Me and Martin Scorsese

Death in the Afterglow

2009-12-26T21:01:00.060-05:00

Strayed

2008-08-10T23:15:00.004-04:00

by t.o. crow
July 19, 2008

Love leaned
then snapped
us back
like the spring
of an old screen door
Back
to hearth
and home
Back
to lukewarm

STORMS

2008-08-10T23:14:00.028-04:00

by TO Crow
July 18, 2008

Suddenly
Rain fell
in torrents

Leaving behind

the Scent

of slow Decay
and

the Promise
of new
Beginnings.

Heart STUNG

2008-07-08T01:19:00.030-04:00

Does he ever feel her hand in his

or see her in a passing face
or wish that it were her embrace
that lays him down at night?

Does he look up at the stars above

and think of the girl whom he once loved
and of all the dreams and plans they'd made
before being swept apart by fate?

Does she slip into his dreams unbid?
Does he feel her arms? Her legs? Her kiss?
Her heart thumping wildly against his chest
as if it were Summer of '65?

And LOVE?

Oh, how love was sweet,
in his '59 Impala's red leather seats
on a cul-de-sac to a yet-named street,
to a Carolina girl and her Georgia guy -

whose hand's imprint she feels in hers

as though it were yesterday.
So young, that girl whose heart was stung
by a Tech "Yellow Jacket" wearing madras plaid.

And although years and youth have passed
that sting still lasts . . .
and lasts . . .
and Lasts

Lover's Lullabye

2008-02-10T01:44:00.002-05:00

t.o. crow

Whisper me your lies,
let them disguise reality
with all their little bends and twists
until reality no longer for me exists.
Before we embrace and sweet salt taste,

Sing me a lover's lullabye
about sun and moon and starry skies.

Whisper me your lies . . .

Pretty

2008-02-08T19:22:00.006-05:00

t.o. crow

They never called her pretty so how was she to know?
They teased her as a "fatty." She couldn't fit small clothes.

She could wrestle with the best of boys and pin them to the ground
until her "nubs" began to sprout when 'tween time rolled around.
There was always something wrong with her - nothing ever right -
The only comfort that she found was on her blue, Schwinn bike.
There, she channeled big, tough "Jim" who followed every dream.
She could fly a plane or fight in war or any skill you named.

She was strong and kind and loving but that seemed to matter not
for they focused on her "tummy" her other traits forgotten.
Each day she waked she had to face her Mama's consternation
and Granny often chimed right in comparing her to cousins:
"So tiny, feminine - petite," she said. Their clothes are not size dozen!"

So, what was she to do but slouch? To stoop her shoulders low?
And from that purchase see the world and not be noticed so.
Her vanishing tactics failed to work, added misery to her pain.
She ate cake each day to compensate and lost more self esteem.
More scorn for that she did attract, which hurt her deeper still,
and the girl who once was pretty inside herself withdrew.

She gave up trying to please them all and into depression sank.
No one noticed the sponge she'd become or the negative she drank.
They never acknowledged her intrinsic worth so she internalized
all the "bad" they labeled her with and carried it through her life.

That little girl that I once knew so very long ago
was really very pretty but how was she to know?

Feb. 05/2008

Revelations

2008-02-03T13:44:00.019-05:00

by Trudy Osteen Crow

It is his third attempt at a four-in-hand

on his red power tie. “It's silk,”
he explains offhandedly. “It got wet.”

Mute, She nods knowingly.

(Though, in truth, she knows nothing of wet silk)

One more effort and the knot is satisfactory.

The red noose is tightened, tugged twice,

then patted into position

against his starched dress shirt.

He gazes into the mirror - toward the future -

while she gazes into his white-shirted back

and remembers her baptism in the murky waters

of a now nameless Alabama river.

The muddy current snatches

at the white innocence

of her 10-year-old's dress as

the minister admonishes “Trust in Jeeesus!”

then covers her face with a folded white handkerchief

and tilts her back into the silty water -

"I baptise you in the name of

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

She hears as she struggles for air

and is suddenly righted.

The congregation's solemn “Amens" greet her

as she rises and sludges toward them -

her soiled dress clinging fiercely

to the goosey flesh of her developing body.

She shivers, seeking cover from their scrutiny-

the first fires of passion quelled by the chill reality

of the river's water.

“. . . after a brief goodbye,” He says

drawing her back to the present.

He turns to face her and the white of his shirt

is muddied by the red silk of his tie.

She shivers, as he tucks with finality,

a folded square of white handkerchief

into his pocket.

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award Winner

Original: 1985

Revision: Nov, 2009

TOC

First Day of Spring 1973

2008-02-03T12:04:00.016-05:00

t.o. crow

I have stumbled onto the backwater of the River of Life.
No light glimmers on its dark surface.
No quickening stirs the fetid water.
Though its stillness appalls me,
I am compelled to stand vigilant on the shore.

“You must wake up!”
An insistent voice

beckons me back from the Valley of Shadows.
Yet, I resist the brightness that shrouds the voice in light.

Leaden,
I wander through a wilderness of sorrow
Crying: “My son! My son!”

My keening wail echoes through the valley.
Ricochets in the hollows against tall peaks of despair.
Flows back to me in great waves of lamentation.

I call once more but he does not answer.
The only sound

Is the bright, distant voice
Luring me from the valley.

“My son is gone!”

I cry in agony.

A puzzled voice asking,

“Who told you it was a boy?”
Breaks through my crest of mourning.

“He told me!”

I cry

as I flutter toward the light,

then turn abruptly,

plunging headlong back into the brackish water.

There,

I wept alone.

In the valley where there was no sun.

Original: 9/29/1986
Revised: 11 /29/2009 TOC

"First Day of Spring 1973" tells of the birth of my only son. It was one of the most traumatic events of my life - made worse by the fact that mothers were not allowed to see their stillborn babies at that time. I was kept in the hospital and not even allowed to attend his funeral.

The only comfort I received was from the nurse who was with me throughout his delivery and through most of the night when I refused to wake up. What she could not understand was how I so adamantly knew that it was my "son" when I had never been told plus, I was so deeply sedated at his birth. (At the time, we had no ultrasound or other tests to identify the sex of babies).

What I was trying to explain to her was that my son had "told" me in a vivid dream around 3:00 am on Saturday morning to "get off your stomach, you're smothering me." In the dream, I could see him curled in the birthing position in my uterus. I jolted awake but I was not on my stomach and he never moved again. It was St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1973.

At a friend's insistence, I saw my doctor on Monday. The doctor couldn't find a heartbeat and told me that he was "gone" and sent me back home. I was devastated. He induced labor on Tuesday, March 20, 1973, since I was already scheduled for that day. When my son was born, there was a knot tied in his umbilical cord which my doctor described as being: "Tighter than a knot in a plow line." My son had, indeed, "smothered to death" just as he had "told" me in the dream.

When I returned home, my well-meaning mother and husband had removed all traces of my son's being from our house. All of his things down to his crib were gone. My grief was so deep that for months after his birth, I could not sleep without dreaming of a tiny baby in a long, white christening gown. I could see tiny hands with fingers folded laying across its stomach and tiny feet with toes but under the cap where his face should be was just a blur.

That image haunted my dreams off and on for many years to come. My only guess is that it came from the nurse assuring me that there was: "Nothing wrong with him. He had all his fingers and toes and lots of black hair."

According to her, the only marks on him were where he had rested at the bottom of my womb in the amniotic fluid until he was born. Because of that, the left side of his face and his left arm were puckered like he had sat in the bathtub too long.

We did not name him. His grave is at the foot of his paternal grandfather's who died before he was ever conceived.

Lady in Black

2008-02-03T00:40:00.005-05:00

by t.o. crow

The lady 's dressed in black

from her boots up to her neck.

Would it surprise you to discover

that she's looking for her lover?

Her face is lined in symmetry

like the winter landscape's trees

whose barren limbs

hold back spring leaves.

Would it please you to discover

She's pining for her lover?

Reflections of her face in glass

stare mutely at me as she passes.

Her crystal eyes grow colder
as she casually glances over.

She's wrapped in her mythology

of frozen hope and empty dreams.

Her life's devoid of bright-hued things.

Of passion, joy and angel's wings.

Does it surprise you to discover

that she's never found her lover?

The lady's dressed in black

from her boots

up to her neck.

The Masterpiece

2008-02-03T00:35:00.004-05:00

by t.o. crow

Deftly, you stroked the soft clay of me

into fine art.

You pressed and shaped and molded me

until my being was defined by your hands,

your lips,

your body.

My essence disappeared.

I could not breathe

without you present.

I felt priceless

until you shattered me

against the stone cold

of mourning.

Dogwoods

2008-02-03T00:26:00.004-05:00

by t.0. crow

For over 25 years, I have watched them leaf,

flower, and fruit through the frame of my

living room windows.

Some years the flowering is breathtaking,

making the heart ache

with the beauty of their whiteness.

Other years, the fall color is the spectacle:

The leaves bleeding red.

The berries full and ripe causing limbs to droop

from the weight of them.

This year, I watch as the squirrels

go about the business of winterizing

knowing they are happy for a good year.

For the berries are thick and bright and

wild lives will be changed by them.

Both fur and feather will be fed

and tiny seeds dropped to make new beginnings

in some fertile place.

It is almost two years since you've gone.

The berries hang fat and ripe on the dogwoods

but my heart is heavy with a yearning -

a longing - that I cannot name.

If I were a young seedling,

I could be transplanted to new ground.

But my limbs are no longer supple and

I fear they might break from the weight of my solitude

as they creak and moan at the coming of winter.

October 2001

Revised Dec. 2008

TOC

High Voltage

2008-02-03T00:21:00.003-05:00

by t.o. crow

I brushed

against the Wool

of you

And

Sparks flew.

Fantasy Man

2008-02-03T00:19:00.002-05:00

by t.o. crow

Fantasy man, fantasy man,

take me away to a fantasy land

where we'll run barefooted

in warm sand by the sea

- and dance -

naked in the rain.

You my dark hero,

slayer of giants,

will pivot the sun at noon

and turn time back an eternity

- until reality becomes -

an extension of the dream.

TOC

Kindlings

2008-02-03T00:16:00.001-05:00

by t.o. crow

In the kindling,

you were the stranger

who torched my passion.

In the fire,

I forged you whitely

against a backdrop

of red-dawned skies.

In the embers,

reason engulfed me

and cooled the image

I had fashioned.

In the ashes,

you are the smoke

which irritates my eyes.

Small Wonders

2008-02-01T14:06:00.007-05:00

by t.o. crow

Granny called me through the window.

"Mama's here!" she said.

The screen door squeaked

and slapped closed behind me

as I raced inside.

High heels tapped staccato across old wood floors.

The sound stopped and in the doorway stood

a dark-haired beauty in white

beaming a lip-sticked smile of red.

My Mother

held a box wrapped in white paper

with a pretty blue ribbon binding it together.

I looked at the box in wonder.

A real, wrapped present!

What is it for? Is it mine? A surprise?

Granny smiled

As I tried to remove the ribbon

but could not because it was stuck.

Scissors were found.

There was a snip, snip sound.

Off came the top

and I inhaled the most delightful fragrance of

cardboard and new plastic!

Tissue paper crackled and rustled.

As I reached for the treasure inside,

my mouth flew wide.

"A DOLL!" I cried.

There in its paper bed,

lay a baby doll who drank

and wet!

I pulled her from the box

to investigate her magical features.

Removing her clothes exposed how she functioned

when "fed" water from her doll-sized bottle.

I have never received a gift so special

as that Tiny Tears Doll from my beautiful Mother.

Nor one that I remember more,

than on that birthday when I was four.

Much love was wrapped in that small box

along with a memory that will never be forgotten.

The Wolfwalker

2008-02-01T13:30:00.003-05:00

by t.o. crow

I met a man one night.

He walked into my dream.

I watched him through closed eyes.

My mind meandering.

There was beauty there -

and sinew to this art

towering in my head -

like some giant tree formed into man

by one bold lightening POP!

I wondered at the vision standing there -

naked in my dream.

My eyes sought his but, failing that,

found strong square shoulders

and a well-muscled back.

His long brown hair

in a ponytail bound

touched a farmer's tanned neck.

He had long, strong arms

and hands accustomed to work

(with fingers designed for

carrying out the business

of baiting hooks, holding hammers

and saws -

and pleasuring).

My eyes paused on his hands.

For the briefest instant,

they opened to release balloons of gratified moans

which floated into the air and burst

into "Ohhhh, BABY!" sighs and

rocking the quiet like the wake of a baby Lear jet.

One REM blink and the image was gone.

My eyes moved on to peruse

long legs with well-shaped feet.

(And his full manliness.)

Still, there was something amiss.

Perhaps he needed a kiss?

In dream paralysis, I extended my arms

in open invitation.

He looked at me in mild surprise:

"Could you please explain the meaning of this?"

He asked as he sat by my side.

"Why yes," I sweetly replied.

"Your heart has a hole where love should go.

I can see it in your eyes."

He held me close and together we rocked.

Locked as two lovers should be.

Then I heard his voice whisper

as a tear hit my shoulder:

"My Dear, I am only a dream."

TOC

Chiaroscuro

2008-02-01T13:24:00.001-05:00

by t.o. crow

I wove our tapestry in colors

unpleasing to your sensibilities.

My design was for clarity

like prisms in sunlight.

You preferred obscure patterns

in gray.

I've stored the delightful textures

of my handiwork within easy reach.

In time, the colors will fade.

Then, perhaps, their subtle muteness

will be more pleasing

to your discerning eyes.

Dance Card from the Maniac's Ball

2008-02-01T13:19:00.014-05:00

by t.o. crow

You lay me down on a bed of ice

when you took me for your bride.

You warmed me with your lies

- so nice -

as I lay by your side.

You teased me like the wind

teased Marilyn's skirt

on a grate outside the Trans-Lux.

Yet, you left me no roses

like Marilyn's Joe did

Only thorns that ran with my blood.

Blood and Ice.

We danced all night until I neared exhaustion.

Then you took me home and stole my youth,

while I slept in Egyptian cotton.

There you turned my heart to frost

and our marriage became a glacier.

With no thaw seen to be coming in Spring,

the depth of my misery deepened

Until my heart broke

which set afloat

A million icy shards in my veins.

It was Summer when the thaw started.

The glacier shattered - with a great crackling shudder -

to open a chasm of pain.

I woke once more to a world filled with sunlight

and felt life stirring again.

Fall came.

My days grow cold now,

I'm a virgin no more and

All my dreams are dead.

Yet, you'll lay me down on a bed of ice.

You'll tease me with your lies.

Then,

We'll dance again to exhaustion.

(Shhhh!

The gun's there for later.

Can you feel the cold metal?

Or, see the blood splatter?

BANG!)

Heavy Metal

2008-02-01T13:17:00.002-05:00

by t.o. crow

A train raced by my window

in its heavy metal flight.

Ghostly cars slid past my lids

as I lay paralyzed.

Freight banged and clanged

against cold steel rails

as the train shot through the night.

Cacophonic sound rumbled 'round

in the tunnels of my brain.

Eerie incubus stirring 'bout

filled the night with dread.

As the last car passed

a somber wraith

Scattered ashes from the rail.

He wore a tuxedo and a

black top hat -

which he tipped my way-

As the train roared straight to hell.

Revised Jan.18, 2008
TOC

The Summer Nap

2008-02-01T13:14:00.003-05:00

by t.o. crow

The spoken words swirled

round and round

oscillated into murmuring sound

by the old fan as they floated

on its currents of air

and blew gently through my head.

There the words turned into dreams

that reeled through my brain

like old movie scenes

filled with fairies and dragons

and princes and things.

Images all so real.

In the space of that nap,

on my grandmother's couch,

Time stood condensed

and Still.

TOC

The Philosophy of Love

2008-02-01T13:03:00.003-05:00

by t.o. crow

(for 'Bella)

How much do you love me, YaYa?

I love you to the moon and back,

to the stars and back, to the sun and back,

to Mars and back, and 25 gazillion, million times

around the world and back! I reply.

My young philosopher thoughtfully mulls it over:

Doesn't some of it get lost along the way?

Yes, some of it gets sucked into a black hole here and there

but, what really matters,

is how much of it comes back to you

in the end.

Oh, she says.

Then sleeps.

Feb. 01, 2008 TOC