She has played piano here for a hundred years
Her bony fingers tripping lightly over the keys
Her clarion voice warbling songs of praise or sorrow
She is a slave to her own muscle memory these days
She says that it’s better than a slave to her practical memory
She has introduced the congregation to generations of babies
She has buried friends and loved ones and strangers
She will surely play here for another hundred years
We’re driving southbound on Route 51 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
I’m feeling nostalgic for memories of things that never actually happened
I don’t know this place – I’ve never been here before – not on this road anyway
But it is October and the world spinning by us in a Hallmark autumn color chart
It is raining – more a drizzle – and with the window down we can smell the earth
We feel welcome enveloped in this new view of this old and beautiful city
My melancholy is palpable – it hangs there in the car between us – but we press on
We’re driving southbound on Route 51 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The trees are mostly bare now – the branches reach up to the cold gray sky
They stretch like the fingers of a drowning man in his last grasp with breath
The cold moist wind forces its way up the back of your flimsy regulation work coat
You wrap yourself around yourself – but the cold is an unforgiving master
Hope left town on Wednesday morning on a slow train heading far away from here
Hope left town on Wednesday morning breaking the hearts of the people who need it most
The children on the platform wave weakly as the train pulls away – they cry out loud
Their hearts are no longer their own as slivers fall away and down between the railroad ties
There is a storm coming – a purple electric storm will soon hover over all of our heads
The strong will survive – the lesser of us – not as much – but we don’t have any choice
Hope left town Wednesday morning and we did nothing to stop it on its way
Hope left town Wednesday morning – now it is up to us to protect each other from the storm
Do not be still during these trying times
Move your limbs with forward motions
Move your limbs with peaceful motions
Lift your voice in the tender cry of dissent
Lift your hands for your brothers and sisters
Keep your hands open in generous repose
Find your peace in these troubling times
Love will win the day if you surrender to it
Love will win the day if you find it and cling to it
Your sadness is outweighed by your protective instinct
Your soul is holding the weight of the generations to come
Your heart is crashing against the cliffs of broken promises.
Be mindful that you never become what you have protested against
Don’t devolve into the ugliness that you’ve resisted for so long
Above all don’t cut and run – we need you here – we need you now
Be active in protest and in peace
Be active in thought and in deed
Be active and change the course we’re on
Most importantly – please do not be still.
Please do not be quiet.
Please find peace.
Please.
Three drops of claret stand out against the faded grey wood
The aged and weathered pole supports the buzzing electrical lines
The drops could be roses
The drops could be blood
This is the Trail of Tears
The saddest place on earth
This is Highway 51 south in Clinton, Kentucky
This is Washington Street in Clinton, Kentucky
The three drops of claret on the weathered old pole
Serve to remind me of one important idea
History is written by those who survive it
Everybody has a Riverview Park – a Fairyland – a Kiddieland
A soft-focus poorly lit memory Gramma and a handful of nickels and live goldfish
A peculiar place where the smell of popcorn mixes with the aroma of motor oil
Rigged carnie games that somehow never taught us the vagaries of life in time
Dirty-faced men lean on boxes pushing levers provoking the cacophony of screaming children
The white picket fence between you and the deer until your dad brings you in to feed them
You mother unwraps a baloney sandwich and lays it on the creased wax paper for you
Gramma sneaks a cigarette behind the Tilta-whirl as if no one sees her there – puffing away
There is a small patch of trees behind the ticket booth – you’ve been warned so you steer clear
The sun becomes a sleepy penumbra over the tops of the trees out along Harlem Avenue
The slow moving plane flying over our heads
Underscores the reason we are all assembled here
Sitting at Scott Powell’s desk
The Pentagon cop shuffles back and forth
The kids glide about gracefully – mostly quiet
Some of the kids aren’t very quiet
That’s the nature of kids.
The Pentagon cop is there to keep the peace
He needs more than that bottle of water to keep his cool
The gravel we walk on is all that is left of the building
The gravel that we walk on is all that is left of Scott Powell’s desk
The gravel that we walk on is all that is left
The gravel gets stuck in our shoes
The shoes of the serious adults
The shoes of the curious kids
The day is perfect here at Scott Powell’s desk
The sun is warm like real love
The breeze is crisp like October
The affect is hypnotic
The affect is transcending
The affect is bittersweet
The trees struggle to keep their color
They struggle for their lives
They struggle to survive for the 184 who lost their lives here
Scott Powell’s desk is weathered and worn like me
Worn like these kids far from the safety of home
Worn like the Pentagon cop and his jaunty shuffle
On this perfect autumn Day
10/10/2015
Pentagon memorial
Washington D.C.
