Dia de Los Muertes

Poets and peacemakers

along the way

before me, behind me -

me in between.

No better than any, nor worse -

simply walking, begging

Your pardon for the curses,

Your indulgence for the slips.

In Your continuum I tread -

the lines, etched into my palm -

stepping with the pulse

echoing since dawn.

We will carry it through

round and round again,

generation upon generation,

until the dreaming is done.

Barbara Butler McCoy

[[Photo: Barbara Butler McCoy;
Bee foraging for pollen; zoo,

Columbia, SC; September 2008]]

May 17, 1924 - South Bend, IN

I see her standing there

From the window by my chair

All loveliness and grace

Her face with dignity is traced

Yet soft, delicate as lace

My wish - to shield her from what may come

Wizards and Kluxers pour from the train

Coming to gather on the plain

Coming to protest her kind

The sons and daughters of Erin

They came, refugees from famine

The came to us, the free and the brave

Who resented their back-breaking labor

Blind to the practices employers favor -

Now it comes to rioting

What of this woman and her baby?

She drops to her knees and prays

I follow her gaze, and see Our Lady

Barbara Butler McCoy

(written 11.19.04)

[Photo: "Our Lady of Guadalupe," paint on tile, grotto at

St. Jude the Apostle, Atlanta, GA, 2009]

Birthday Sonnet, the Second

In the flower of days I turn my gaze

On those fabled glories of yesteryear

Lost to me in this vale of tears and haze.

How could I hope to purchase one so dear?

And now you see me here all dressed in white

I have not hope in hell but thee, I see.

To you I lift up mine eyes full bright

And tell the world the truth that set me free.

Oh please dear one, make me thy star of one

And purge the night of all grim hopelessness.

'Tis all to me that when the battle's done

You know I stood, tireless, for blessedness.

Know I strike my standard plea toward thee:

Wilt thou this, my verse, accept it freely?

Barbara Butler McCoy

[Photo: "Dawn," Barbara Butler McCoy, 2009]

Thirsty

Following, following 'cross the wasteland

A steward who steadies with wit and staff,

Pilgrims set lonely course, buried in sand,

Hoping their no-name horse will find true path.

Marking the course with blood so red, they ford

Streams running wild, oh running wild with greed.

Such hopeful souls the dreaming pulls forward

To loving words, a face serene indeed.

Thirsty they are and, silent, they behold

St. Nick in this desert guarding a stream;

Peace and victory pouring from source untold.

Truth visible only for those who dream.

Her voice soothes the bile riled by false faces;

Stream fouled by fairness still bears Her traces.

Barbara Butler McCoy

[[Image - composite of the author's photos; slogan found painted on

the wall of an outbuilding of the Spruill Gallery, Dunwoody, GA, 2009;

Our Lady of Guadalupe, paint on tile, shrine on grounds of St. Jude

the Apostle Catholic Church, Atlanta, GA, 2009; wall, 2008; thanks to

Sean for his Photoshop tutelage!]]

I, Georgia

Here in the wild place
The rocky place
Here on this canvas
I am true to myself

The canvas speaks of charms
The brush laid on
With tints in sweeps
All flourishes

And the tempest
Inside my heart of cold
Black stone
Bursts forth in waves
Of petals and pedernals

None so wonderful as these
Have eased my heart 'ere now
To be as one
With the canvas and stone
The leaves and the trees
In this wild, dry land
Is all I need to be

Free of restraints and
Gentle complaints
I soar with the mind
Of a child

My brush brings me home
To wander
In the broom

There I may find it
The next
Piece

Barbara Butler McCoy

[Photo: "Equine Pelvis with Sky," after Georgia
O'Keeffe's "Pelvis with the Distance"; sculpture
of a horse out of driftwood outside the Hunter
Museum, Chattanooga, TN; July 2009]

Blues

Flying with the blues
Anytime and where I choose
Where'd I leave my shoes?

Barbara Butler McCoy

[Photo: Hyacinth Macaws at the Tennessee Aquarium,
Chattanooga, TN; July 2009]

[This poem is a response to the four, challenge #12]

Dogwood

I could tell you of
the dogwood trembling above
as it feels spring's love

Barbara Butler McCoy

[Photo: a dogwood blossom on the
tree in my courtyard; April, 2009]