September 17-23, 2001: T.L. Stokes and Bruce Taylor

Bio (auto)

T.L Stokes lives at the foot of the mountains in the Pacific Northwest, writing in the company of an english mastiff named Ramona Her work has appeared in a variety of online and print publications some of which include: 2 River View, Stirring, Poetry Super Highway, Ludlow Press, and Ancient Wind Press

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by T.L Stokes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

A moment of silence please one moment for passenger pigeons slitting steel glass arms fire bloom men and woman throw themselves into the wings of angels cascading hecatomb burns to our feet praying one moment for uniforms dyed white under ashes of comrades who mounted stairways to cerulean sky who cradled survivors who shouted this way this way this one moment for children at their small desks before war enters their homes where someone will or will not be waiting for them one moment to consider who chose our sacrifice malignant minds maneuver of hands over that pure sky one moment while we weep one moment until bravery climbs lacework girders pulls our breath back to the light unwavering Nkosi Drums beat and a dust storm rises over Africa’s savanna your name is on my foreign tongue your words rise with the dust settle on complacent hearts breaking them apart and we begin how many babies are worth saving from a dying mother spring giants sleep Nkosi stands on horizon’s stage wearing an old man’s suit and tennis shoes tell me again all the simple words how to touch a villager with AIDS why the government doesn’t give AZT to infected women protect the birthing of South Africa’s future so simple straight to the heart the changes come slow though with eyes wide open he was born with eyes wide open now he lays dying twelve years and near eternity say goodbye and thank you forever Nkosi turns the world

Bruce Taylor
taylorb@uwec.edu

Bio (auto)

Bruce Taylor is the author of four chapbooks of poetry, most recently, This Day from Juniper Press and editor of seven anthologies including Wisconsin Poetry,  published by the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences Arts and Letters, and with Patti See, Higher Education: 2001, from Prentice Hall His poetry has appeared in such places as The Formalist, The Chicago Review, Light,  The Nation, The New York Quarterly, and Poetry He has won awards from the Wisconsin Arts Board, the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Bush Artist Foundation

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Bruce Taylor and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Sunday Afternoon No one goes to church much anymore, though no one does much of anything else so it’s quiet, or as quiet as it gets; usually there’s a saw or somebody’s mower, a drill or a hammer hating another repair we will have to live with,  or the rare home run from the ballpark,  or the pulse and trailing whisper of the sprinklers when it’s dry, or old deaf Winslow’s blind old cocker spaniel winds itself up short around the clothes pole again,  or a soft — almost apologetic — screen door’s slam, the trash can’s guilty clatter . Our Back Yards Our back yards all face each other here so whatever we have to hide we fail to Soon Doris will appear in a clean apron once or twice among her chrysanthemums and stand with her hands on her hips while Duke reads the Trib in the shade, everyone who knows him says you’d never know the cancer’s worse Sometimes we are almost ashamed how little it takes to make us happy Then Mae will be out running a wet rag along the length of her clothesline, Sanka in one hand, a Camel-Light tight in the corner of her mouth with WAYY on her kitchen radio and all the windows open for September is “Nostalgia Month “ No need to tell us It’s always the “40’s” in our back yards. Next Door, Spring The kid’s two this year and in a neon-pink snow parka for although it is April it’s April in Wisconsin, and her snow pants are maroon and large enough for three so she squats when she sits like some surprising flower in the dry straw mulch and piles of last November’s leaves Her grandmother does plant her though, on the sunshined lawn,  and goes inside a moment Someone is always watching here from a stoop a couple of fences over or through a window across an alley The old lady’s back, pointing at a robin shivering on a frozen clothesline “Spring,” she says to the child blooming before her, “Spring!” She’s right of course Even in here, behind the grimy storm-windows, even the inside plants,  hunched in their corners and clinging to their few handfuls of dirt,  stir as if remembering. Wednesday: the Hole Isn’t often you see a hole dug as deep as this one up here so when the county came to dig it most of the old men came around sometime during the day to watch So there were usually four or five guys standing around watching three guys standing around watching one guy dig, and the boss came by twice to check, and the Power & Light guys stopped by too And the kids on their trikes, painted red white & blue, were warned “don’t get too close” but did and it was all too much for Happy, Ray’s penned-up husky pup, who’s learned to ignore the tomcat’s strut or another fat rabbit fattening upon clover in the patchy lawn Lunchtime, the crew took their pails to the shady side of the truck and someone brought ice-tea and Ray smuggled them a beer each Then it was back to work so a different guy dug and Ray took the Buick to the Super-A for Popsicles and more beer. Blanket Weather Burrowing deeper into bed beneath quilts and comforters, blankets, flannel sheets and spreads, we breathe and dream enduring the level stare of the red fox frozen in its den,  tracks that follow you everywhere through an immaculate silence days too blue to breathe that sometimes go so clear you begin to believe you can skate them, nights, 30 below and falling,  if you move they ring like bells, out there other lives are calling we know are worse than ours.