth and Jacob's
back was hard, cold as
the gray stone graves of fathers.

Wrinkled newborn babies did not cry his name,
only Leah.
They brought breath and
warm flesh to every unfulfilled
desire beating in her chest.
Larger and longer they came
seven times--
the space between husband and wife--
till they reached the length of
a self

where a woman could lie
perfectly along them, know
beyond her own head
who she really is.

Photo above found at:
http://sanddra.deviantart.com/art/pregnant-51296512

Little Girls & Co.

Just so you know
it is not actually you
I am missing but some
fantasy of a man I've carried
since sixth grade.
You just happened to
come along
during my production of this
particular drama
Prince Charming
Cinderella and
a Slipper,
you know the story. You
had nice eyes.
I thought you'd fit the part, so
now that it's over
a huge disaster
a real flop
not what I imagined at all,
I remember sometimes
moments you were not so bad, imagine
perhaps you'd make a better
Lancelot or
Romeo. No,
it's really best you are not employed with this company,
I'm looking at trying my hand at documentaries anyway.

Photo above found at:
http://romeosavesjuliet.deviantart.com/art/Where-s-my-glass-slipper-122045741

Holiness

The Jewish call it
kedusha
holiness
I weep for it
the tears of it within me
the tears of it outside me
my spirit self thousands
of miles away
nested at the weeping wall

In Gaza
one proud spa owner
oils the leather seats where
the wealthy still come
to forget
find oasis
feel the touch of another human
kneading sorrow from
the muscles
the Jewish call it
kedusha

Who destroyed the sacred
grave site of Joseph?
Who bombed homes while
Palestinian girls slept
peacefully within?
Where can we go
to find the last knot of
the rope
to hold fast
the end of this rope
Maybe in these tears
we travel
back back back
all the way to kedusha

By Melissa Greene
Photo above found at:
http://ademmm.deviantart.com/art/Gazans-Hope-112667734

Kathy, 1966

When my mother was nine she baked the cornbread
every day after school. Her face then
the same as today, blue eyes soft with knowing
mouth quiet and still, resigning to
signed contracts.
Her mother is dying.
She has a bad haircut, maybe did it herself,
the bangs stiff as straw on her forehead,
shoes scuffed, scrawny knees that hold
life weight like a body builder. She can cook
green beans, creamed corn, and pinto beans with
the best of them. Little Kathy can fry
potatoes, feed grown men
a father and brother bent to the plow.
She will feed grown men for many years
bent above their own devices of
turning the ground for sorrow. Kathy
found quiet at Mamaw’s, even though
there was no plumbing. She liked to rest
against the splintery fence watching Mamaw milk
the cow, carry the large sloshing pail into the kitchen
set it on the table and get out two
tin cups, Kathy, you want some milk?
There’s the rows of pink hollyhock where
little girls can run without being seen.
Tall stalks of corn
tobacco for miles.
There’s the honeysuckle,
the smokehouse, the outhouse.
Always at Mamaw’s
there’s the cool creek water where
she took off her white church socks,
tip-toed in the shade of the elms
quietly over smooth river rocks.
Here for hours
she is nine years old.

By Melissa Greene
photo above found at:
http://rileyrican.deviantart.com/art/Last-Go-At-It-49641480

For Nina

A fellow blogger, sweet Ms. Renita at somethingwithin.com posted this video a few days ago. I was so moved by it, I wanted to try to share it here. After watching this performance of Nina Simone, I was moved to write the poem below.



Whatever you do, do it with
your full heart, lay your very life
across the keyboard as your hands stretch the song
we all have known but lacked
the courage to sing. Do it with
your full soul, when you pack your lunch.
Pick the apple whose reds and yellows stripe and
fuse into a shout that says Glory be to God!
String your words together like diamonds that
adorn the queen's throat, say what you say like
you mean it
make us believe it.
Whatever you do, do it without shame
do it while you catch your breath
do it whether tears or rain cover your face
do it because it is what you were created to do
do it when you don't feel pretty,
when your way is wrong.
Do it through sweat
through racism and
sexism classism and ageism.
Do it again and again and
when you do
we will believe it.

Shout Out

to wet pavements glistening like
freshy glazed doughnuts
to the raindrops arrogant on
my clean car.

Shout out to mamas crying
children crying
teachers crying
balloons popping
pink bubblegun popping
pop rocks popping
heartbeats never stopping.

Shout out to turkey and swiss
lime slurpees and nacho cheese
to taking the top down
to ponytails down
to walls coming down
to Brandi wanting to be down
to turning the lights down and
the upside of down.

Shout out to sunshine on eyelids
sunshine on shoulders
sunshine on bare arms
Shout out to snowflakes
Shout out to earthquakes
to all my mistakes
stacked chocolate cake
to God-- I'm awake
Shout out for the shout out's sake.

Photo above found at:
http://melaniumom.deviantart.com/art/Shout-to-the-Lord-33524981

These are Children

Pray for the ones who cry alone
who cry aloud
for those who cry to mothers and
those who hold the tears in cold
steel cups behind the eyes.
Pray.
Pray for the ones who tremble at
themselves, who fear the night, who
hope to die,
suffer in silence,
reach out for someone
anyone anything
find nothing.
Pray.
Pray and know these are children.

Pray when you rise from your bed, when
you hum along to the radio in
rush hour traffic.
Pray when scrubbing the dishes
rocking the babies
mowing the grass
reading the morning paper.
Pray.
Pray for someone else's children.

Melissa Greene
the photo above can be found at:
http://captainkodak1.deviantart.com/art/Prayer-for-Pain-39129342

His Garden

Here I am
the wild and loose fuschia
rose you tried to hide.
You wanted a larger
more profound bloom, one
that flowers then dies
flowers then
dies, flowers
then dies
all summer.
You cut me
to place her inside where
her pleasing delicious colors could
satisfy you again and again.
You didn't plan for me to
break loose against
the grafting.
You didn't expect me
to live again but provide
only a backbone and
heartbeat to your
hybrid rose, created to
please you but
here I am
burst free from my training
spraying these clusters of
chaotic pink flowers
spreading tiny uninhibited
foliage across your porch
across your evergreens, even
the peonies and
stately stalks of oriental lily
rising to late spring.
Here I am
the wild that cannot be
contained, the finely planned
disorganization of one-season
blooms created by One
who smiles on such things.
You didn't expect me this spring but
He did.

Melissa Greene
The photo above can be found at:
http://uktara.deviantart.com/art/The-Secret-Garden-3-88532101

Speaking to Dad

If words could bring you back to me, I
would string them like children
sliding wooden beads onto colorful strings
clack, clack, clack
my words would fall softly over you like snow
cover you in the security of night and stars.
I would rain my words down around you
with sweet drops of relief the plop of
the first raindrop fat and wet into the dry
spaces between us.
If it would bring you back I would
layer words soft and thick as chocolate
icing on a three-tier cake, spread them
gently in swirls, generous with
lacing the sweetness.
I wish my words could heal you
lift you in two strong arms
travel a thousand miles with your weight
to safety. If I could
I would save you with these words.
I would call
cackle caress cajole with
every word I ever learned till they
stacked to the heavens till
they covered all earth
till they brought
you back
to me.

No Words

If I could I would walk with purpose to
the window of your language, lift
my hand through the slats of light, draw
down gently the blinds. I
would push aside all your words designed for
convincing, explaining, telling, push
them to the corners, sweep away the dust to
reveal a nice spot for working.
I would drape your reasonings with my sh-h-h-h-h
quieting the tap tap tapping of keys endlessly putting
into print every word of substance.
In this warm dark silence let me
lead you gently into a space of no-words where
there are only skin and electric
neurons firing in the mouth, where
there are no treatises or briefs, no
summaries or blogs, only senses mingling
into their own senses. You can
touch the taste of the orange’s
sweet inner flesh, swallow
the crackling firelight.
Here it is safe to
lose the limits of language and know
how it feels when words crumble
upon themselves, leaving you only with
the scattered sparkles of a body unbound.


Photo found here:
http://millionfaces.deviantart.com/art/Make-this-magic-bubble-burst-70717359

January 20, 2009

We love you
Sweet Beautiful Brown Man
Our President
with cheeks smooth and strong
as sliced maple
eyes kind as
the baby seal's first
loving glance at Mama,
we love you.
You are Ours
Our Pride and
Joy, Our American Son,
Beloved Child of God.
Bless you today, simple
fallible man,
nothing more than another pedestrian
on the street, nothing
less than a legacy received
in two open palms.

So, dance, dance,
dance tonight with your wife, receive
her arms around you, her words inside
you. Dance
for us until first morning light creeps
across Pennsylvania Avenue
till the last forks tinkle into
bus pans, till the last stars fade
softly one by one into infinite night.
Dance tonight
for us
Our President.

Hold Me Steady

http://chelseanemmers.deviantart.com/art/How-do-you-feel-about-floor-53975166

Amid the rotting carpet, the dust seeped into pores
of the floor where boys have passed out
after nights of drinking cheap beer, the floor where
a mother paced back and forth
carrying the firewood
her flannel gown twisting around her young calves
crying without restraint.
Fire pops in the woodstove, so
now lonely always smells like flame
to me, feels hot in my chest and the soles
of my feet.
I walked two miles after school in the rain
in the cold
wishing Mom could drive me home
my feet frozen solid when I made it through the door
called her on the phone
for what it’s worth.
The hot belly of the stove burned through
my wooly socks, lying there
along the body of a floor that has known prayers and
dancing, stretched
against the solid girth of what
will not move
this hard earth
a floor
that never shifts.

This Is What Letting Go Sounds Like

A tsunami wave gathering its punch
as a first curl of water within itself, the
early sounds of a disaster begin
as a soft rush. The
flap of a flock of birds’ wings gathering
for southward flight, this
is what letting go sounds like—the loud crack of
a shot gun resounding against mountains
a wind caught inside a wooded glen
the lonely howl of one
in the night.
The snap of twigs against the foot
fall, a jet arriving and gone, rain against
my roof, soft
sobbing in the other room, this
is what letting go sounds like.

The Growing

Already I see the both of you
trying to leave me
leaping upward with the flight of
all living things. You
are always growing away from me.
Some days I cannot wait
cannot bear the counting of the countless breaths
that stand between my worn out bones today and
the free ringing bell promised when you are gone.
You are my children
first unleashed with a thick cord heavily
woven in my long hair and stout
mother muscles. Though you are only
eight and four
already the cord is wide-brimmed silk strands
against which you dance and pull.
I know you are growing away from me.
I prepare at nights
when you sleep
soaking in your closed eyelids the
lashes spread like soft fern against the forest floor
your cheeks full and smooth with
youth, I imprint your tiny faces inside me--
inside me a swell of something
sweet and large
maybe joy
watching you grow older
second by second the sadness
so impossibly intertwined with this thing
that loves you and knows
I will clap the loud clap of our
Creator when He created
the heavens and the earth and said
This is good.

Coming Out

http://gemini-soul.deviantart.com/art/S-u-r-v-i-v-i-n-g-70876677

In light of today's cheery encouragement from me to FEEL your pain... smile, it won't be so bad. :-)

When you are running--
a shadow of yourself running from
and to yourself
frightened by a ghost self
in brambles the ache scratches
your body when you try to escape--
when you are running.
Just stay on your feet.
Know the darkness in its fullest
reach into the deep of the black
pour the anointing of the pain over
your head.
Keep running.
This is not night that comes and
goes in cycles with day, this
is suffering. This is
your very self at
its cellular level expanding and
constricting in its own rhythm.
If you can hear me there,
know that light will come when
darkness inks away
a self will emerge cracked
still running. It
will be blinding just as
the darkness is blinding.
Behind your forest wall
steady follow this scent
thick with heavy evergreen.

It is about 40 degrees this morning here in Nashville, our coldest day of the season and gorgeous outside. After my morning coffee I decided to grab my camera and head to a local park, where I swear I've spotted misty-bodied muses. This place is beautiful, especially at morning. I have a picture to share of the creek nearby.

I crouch against a crashing wave waiting
for your body to vaporize a mist

forming against sunlight particles-- here

where I can capture you

inside a lens.

It is worth the wait

to find you

a secret speckle of light.