Every Person is a Holy Place

My daughter-in-law, Flower Holloway, silkscreens t-shirts, including her husband Jonathan's 'Every Person is a Holy Place', at a therapeutic residence for persons with brain injuries in the Tennessee countryside. It is a beautiful place. I spent two days there with her, sorting out t-shirts, talking with residents. Two of them are fine poets. Poetry allows us to deal with chaos and trauma, meeting it with
beauty, order, love.

This is Ron Peterson's poetry.


Sun

A bright spot in the sky,
For many it brings warmth for harvest.
For some the pool will do,
But others will lay and burn their chest.

Some gather for a noon time meal,
Fishing poles the coice of many
While many will choose walking sticks,
And lots of gossip by many.

Plans will go astray,
Some go as planned.
People come to chat
Some to be banned.

A walk will be enjoyed by most,
Stiff wind, tall trees, an ominous sight,
Without it what's able to be seen,
You realize it's only a cat in the night.



Valentines

Yet celebrated but once a year,
It has been known as the lover's holiday,
With the stores packed with shoppers,
Others needing to know, what to say.

As that day grows near,
Cupid sharpens all the tips.
He loads his quill,
Practising from the hip.

He's off to find his first pair,
Although many he will find
With others asking where to be,
He will stay far behind.

As many may stretch the bow,
Not many will it land.
For those who make it stick,
Forever hand in hand.





And these are Andy Jones:


“Fade to Black”

I got another glance, and what’s this perchance,
Yes, down to one knee, I must plummet in a trance,
Your beauty, no charisma nullifies any chance of making a stance,
And you don’t even realize the cruelty of all your beauty and charms,
And tragically this angelic being loves another, oh the immense harm,
But I can’t blame anyone but myself for this folly,
Bitter the bite of my fortune without facing this dolly,
And so my life is empty, but I refuse to let it get the best of me,
Even though she’s not to be my cherub, I’m closer to next in line, you see.


“Lord, time wears on me, help please”

Today I had to pant, for I was in the presence of an angel,
Though this divine creature did surely make my heart sail,
As painful as it is, out of my reach she is, good thing otherwise I'd never let go
But I guess it only is fitting for this poet's heart to be vexed so,
All is not lost though, because with her I won’t get a chance at romance,
Friendship is a bittersweet substitute, but at least it provides a second glance,
But with a heavenly appearance, so many talents, and that precious voice,
But alone it’s clear, on my own it’s too much of dire, dire, choice.


My Life in Solitary

My existence is not on any cell block, but that is not say my time here has left no mark,
Tattoo, no; this runs very deep, this mark is on my soul and I am ashamed to say, too dark,
I was robbed of so much, between the ages of 7 and 17 I had many friends, a lot was OK, a
lot,
But no more had it changed to 1997, my eighteenth year, I was legally a man, when what,
Life was snatched away, 5 days was the extent of my manhood, you see now I’m no real man,
Just a cripple, so on through life I must stray. I do try to lend a hand when I can,
I wish I could do more but alas I can’t even trust my legs under me, so all I can do is fester,
In “When Harry met Sally” Meg Ryan warns Kevin Klien, she says,” One day he’ll do it and
say,
“My ass is twitching, did you see that, my ass just twitched.” And she says it will begin today,
So as tough as it is, to scratch that proverbial itch,
I just got one piece of advice, best not let that thing twitch.


Pain, A Dark Deceitful Deceptive Foe

For all the grief it brings, pain is really just a little word,
Silent at times, but all too often easily and plainly head,
Yes, in these times, I’ll be the first to admit, it’s very hard, indeed, to cope,
There’s only one thing that truly helps, thank you, God, with him there’s hope,
So welcome, my friend, prepare for a long and bumpy ride,
Step right up if you're bold, for on this voyage sometimes there’s no guide,
Sorry no refunds, if you’re here, better hope you have a good grip,
On life’s big bad roller coaster your blood will rush on this trip,
Steady yourself, for the twists and turns come fast and you cannot hide,
Looking here and there will come to no avail; what you need must be on your inside,
So when you stand before the pearly gates, who will you call bride?


Riding the Gravy Train

You wouldn't think so, but it's difficult, very confining, actually.
Harsh, humiliating, and sucky to be frank, but I'm not him, so.
But being on board has taught me a few valuable lessons though.
But in my case, what I've learned has not been a fair trade.
If you are young and in good health, be thankful, because mistakes are too easily made.
You see I was a fairly healthy but unappreciative youth.
Of course now my folly haunts me all too regularly, in truth.
And no matter your want, as of yet, the past cannot be altered.
But never lose hope else, far too many bridges wouldn't be crossed.
So mistakes become baggage, heavy, heavy, burdens at that.
Too heavy when you can't forgive yourself in fact.


What Is This Enchantment She’s Got Me Uunder?”

The reasons behind my existence are completely hidden,
But all this pain and loneliness can’t be for all I’m bidden,
For but just a fleeting few moments I thought I saw a way out of this trap,
But it was all for naught, there’s no end to this attraction’s crap,
Sasha is this angelic creature's name, but alas the more I learn of her,
The deeper under her spell I fall, the constriction of the web grows tighter,
Unlike an ugly ole spider, her draw is not that of a nerdy writer,
It is in the tones of that luscious throat,
Even though I can’t walk amid those tones I feel I could truly float!






I am proud to have Ron Peterson and Andy Jones as friends. I admire their courage. This space is theirs for more poetry. And for the poetry of their friends.



This March in 2006 I returned by Greyhound bus travelling across America and was greeted by a poem:

Miss Julia

Fortune is with us today
It seems intelligence and talent have come our way
And opportunity as well.
Best of all maybe she has a story to tell
Then you would be in for a treat.
Speaking of that I would fancy something to eat.

So I told stories. And they all knew them and responded to them! For I told them of Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning and their child Pen and of a birthday party in Rome where Robert recited to them the Pied Piper of Hamelyn, telling that story myself in this room in Tennessee. Then telling how the Brownings' house guest, Hans Christian Anderson, at that same party in Rome gave the children his story of the Ugly Duckling, re-telling also that story in this room. And then they asked me about myself and I talked of how difficult it had been as a deaf child from the war, from a bomb, how difficult to communicate with others, how lost I had felt, all things we shared, and that we were all ugly ducklings turning into most beautiful swans!

These are great friends to have and I promised I would return next year, and next year, and next year, as long as I could.