Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Bordellos and Troubadours

Bordello by Pris Campbell copyrighted 2004

The following guest poem, accompanying my graphic (created in Paint Shop Pro 8), is by James Fowler. Thank you!

Troubadour's Dream

Silken shift caresses the honey
colored lute of your body,
cloth kisses' tingle and touch.
Held in sweet support,
fingers gentle on fulsome flesh
make it sing in motion. Warm notes
shiver skin, dark sable rides
the arrow, quiver of quim,
buttocks cupped. Ballad rises
from a deep drone,
tight muscle strings vibrate higher,
notes of love's passage, rise,
and fall finally,
sweet song to another world.

Used with permission and copyrighted.

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

The Society of Orphans

When my mother died in 1996, my last surviving parent, a good friend wrote me, "Welcome to the society of orphans". She had lost her last parent a few years earlier. At first, I thought the idea odd--an orphan at my age??

Yet, as the years creep by, so many times the thought has slipped throuugh my mind, "I need to call and tell mother this"....and then, suddenly, I remember. I can't.

My family of aunts and uncles, gone now too, was large and close. Mother held the role of family matriarch to my cousins, and chief story teller to us all. Never could a holiday come without us gathered around dining room table or sprawled on den floor to call out, "tell us the one about cousin Sudie cheating on the Bible Quiz again", or "what about when Uncle Harry used to drive up to the whorehouse on Saturday nights with a fake siren to watch the men of the town run outside, pants in hand", or "tell us about how greatgrandpa Dickson met greatgrandmother Anne Harris because of a promise he made to his dying buddy, after the Great Civil War was over, to deliver the buddy's last letter to his sister, Anne".

Sad stories too. My grandmother dying of the flu that devastated our country in 1920, leaving behind mother, aged 13 and her younger brother, only five, the last ones of six sibs left in the household. When told his mother had gone to be with God, Uncle Herman replied, 'Doesn't God know a little boy needs his mother?" Her death was followed five years later by my grandfather's, driven off the road by a drunk driver.

My mother's stories brought flesh and blood to the family who had come before me, to the upper generation of cousins and grandparents I had never known.

It is from my mother that I inherited my love of a good story--read, told, or written. It is the feelings they generated in me that drives my poetry now.

If she were alive today, I would say to her, "Oh mother, now Becky is dying, too," and we would recite together the stories we remembered of Becky from infancy on, weaving her, by those tales, into the heart tapestry of our family already passed.

I have no sibs, no children, few remaining close cousins. Since I cannot travel, I often wonder if I will ever see any of my blood kin again.

I do know I will never again lie on that den floor, stuffed with fried okra, squash, and country-cured ham, surrounded by the family I love, and hear the stories of cousin Sudie, Greatgrandpa Dickson, or Uncle Harry.

I miss her still. I miss it all.

Written 2001
From the Musings section of my Website

Note: Becky died later that year at age 49.

Haiga made from a photo of my mother in her twenties. She was voted most attractive in her college senior class--with good reason.

Monday, December 27, 2004

The Naming of the Blog

I named my blog after the following poem I wrote in 2003. The idea of turning feelings over to Mother Nature for release or balm has always appealed.

Songs To A Midnight Sky

Daily, you draw the line
between yesterday and today,

dare me to cross,
dare me to get close.

I stand in the backyard rain,
shirt soaked, jeans sucking
against hungry thighs, hear
you move around in the den,
stereo rising high
over a flash of lightning
to the east .

The Lettermen

But of course
you would put them on
to taunt me

Defiant, I sing along,
face the night sky,
swallow raindrops, dance,
until I know that yes,
I can survive anything.

Even you.

Later, when I shiver out of wet
into dry, you already sleep,
back walled to my side of the bed,
dreaming your own song alone.

Pris Campbell

Published in Blackmail Press

December 27

My haiga for the day. A haiga is a very old art form and has evolved over the years. Basically, it's artwork/photography/graphics accompanied by a haiku. The earliest ones were drawn on ricepaper in ink. For a more complete definition, click HERE

Example of some great contemporary haiga can be found by clicking HERE and then scrolling to the hot link at page bottom.