JAMIE SUE AUSTIN

What sharp teeth you have,
little yellow lion,
with your mane all ablaze
in golden petals,
face defiant under
the orange heat of summer,
no wonder you are so strong,
little king of the lawn. 

I have found more things
alive and squirming
under half rotted
branches
then are currently
residing in my heart. 

I am trying not
to be resentful,
the square peg does not
curse the round hole,
and to take with grace,
the lot and commentary
given to me.

But I am.  

In every passing moment
I grow more weary
of it.  I can not fit.

I am quiet now
and properly sedated
for your comfort.

Am I more pleasing
in this, a simple,
deconstructed, form?

I wish you could
see with the same
brilliance I do

because the colors
and the sounds
are maddening and bright.

If we had the same
visions erupting
from our skin 

you would know
the ever present need
to release them as doves.

So they could float,
and soar, mate
and die as intended. 

You were born sedate,
quiet in the womb,
a soft warm lump of flesh.

I was forged to suit
the universe and not
only you.

Slender footnotes
with polished references
 cross their toes gently
at the bottom of the page. 

The held hands

Wade in the water…
Wade in the water, children
Wade in the water…

and chanted

God’s gonna trouble the water

gripped the sand that lapped their feet

Wade in the water…
Wade in the water, children
Wade in the water… 

and let the water rush down their throats

God’s gonna set you free
 

The Legend of Singing River: The Singing River, in Pascagoula, murmurs a tragic tale of Indian lore. The Pascagoula Indians were a tribe of contented, idyllic people, whereas the Biloxi Indians considered themselves the “first people” and were enemies of the Pascagoula. Anola, a princess of the Biloxi tribe, was in love with Altama, Chief of the Pascagoulas. She was betrothed to a chieftain of her own tribe, but fled with Altama to his people. Faced with enslavement by the Biloxi tribe, the Pascagoulas joined hands and began to chant a song of death as they walked into the river until the last voice was hushed by the dark, engulfing waters. The Singing River is famous worldwide for the noise it makes, like a swarm of bees. The music, which grows nearer and louder until it seems to come from under foot, is best heard in the still of evening, during late summer and autumn. Various scientific explanations have been offered for the phenomenon, but none have been proven. Many believe it is the death song of the Pascagoula tribe.

http://cityofpascagoula.com/history-of-pascagoula (history of Singing River)

i’ll put you
in a wine glass
swirl you around
the rim 
lean in
to sniff
for subtle hints 
of oak and hickory switch
roll you
across my tongue
then
spit you out

Is a parable for children.  It must be an unpopular one because I can’t find it online, so I’m going to tell it to you.

Gather close.

Sit next to me.  Mamma Sue’s gonna tell you a story.

It was winter.  The evergreens poked out from under snow coats. The oak branches drooped with swags of ice shards.  The white on the ground was frozen on top, crunchy and bitter cold.  It was much like winter now, but different, because this was long ago.  Back then, before animals picked up peopleskins to wear instead of fur, things were different in a different way.  The way that a new shirt never fits the same after it’s gotten dirty and been through the wash.

On this day a possum was walking home to join his family for supper.  He still had his furskin, so he was warm and happy.  His children would greet him with cheers because his pouch was full of hard winter berries and perfect tiny pine cones.  His wife would kiss him at door and after dinner he’d sit by the fire with his pipe and think about the world.

From the road side the possum heard a tiny voice.  ”Help me. Help me. I’m going to die.”

The possum saw a snake, half frozen in the snow.  Snakes aren’t much for snow.  They don’t build nice fires or wear furskins.  They stay low to the ground, always looking up at folk, figuring-on and plott’n about.   The possum stopped.  ”I’m too cold.  I’ll die.  Please put me in your pouch so I can warm up.  Please help me.” Cried the snake.

“My pouch is full with gifts for my children.  You won’t fit.”  Said the possum.

“I’ll curl up very small.  You’ll hardly know I’m there.” Plead the snake.

“If I put you in my pouch you’ll bite me and I’ll die.” Said the possum.

“I’d never bite you.  I could never bite someone who was kind to me.  You would save my life. I would owe you a great debt.  I’ll be no trouble.” Said the snake.

The possum was a kind thing.  A softhearted creature.  A gentle spirit.  So it lifted the snake from the snow and it put it in it’s pouch.  The snake nestled itself between the little red berries and the tiny perfect pine cones.

The pouch was warm and soft.  The snake was content.  It was safe.  It grew warmer.  It felt alive again.  It started to wriggle and move.  It was ready to leave an go about on its way, so it bit the possum.

“Why? Why?” Said the possum.

“You knew I was a snake.  It’s in my nature.” 

We bought the piggy bank because my son’s occupational therapist said that mechanics needed to grasp a coin and put in in a slot were the same ones needed to hold a pen to write.  It was pink and ugly.  It was ill designed.  Money could go in, but there was no way to get it out.  It was a dollar.

The first time we sat in front of it, pennies on the carpet, it took my son an hour to get twenty cents through the slot.  He cried a few times, frustrated at how the simple task escaped him.  But, he kept putting pennies in the slot.

Eventually, he could put coins in slots quite well.  When he grasped his first large crayon and crudely wrote the letters of his name, I put a coin in the slot for his accomplishment.  When he finally said two words together, after months in speech therapy, another coin slid into the slot.  For every little victory; another coin.

The bank got heavy and bulky.  I dragged it along in every move.  It was always the first thing I packed.  I put it proudly by his bedside.  The tooth fairy left money under pillows.  I slid coins in the slot.

I thought about that day that we would saw the hateful thing in half.  How I would show him the hundreds of little shiny coins and tell him how each and every coin was a difficulty that he had over come.  How there would be more difficulties out there in the world, but that he would manage, because he had done it hundreds of times before.

A snake in a possum’s pouch took it from the house one day.  I imagine that when the snake split open the belly of the pig that it counted each and every cent.  It probably looked for rare coins.  It might have even gotten excited when it saw the dollars from when my son broke his arm and learned to play one handed on the swing.  That it took the worthless money and spent the symbols of my son’s accomplishments.

Today, my son’s teacher said he was brilliant.  She said he was well spoken.  She said he was improving every day and that next year he’d be better challenged in traditional classes.  I so desperately wanted to put a coin in the slot.  I wanted him to see that coin when he grew up.

drachmoore asked: I just had to send you a comment about the Dream Maker's Apprentice. It's an absolutely gorgeous piece. The artistic deification of the creative process, and its resulting creations, really struck an uncommon chord. Thank you for writing it. :)

Thank you for reading.  I was hoping it would turn out ok.

my father drank
rage like whiskey
and with the same
result
but he’s an old man
now
so different sipping bourbon
soft warm and civil

She said she ate
the moon
and I believed her
because she was
glowing 

You think
that once you’re too
old
to play in the brier patch 
you won’t feel the brambles—
it’s a lie we
tell children when thorns scratch
and it’s a good lie
because it keeps you playing
but, don’t let me
lie to myself now
I’m old enough and
I’m still picking burrs from my hair. 

In the begining
life is small and simple,
but eventually
it grows.

You plant it in your 
heart, heat it with
you laughter, and
before you know
the blossom
is ripe.

Life thrives and wilts
in cycles of seasons
just like flowers do.

So don’t be uninspired.
Be in awe.

Of the growth of every moment.