Vignettes: 331'13

Vignettes

331'13

Resurrection Day

The day of triumph, our Savior immolated, descending to the underworld,

retrieving the keys, muting the sting of death, risen again.

Our hope in Christendom with that event above others in the New Testament,

merging with the immutable,

to have and love our Being,

our need for conscious never extinguished.

Crowley's Ridge, above Maple Hill Cemetery, Helena,

early morning, awaiting sunrise.

Facing east, overlooking the Great River,

Easter morning in the 80s, the sun bursts over the horizon as many mornings for millennia,

our hope rekindled in the moment sacrifice became triumph.

My mom's family just below, we hope for their sake,

we believe for our sake.

Here they rest, along the Mississippi River,

muggy, dying place grasping frantically for its past.

Resurrection morning peaks above, will be a nice day,

fried chicken and ham, what else?

Buffet-style, most of mom's family will gather,

the ones living close by.

Life's blessings extended beyond death,

hope.

BB

 

Vignettes: 330'13

Vignettes

330'13

Never easy to take a phone call you know is unordinary,

my father on the phone, his eldest brother had died after a lengthy illness.

Siblings surviving childhood numbered 9 when I was younger,

5 survive today.

This brother, loved by his wife of decades, his three sons, a daughter, his numerous grandchildren,

his Navy service photo on their social media from long ago.

Always, for survivors, the future present comes to mind, in the morning, Easter Sunday, Resurrection Day,

mortality on display really close to home, the siblings all destined to dust.

We have our hope, our avior, enduring death and rising again the keys procured to the underworld.

Imperfect, fatally flawed Beings,

our perception aware of forever,

first drawing breath as the body begins to decay, the instant miracle: life-death complex.

Circular for our species, others long ago vanished now officially totally out of the race.

Lungs begin the fight for every breath,

decidedly built to fail at some point, motion ceases.

Reason hard-wired to admit perfection in some sphere,

chimera.

Uncertainty breeds fear, the example of others meeting their doom,

no circumventing that moment.

Trivial things provide a respite for the unconscious mind or else quiets the concerns with noise,

the joys of activity.

One day, it will be my turn to mourn and to be mourned,

dread.

A polished radio voice, our uncle lived near the Tennessee River, not far from Shiloh NMP,

 had once lived near the Arkansas River in central Arkansas, and other places.

He will be buried in a place of honor in Mississippi, the home state of his father,

loved and missed, awaiting the appointed Resurrection Day gathering of saints.

He will rest with the hope that sustained his idle-mind moments,

pondering this present.

BB

Vignettes: 329'13

Vignettes

 

329'13

Good Friday sound check

a little late tonight, a front house party with Earl and them.

Can see and hear them the time or two the door to the back opened

no admittance while they prepare, the band.

A good night to rock and remember

the songs of the formative years.

McMurtry remembers Middle Earth as I remember it

flyover, crossroads between coasts.

The aged red bricks of George's

75 plus years of experience, standing sentinel

to the changes to this corner.

Frisco depot across the street, long past its usefulness

its form endures the death of its function.

The line is Ar Mo today, lays a good bass line for the performers as it passes.

Down the hill from the university,

Dickson has sizzled lately, though, it literally sizzled by

McCulloch's order in the dark days of war.

Passing armies, brigands, outlaws, westward trekkers, native peoples driven from home

driving true natives from these their homelands.

Trails, homesteads, hideouts, gristmills

industry, agrarians, pastorals, handiwork,

loggers, bankers, railroaders, charlatan curers, drummers.

 

Good Friday on Dickson, a good crowd for a holiday weekend

McMurtry's band is in good form

rather sparse crowd, not complaining.

A great night for live music a treat after the storms of the morning postponed sunrise,

turned into a pleasant spring day.

Few are from here, come from somewhere far away

McMurtry sings about our home like no other,

this ain't Levelland, but you can see it from here.

Life and death at a crossroads bar,

the future's present and past,

it's all alive here.

The street that could easily have died from neglect and blight

the heart of culture in the second cultural capital of Arkansas.

The many faces of Dickson: war on the east end, wars ravages for its entirety 150 years ago,

Colleges west and east ends,

warehouses, private houses, drug stores, churches, graveyard tucked behind,

restaurants, a courthouse, frat house, Old Main, a sampling of life in toto.

Has been a great year of entertainment at George's,

nice to have great touring bands so close to home share their music here.

American music, self-examining, pragmatic levity in the sound-byte age,

music expresses idea like no other medium.

It is far too late or early in this case to spend more time in reflection,

sleep is the prescribed remedy for a racing mind.

Ryan Bingham is the next George's experience for me, unless I attend the Blues shows next weekend,

not sure, but a strong possibility. 

Have never liked the Blues scene here, spoiled by Helena's past,

took me time to embrace culture of my hometown,

much easier to be critical from afar,

sad to see it suffer impoverished, nearly forgotten.

Glad to be in Fayetteville.

BB