The World Will Follow Joy Read online

a lot, thinks I have a fine

  sense

  of humor

  & has friends.

  number 14, someone who can be

  original in dress:

  stylish

  warlock—in silver, lapis

  & black—to my witch.

  ***

  Turning Madness into Flowers #1

  If my sorrow were deeper

  I’d be, along with you, under

  the ocean’s floor;

  but today I learn that the oil

  that pools beneath the ocean floor

  is essence

  residue

  remains

  of all our

  relations

  all

  our ancestors who have died and turned to oil

  without our witness

  eons ago.

  We’ve always belonged to them.

  Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water’s edge

  as well as for myself.

  It is our grief

  heavy, relentless,

  trudging

  us, however resistant,

  to the decaying and rotten

  bottom of things:

  our grief bringing

  us home.

  ***

  What It Feels Like

  As if I’ve swallowed

  A watermelon

  And

  Sidestepping

  My digestive tract

  It has lodged

  In my heart.

  There it lies

  Green

  & whole

  with a luscious

  red

  heart of its own

  daring me

  to cut.

  ***

  Before I Leave the Stage

  Before I leave the stage

  I will sing the only song

  I was meant truly to sing.

  It is the song

  of I AM.

  Yes: I am Me

  &

  You.

  WE ARE.

  I love Us with every drop

  of our blood

  every atom of our cells

  our waving particles

  —undaunted flags of our Being—

  neither here nor there.

  ***

  Remember?

  Remember

  When we ended

  It all

  —for a weekend—

  & how

  We knew?

  You took

  The tea bowl

  That I

  Broke

  In

  Carelessness

  To glue together

  Again

  At your

  House.

  ***

  Working Class Hero

  My brothers knew

  The things you know.

  I did not scorn

  learning them;

  It’s just my mind

  Was busy being trained

  For “Other Things”:

  Poetry, Philosophy, Literature.

  Survival, for a girl.

  But now,

  What a relief

  To see you understand

  The ways

  Of horses

  Their shyness

  & hatred

  Of

  Loneliness:

  That you will not

  Hesitate

  To rescue

  An old horse,

  Dying on

  His feet

  &

  That you will

  Cheerfully

  Wash him,

  Aged

  &

  Incontinent

  Head

  To

  Toe. Missing

  With your bucket

  &

  Rag

  Not

  One

  Hidden

  Crevice

  As he

  Trembles

  & weeps.

  What peace

  To see

  Raising chickens

  Does not

  Mystify you

  and

  Hot water heaters

  & their ways

  Are well known;

  That electricity

  & how it

  Works

  Is something

  Within

  Your grasp.

  That you can

  Get a car

  To run

  By poking

  It in

  A few mysterious

  Places

  Under

  The hood.

  That you can

  Fix a

  Broken

  Anything: battery, truck, stove,

  Door, fridge, lamp, chicken coop hinge

  While teaching me

  The ins and outs

  Of Opera

  Or

  While singing

  Lusty

  Italian

  Tenor

  That

  Shakes

  The walls.

  That you can

  Sit, comfy,

  Unperturbed

  By traffic

  In the womb-like

  Back seat

  Of my

  Aging

  Chariot

  While I drive

  & you

  Ride

  The silver

  Black

  & Golden

  Horses

  Of

  Your

  Trumpet.

  ***

  The Ways of Water

  With your unknown

  to me

  Odd magic

  You came

  To me:

  Your truck

  Backfiring

  As if sending

  Out

  Rockets

  To the

  Stars

  You came

  In

  So gracefully

  Rockets

  Silenced

  Behind you &

  Set

  To work

  As if nothing

  Brought you

  Greater

  Joy.

  I did not see Life was

  About to change, as it does,

  When odd magic appears:

  There was

  No music

  Yet.

  Chatting

  About relationships, our freedom

  From same,

  Which we

  So defended;

  About water, faucet

  Drips;

  The gifts

  Of growing older;

  You set to work

  & I, standing above you

  As you lay on

  Your back

  Studied

  Your feet:

  Well cared for

  In ocean blue

  Sandals

  Made of tough

  Plastic.

  Buddies,

  We said, we agreed

  That’s what we

  Needed.

  How about going out

  Together as buddies

  For a night of music

  & dance? My first

  Indication

  That song

  Had a place

  In

  Your world.

  Two years later

  The leak

  In my kitchen

  Sink

  Remains

  Fixed

  As well as

  The leak

  I never mentioned

  In my spirit.

  Early and late

  We savor

  The music

  That comes

  From

  Your horn

  The Golden Phoenix

  That travels

  With us

  Everywhere

  Your sound

  Your love of Miles & Bird

  & Wynton

  Making

  Friends of
strangers

  Around

  The globe.

  In Poor

  Countries

  Where

  The grass

  Has died

  & the ponies

  & oxen

  Also

  & the people

  Have nothing

  To bathe in

  Or to drink &

  Yet are soothed

  By your cool

  & liquid

  Music, which

  You pour over them

  So freely,

  I want to tell them:

  Yes, he is also

  A water man.

  Yes, he also knows

  The ways

  Of water.

  But they know this.

  ***

  You Want to Grow Old Like the Carters

  For Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter of Plains, Georgia

  Let other leaders

  Retire

  To play golf

  & write

  Memoirs

  About bombing

  Villages

  They’ve never seen.

  Growing old

  Presents a peril

  They may not

  Expect.

  It is to lose

  One’s soul

  In trivia

  & irrelevance

  The nerve

  Endings

  Blunted

  By the constant

  Pressure

  Of moral

  Indifference.

  Growing old

  A curse:

  Not even

  Generally speaking

  Able

  To relate

  To whoever

  Shares

  Your house. Not the mansion

  You inhabit

  On the

  Lovely stolen hill

  Above the sea

  Or the interior one:

  The darkened

  Desolate

  Shack.

  You want to grow old

  Like

  The Carters;

  Curing blindness

  &

  Building houses

  For

  The Poor;

  Making friends of those

  Who believe

  They must fight.

  You want to grow old

  Like

  The Carters

  Holding hands

  With someone

  You love

  &

  Riding bicycles

  Leisurely

  Where the ground

  Is well known

  & perfectly

  Flat.

  You want to find

  And keep to the path

  Laid down

  Inside you

  Such a long time

  Ago.

  You want to grow old

  Like

  The Carters:

  Serene. Eyes

  Twinkling

  To be accused

  Of

  Not getting

  It right.

  Upfront, upright.

  Speaking what to you is true.

  A person rich in Mothers.

  Beloved.

  And:

  Honoring what is black

  In you.

  ***

  The answer is: Live happily!

  To all my relations who have known this suffering.

  And for Miles Davis, just because.

  Happy New Year.

  When you thought me poor,

  my poverty was shaming.

  When blackness was unwelcome

  we found it best

  that I stay home.

  When by the miracle

  of fierce dreaming and hard work

  Life fulfilled our every want

  you found me crassly

  well off;

  not trimly,

  inconspicuously wealthy

  like your rich friends.

  Still black too,

  Now

  I owned too much and too many

  of everything.

  Woe is me: I became a

  success! Blackness, who

  knows how?

  Became suddenly

  in!

  What to do?

  Now that Fate appears

  (for the moment anyhow)

  to have dismissed

  abject failure

  in any case?

  Now that moonlight and night

  have blessed me.

  Now that the sun

  unaffected by criticism

  of any sort,

  implacably beams

  the kiss-filled magic that creates

  the dark and radiant wonder

  of my face.

  ***

  Word reaches us

  For Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords

  Word reaches us

  that you are sleeping, sleeping.

  Dismayed

  we have turned to the sea.

  We encounter among others

  walking there

  a sense of what we have lost:

  the broad expanse of humanity’s

  sensitivity to the oneness of itself.

  Gabrielle,

  while you sleep, resting your nimble

  brain, we think of walking with you

  in the valley

  of the shadow of death; holding

  you up.

  We hope you can feel our grief;

  our sorrow vast

  like the ocean that draws us.

  We know in this moment you teach us many

  things:

  how all across the world

  there is no one who deserves this fate.

  We know we must bleach and sterilize our

  tongues,

  brighten with understanding

  all our dark thoughts.

  Sister, whom I never met

  except in this pain that has so

  wounded you

  thank you for reminding us

  through your suffering

  and your suspenseful sleep

  that we must change.

  ***

  When You See Water

  When you see water in a stream

  you say: oh, this is stream

  water;

  When you see water in the river

  you say: oh, this is water

  of the river;

  When you see ocean

  Water

  you say: This is the ocean’s

  water!

  But actually water is always

  only itself

  and does not belong

  to any of these containers

  though it creates them.

  And so it is with you.

  ***

  This is a story of how love works

  This is the house for orphaned young girls; the house that love built.

  These are two of the beautiful girls who will live there.

  Here is a flower for them!

  It all started without a beginning! How cool.

  Alice was eating in a vegan restaurant

  because she is always trying to do things

  that sometimes she keeps failing at:

  still, she was there, eating her greens and peas

  and sweet potatoes. It was all really good!

  There was a young woman seated near her

  with a slender, elegant East African

  body and super long locks

  and this woman gave her a card that read:

  Beautiful Loks!

  There was a picture of a child gently touching

  his mother’s locks. Alice liked this because one

  of her favorite things is tenderness!

  Years went by. She and the young Kenyan

  became friends. Over hair, actually.

  And learning new things, like: Irish Moss.

  Didn’t Bob Marley swear by it? But what was

>   it? Exactly?

  The Kenyan knew! Ground some up for

  Alice. Watched her drink it, along with other

  slippery stuff.

  Her name is Mo’raa M.B., which Alice liked

  the sound of. Her mother had died and her

  aunt Kwamboka Okari raised her. Raised her

  really well, too; Alice was happy to see. She

  worked hard, always learning new things. She

  said Please, May I help you, Auntie, and best

  of all: Thank you.

  When Alice looked around to find an

  orphanage to adopt, Mo’raa M.B. invited her

  aunt Kwamboka to Alice’s for dinner (she was

  visiting the country). Kwamboka brought

  Alice a beautiful sculpture of a woman

  carrying a child on her back. They became

  friends.

  Kwamboka with help from wonderful folks in

  the United States was running an orphanage

  for children in Kenya who’d lost their parents

  to AIDS.

  Over the next two or three years the school

  at the orphanage needed many things that

  Alice was able to help with. A floor, books,

  uniforms, things like that. But then, Alice

  was given a magical gift by Yoko Ono; a gift

  so magical it would only work if it were

  immediately handed to someone else! Alice

  loved this; and of course she always loved

  Yoko Ono.

  What did this mean?

  The dormitory for girls was going up brick by brick,

  with love and contributions of all

  sizes flowing or creeping in! More and more

  children, boys and girls, were finding their

  way to the orphanage.

  With Yoko Ono’s offering, and in spiritual

  cahoots with John Lennon, the girls’

  dormitory was finished!

  This is the house that love built. Let’s look at it again!

  Red! What joy! Blue! Yes!

  Alice feels happy every time she looks at these

  pictures sent by Kwamboka Okari (founder of

  the Margaret Okari Foundation’s school and

  orphanage), of the girls Yvonne and Brenda,

  and of the cheerful residence the girls will occupy.

  It is beautiful, just as housing for all our girls

  and boys should be. Wherever they are on the

  globe. (No child anywhere should live in ugly

  housing! Ugly housing damages the spirit.

  Not to mention the beauty-loving soul!)

  When something wonderful like this happens,

  when friends connect regardless of being dead

  (some of them) or far away (others of them),

  we know we are on the right path. Thorns