Chenin Blanc
after Trish Hopkinson's "Lonely Soup" [http://www.verse-virtual.org/trish-hopkinson-2016-february.html]
 
Trellis is raised and ground is broken.
It is time for me to unwrap the delicate
tangle of vine-shoots from damp
 
linen towel, carefully carve space with
the trowel, inter them gently. As I
perform this ritual, I return to the vision
 
of you chopping sparse scraps for
a broth of lonely soup. Within a year,
these shoots will grow and strengthen,
 
harden into a twisted trunk. In two,
I will tend them daily like a prayer,
shaping and securing their enthusiasm,
 
an espalier against an old brick wall.
But it will be fully three years before
they fruit. And then, after the harvest,
 
crushed to juice, fermented, bottled.
And then, I will finally finally send
a message – will you still be checking?
 
Then I will finally be ready, be in touch.
Chenin blanc can sparkle or can mellow.
I concede that it should not be cellared.
 



 
Confirmation: poem ending with Matt. 18:4 KJV
"...I loved lots of people / more than Jesus, / my beautiful mother / best of all."
- from "Skepticism" by Donna Hilbert  [http://www.verse-virtual.org/2016/February/donna-hilbert-2016-february.html]
 
When they ask about my faith, I usually refrain
from answering. I am uncomfortable with the divisions

that seem to be inherent in any affirmation. If I say
I am an X, it does not mean I disagree with Y. If I

say I am a Y, it does not mean I have renounced my Xness.
All the complexities of creeds seem to me like sieves,

fine mesh strung to strain out heresy and apostasy,
wires stretched like prison bars to keep out questions

and their askers. And I've been challenged: do I not 
strive to earn a place within the heavens? But how can

an infant pay the rent on such a lofty crib? What must
an infant do to earn a meal? I can only say that I am 

racked with hunger, wail in poems, cry in silence
for the remembered sweetness, for a taste of the Beloved.

Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little
child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.




 
Poem with refrain borrowed from Mozart
for Karen Paul Holmes, after her poem "Teaching Mozart in Stone Mountain Prison" 
[http://www.verse-virtual.org/2016/February/karen-paul-holmes-2016-february.html]


All I insist on, and nothing else, is that you
should show the whole world that you are not afraid.

But of course, the fear is there, uncertainty
and risk, an undertow of history and judgment,
past violence which brooks no questions. 

All I insist on, and nothing else, is that you
should show the whole world that you are not afraid.

And masking does not seem sufficient: tortoise
shell glasses are only a rim around a fragile 
lens of glass, they do not provide half-dome
encasement, space to withdraw and seek protection.

All I insist on, and nothing else, is that you
should show the whole world that you are not afraid.

Music appreciation. At Stone Mountain Prison, you
were teaching listening, hearing with the heart.
A concerto cannot be cut, cannot be stolen.

All I insist on, and nothing else, is that you
should show the whole world that you are not afraid.

Once heard, beauty cannot be unheard.
Once the heart has listened, one cannot unhear
the violins.