Tag: poem

Ode to My Binoculars

New binoculars
gift from my love
specially made
for astigmatic eyes–
right diopter focuses
separate from left,
accommodating one nearsighted,
one farsighted.
And with zoom–
unusual for binoculars.

I zoom like Superman
sweeping across Croatian minefields
to view unreachable monuments.
Go anywhere
instantly.

See anything
instantly.

Back home
out rear window
through my new super eyes
I swoop into yard
hover over lazy cats
like an Angel

Or fly across alley
to sweatshop
in through open
fire escape
door
over
loom
like a moth
hang there
inches away from
Chinese woman’s back
sensed
but not seen
suspected
but not proven
like the ghost that haunts me,
hovering over
my own back.

©1998 BY JEFFREY STANLEY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Smoky Mountains and Carolina Mud

Smoky Mountains and Carolina mud
were red like the Cherokee in Ocanaluftee.
Last summer Mama told me I show Indian blood.

Some grandmother with the last name Wood
married into my totemless Virginia clan.
To my English eyes they could do no good
but give secrets of tobacco and corn.

While summer rain turned soft soil to mud,
this news turned my whims to Indian.
I forced open a book, a child to a bud,
skimmed pages on Tsalagi history as told by whites.

My clan never asked her about the stream
of Cherokee tears I read about.
They never even asked her Cherokee name
or whether she believed in Christ Jehovah.

Last summer I drove to the reservation.
A red man in a chief costume took tips to pose for snapshots.
A fat guide spoke of the Cherokee nation
and took us on a walk through a recreated village.

Si-yu, he said, meant hello.
DeSoto showed us to make mud huts
he said, on his way past fourhundredfifty years ago.

The tour concluded at a square snack bar.
where he said, wa-do means thank you.
I wrote that down, and walked to the car
waved at the man, and drove away.

English as that grandmother, American as me,
no stories to hear, no spirits to see.
I mourned, driving home, through Carolina mud,
what good does it do, to show Indian blood.

©1995 BY JEFFREY STANLEY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Trail of Tears

Tsali was the Cherokee Jesus.
White colonels glad to march
a people west, Pontius Pilates
with spotless hands rounded
red families into holding camps
to be disptached on the trail of tears.

So pillaged Tsali’s wife that her tears
ran Tsali’s blood till he cried Jesus
Christ and killed her captor at the camps.
Took his family on a desert march
to the savage hills by erosion rounded.
Beelzebub struck a deal with Pilates.

Hungry Cherokees coerced by Pilates
hunted down Tsali through their tears.
In exchange, freedom; a number rounded
up from thirty silver pieces for Jesus.
Judases formed red posse, went out on the march
for Tsali and his fugitive disciples’ camps.

Word of the bargain reached Tsali’s camps.
Knocked down once, yes, by white devil Pilates,
now red betrayers, no; he began his march
downward to the white chiefs’ court of tears,
turned himself in and cried your Jesus
is a devil who has our sharp red wits rounded;

My people and our peace you have rounded
into westward walking prison camps.
Do not blaspheme our holy Jesus
came shouts from the many Pilates
who, not sated on Tsali’s red tears
had hungry Cherokee humiliators march

Tsali and his apostles on a final march
to a green Carolina field rounded
by pine and weeds watered on tears.
Same red brothers who had smoked his camps
now shot Tsali dead for Pilates
and their shameful, silent Jesus.

Rebels now contained so the march west from camps
started; red feet rounded bends as homeward-riding Pilates
choked back tears and knew Tsali was the Cherokee Jesus.

©1996 BY JEFFREY STANLEY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Simon’s Mother

Simon’s Korean mother fed us on kimchi,
saltines, and tap water,
then called me good.

We had her believing
I was a safe driver,
poor woman.

She liked my sly smile
so Simon got to come out
and we drove downtown.

Salem Avenue
is where we would go
to see the hot transvestites.

They strutted and sneered
and hissed at us dumb boys.
We asked to see tops.

They threatened us with a gun,
thinking we’d come to roll them
and yell out insults.

We sped home hell-bent
to Simon’s street and pulled
politely into the driveway.

Simon’s mother waved
from the door, smiling
those Korean choppers.

Twelve-thirty so we nestled
into chairs to watch reruns.
She couldn’t understand a word.

Light-pulling darkness–thrills
tugging my arm–and Simon’s mother
smiling, shamed me into shadows.

©1993 BY JEFFREY STANLEY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.