Recuerdos/Remembering You
Beautiful Mama
green eyes catching the sun ray dust
which she now is.
But long ago
those eyes obliged me to support
a cross of sins
I had not yet conceived.
She was a seer
who saw a child
inquisitive beyond propriety
a child with a propensity for mischief
a female child
with the cojones of a man.
Yet Mama could charm the sun to bow
concede its radiance dull
compared to Mama's smile.
She did the best she could
and I would grow to miss her explanation
of the evening news
her rice and beans
the ironed clothes
put in drawers haphazardly
causing morning chaos
for the children
looking for their clothes
to go to school.
Mama's visits with her shopping bag
of insulin and sandwiches of cheese
boiled eggs and countless jars of pills.
She who had not learned to read
knew which and what and when
how much a day
for her heart
her legs with the grey line
separating the gangrene
she refused to have cut
from the rest of her.
Mama with her mindset mellowed by her age
resigned to death
after her viejo passed away.
She who was not spared the loneliness
of the survivor
missed Papa
who suffered the crimson death
of hemorrhage.
Mama and the serenity
she brought to all she touched
in later years
as if the effort of anger
was no longer worth the bother.
Her green eyes loved you
with a slight distracted gaze
as if beyond your face
a shadow of Papa
waited in the distance
beckoned her to come.
He'd waited so long
he who had died at the age of 65.
© 1985, by Carmen M. Pursifull.
All Rights Reserved
Premonition
Finally he is clay.
Fear has died with him.
I plant red blossoms in my garden using
his soil and Puerto Rican blood
as fertilizer.
In summer heat will answer
questions I asked him
in my youth.
When petals open
the bee will bear his message
and when the first frost
kisses my petals
I'll understand.
I remember spankings
black curls
a truck driver's uniform
candy in pockets
lap warm and hard.
Rages and quick-footed kicks
at the Royal typewriter
he got in debt
for my birthday.
Booze broke the keys.
The doctor sentenced him.
"No cigarettes, no liquor!"
He (my father)
is a bench by a window
a ghost discussing
the nature of wood.
When I was 10
I asked him if wood lived.
He said, "All things live,"
and I believed him.
He slapped me
when I was 22.
My fist raised at last
in protestation.
He sagged
a wooden puppet
his balls softened
by age and illness.
Shame tried to shackle
my newfound aggression.
I stopped playing games.
His curls now grey
limp in my fingers
bent with the times.
He was relieved
to leave his legacy to me.
He readied for death
in his defeat.
His painted face
(by an unknown mortician)
was lowered in the living casket.
The family sighed
dispersed like fluttering birds
as he disappeared
into a ground
which knew him.
My fingers twirled memories
like prayers
and my Papa
(who knew everything)
was silent in the night.
His cough
no longer shook the air
and he no longer
clocked my hours.
Now his imprint upon me
turns to dust
and I am left
with cyphers
from the dead.
© Carmen M. Pursifull. All Rights Reserved.
Published in Carmen By Moonlight, in 1982.
My Son, My Son
As I sit here alone
in my comfortable chair
accompanied by the melodies
and tranquil chords
of the Masters
my jangled nerves
with edges frayed
honed by many a year
and many a tear
seem to settle to a quiet stop
deceiving everyone but I.
Nevertheless; out of the mess
of the mood
a slow smile gradually transforms
the creases on troubled brow.
As the smile broadens
I become aware of the why
of the smile.
It’s because I thought of you
my son.
© 1975, by Carmen M. Pursifull.
All Rights Reserved
Adriana
eager to be born
rushed to life
feet first.
Black night hair
curled
around a perfect face.
Alma mia
too weak
to suckle breasts
rock hard ready
to sustain her.
Too weak
to keep the formula
prescribed
in her system
clung to my hand
for love and life
when I was home.
My little girl
lonely
for the traveling mother
singing in a band
felt guilt
for hating me.
Her need
meshed with mine
tugged across
the separating miles
determining my decision
to come home
to motherhood.
Mi corazon
cuchara
with mechanic's mind
could fix a television set
a toaster or an iron
but had to struggle
to unlock the vault
harboring a rage
of an earlier transgression
shocking me with secrets
finally shared
allowing me to heal
the hurt
I never knew existed.
Adrienne
my little first born
complex beyond imaginings
petals finally turned
toward sun
grew ripe
and seemingly serene
married a man
who calls me 'ma'am'
and 'Gertie'
when he feels affection.
Butterball.
A nickname
she outgrew
kept her promise
gave me a grandson
for the son I lost
is
survivor
victor
daughter mine.
© December 14, 1985 by Carmen M. Pursifull
All Rights Reserved.
New York Fabric
1.
Sometimes it's a sound
a nuance
shattering cocoon
spun mystically
with threads of convenience.
My blood discos to the beat
of the city -- charging my limbs
with energy -- loosening threads
of containment -- compelling me
to remember.
2.
Sometimes it's the look
the chic drapery of fabric
postured in arrogant fashion.
I flow in fluid stances
modeling my cape cut from
sharp ideation -- covering
my body with New York
as my garment.
3.
Sometimes it's a gesture
evoking provocative visions
of a recumbent ballet
of bodies entwined in adept
embraces -- reaching point
of intense penetration
but images fade as cocoon
contracts bonding me to the
subtle rhythm of
evolving discipline.
4.
Association urges me
to visualize places
where boredom rarely
existed -- and past delights
parade on the forehead
of remembrance
vacillating the threads
of my serenity.
These are the phantoms
that penetrate the silk
forcing me to spin
stronger strands about me
to block out the sirens
of the city but the song
snakes up my spine
bites into brain
crippling all thought
driving home remorselessly
the sometimes barreness
of now.
5.
Sometimes
it's the night.
Copyright © by Carmen M. Pursifull.
All Rights Reserved.
on stage #1
you put the horn down
maracas softly clicking
I croon a tune of pain
never mind the audience
or spotlights on my face
my eyes are closed to them
and when the lyrics spill
from my heart -- apart
from the immediate scene
i'm in a muffled place
where they can't enter
a center of the blue country
where notes like birds
take off
your horn comes in
hitting highs of the song
applause slaps us back
you wack the juice
off your ax
the sax picks up
where you left off
standing apart
we look into the room
and see
nothing.
Copyright © by Carmen M. Pursifull.
All Rights Reserved.
Sometimes Music Has a Mind of its Own
The ballad insists itself -- spinning notes
to the sax player with the swollen cheeks.
He wails the new-born thoughts in song -- which seeks
its parts -- separated by air that floats
from the dripping horn. The measured tune gropes
for tapping toes socking cymbals -- like beaks
of birds. Brushes slap soft rimshots that freaks
the drummer while the bull-frog sax-man gloats.
The bassist plucks -- his fingers slow and sure
his eyes glued to the piano man. He sees
the changes shifting in his head -- his high
the melody. The improvising lure
of rampart phrases on the piano keys
stop -- with a signal and a trembling sigh.
Copyright © by Carmen M. Pursifull.
All Rights Reserved.
DATED MATERIAL/ALLTIME
Departure
I left a planet green and blue
her air and I flattered each other
the foliage wild with such diversity
of fruits
sweetened my palette and it was good.
Oh how I long to hear the songs
sung by the birds
of my URANTIA*
I had to leave my love
before she flew away into the dark.
The Search
I've searched so long
traveling through a space
with many faces
to find a planet green and blue
where the air is sweet
where the earth bears fruit
I've journeyed through galaxies
of swirling gases
their clouds like claws
grasping matter in its path
I've seen the awesome majesty
of a mammoth star wink
then disappear
leaving in its wake
a whirlwind of nuclear dust
spotting the heavens with colors
that I had never seen
I've felt the heat
of a baby being born in the sky
her eyes opened and there was Light
I see my brothers as the stars
the Parent God
in sleep the glacial breezes rock me
into different worlds
piercing my ears with winds
that sing an ancient song
of birth/expanding space/altered matter
in a chain of endless dimensions
somehow the rhythm of expansion
transcends time
as if the next implosion
proved existence of a soul
(the heartbeat of the Universe)
the lightning-beams zig-zaging
on my eyes
awaken me to memories of I AM
my flesh is swollen from the heat
that pulls me closer
to my death
In Transition
I squinted at the dazzling
myriads of matter
dancing their cosmic steps
bumping/a constant metamorphosis
I thought I saw a lady in the sky
she seemed to float in space
frozen/immobile/immortal
her gossamer gown the stars
her eyes black holes
devouring everything
within her range of charm
the charm inviting me to join
the multitudes of worlds
that once had orbited in time
their captured light
a testament of being
what lay behind the funnels
of her eyes?
a curiosity demanded that I
step closer to her pull
and then I felt a wrenching of my soul
a billion times intensified
as cells were stretched beyond my frame
all speeding to the cave within her eyes
the memory of I AM
exploding with the knowledge
that the person that I was
was no more
torn apart by forces strong enough
to separate and scatter
the matter that was I
then like a sock turned inside out
space curved into herself
pushing me through a door of time
so I could be
again
The Return
I'm near a planet green and blue
beside the mammoth trees
I sense leviathans
as I float gently toward the earth
I ride no ship
nor have a body to call mine
only awareness of
; we are
© 1979 by Carmen M. Pursifull.
All Rights Reserved.
*I want to thank THE URANTIA FOUNDATION for permission to use
their name in my poem, “DATED MATERIAL/ALLTIME”.
