If I knew the Answer

There are those days, man... it just make you wonder and then that is too much work... When there is Time for Beauty just because I needed to See...

Hea..

 Feel

And then...


One of my favorite artist Agnieszka Kukawska












If I knew all the answers
To every question you'd ever asked, thought or imagined,
Would it change how things are now?
If I could stop time, speed it up or slow it down
Would it all be different somehow?
If I could give you the world on a plate, special powers
Or an amazing trait
Would life still remain mundane?
I wonder if you'd love me more, less or just the same.
If I knew,
I'd give it all to you.

Lily Espinosa

National Poetry Month_A Blast from the Past!

Spooning the Moon

By Jacquelyn Hughes Mooney ©04

Did you spoon the moon in June?

But only in the afternoon?

I was smitten, sitting under a lyrical tune…

Whose delighted fragrance ended far too soon.

This is why I long to see you spoon the moon in June.

When you spoon the moon in June…

Did you piddle paddle in a canoe…

Upwardly on the blue lagoon?

And with your fingertips you drew the world in air kissed bubbles in June?

As you spoon the moon.

Oh say can you see at noon?

What you did to dispel the gloom?

Your love for me that your lips croon…

And this is what I love to see you soon…

To spoon the moon in June.

All rights reserved JHM 1-24-04©

Poetic License~Dr. Margaret Abagail Walker Alexander 1915-1998

 

Southern Song 


I want my body bathed again by southern suns, my soul 
reclaimed again from southern land. I want to rest 
again in southern fields, in grass and hay and clover 
bloom; to lay my hand again upon the clay baked by a 
southern sun, to touch the rain-soaked earth and smell 
the smell of soil. 

I want my rest unbroken in the fields of southern earth; 
freedom to watch the corn wave silver in the sun and 
mark the splashing of a brook, a pond with ducks and 
frogs and count the clouds. 


I want no mobs to wrench me from my southern rest; no 
forms to take me in the night and burn my shack and 
make for me a nightmare full of oil and flame. 


I want my careless song to strike no minor key; no fiend to 
stand between my body's soutnern song--the fusion of 
the South, my body's song and me. 


Dr. Margaret Walker 

Be Still My Heart-Charles & Trishaa's Anniversary

 Happy Anniversary.

April 14,2011

                  Be Still My Heart

By Jacquelyn Hughes Mooney © 01

Be still my heart...

lest I will chance.

Because romance has entered...

Took hold

simply, sweetly, completely

And wants to dance...

Speak to my eyes

what my heart cannot say....

Poetry is the promise  of dreams,

a hint of what the Heartspeaks.

Insight of a grand sweetness.

A sweep of your hand across my brow.

Shining eyes that shimmer promises, not yet sung.

I longed for the warmth of your caress.

A glistening tear that crystal clear & speaks of our romance.

Soundlessly of my pain in your heart.

Kisses that move the heavens.

Shared memories of times long past.

Speak to my eyes what my heart cannot say..

Yet...

Breathlessly embracing

Sweet & sway,

that we dance to a tuneless melody that only your heart

Speaks to me...

Promises of what to come..

Yearned for.

That's found crystal glass

that my eyes hear and my heart has yet to say.

Be still my heart,

lest I will chance

Because romance has entered..

Took hold

and simply, sweetly, completely...

And wants to dance.

 Al Rights ReservedJHM ©1998

Poetic License~My Best Friend

This afternoon trying to stay busy as not to cry again, I was looking through my catalog of poems trying to find one I had written 14 years ago on my other best friend Phylis who died in 2001. 

I had a friend of mine who was trying to help a couple of months ago & accidently wiped out my hard drive we thought with all my manuscripts, art & poetry. Over the last few months I have painstakingly retrieved a few from various sources. 

Well this afternoon I did something I had never done before and did a search on my desktop and two amazing things happen: 1. I found my manuscript, my poetry and 2 years of essays! 

I've been copying them as quickly as I could when all of a sudden.. .

2. I found a poem that Karen had written back in 1982! I am sharing that with you today to honor my friend. Karen & I have done poetry readings before, she had been the voice, the narrator of my doc on Katrina. I am going to share it with her family when I put the quilt together for them... 

 

Flight

                     By Karen F. Hurst ©82

When I was a child I believed I could fly

I told this to my mother who'd watch me and sigh

"Girl, you're a child, not a sparrow or a wren,"

Then she pause and say sternly, " Don't say that again"

The subject was closed, but I knew I was right.

I'd go to my room, close the door and take flight!

Later I'd tell her just how high I flew

She'd say,"You 're dreaming, dear." Ah! but I knew.

No, this is no dream, I'd cry to myself

As I flew from my bed to perch high on a shelf.

And I vovwed to myself that one day she'd see

What she thought was a bird in the sky would be me!

As I grew older, I forgot I had wings.

I was told to be "normal" to do "normal things"

The more normal I got, the more Mother smile

"You're a sensible girl, not flighty or wild

Dream dreams if you must, but to make them come true.

Be sure they make sense to those around you"

Now, thats good sound advice if you happen to be,

One who's not seen the world from the top of a tree.

But, I had tho' I knew no one'd believe

So I stayed on the ground and let my soul grieve.

I prayed tho' some day again I'd take flight

My flying now trapped inthe wings of the night.

The older I got, the more trapped I became

Like a bird who's been caught and who's wings had gone

                                lame

I convinced myself I'd imagined it all.

I couldn't fly, I"d do nothing but fall

My mother was right, I didn't have wings

I confined my spirit to sensible things

I did all the things I saw others do,

And didn't know why I was so sad & blue.

Its hard to be someone you know when you're not.

Deep down within, my poor spirit fought.

The wings of my soul beat hard on the cage'I soon found myself filled with bitterness's rage!

Just as I felt that I had been beat,

My spirit hung limp with the thought of defeat.

Just as I told myself I'd fly no more

A great hand touched my cage and opened the door!

The hand held two birds, two tiny white doves,

Both given to me with a great deal of love.

They looked up at me, large eyes filled with wonder

"Teach them to fly", said a voice filled like thunder

"But humans can't fly, is what Mother said....

If we cannot fly, then we'd rather be dead".

In shock and with fear, I looked into those eyes,

"Don't say that my darlings, I'll teach you to fly!"

We went to the top of a very high hill

All the earth seemed to stop, all greww very still.

"I've not flown for years," I tried to explain.

No excuse would do.  It grew very plain.

I looked into those faces and then at the sky-

"God, if you're up there, please help me to fly"

I raised heavenward and then took flight!

What a glorious feeling!  A wonderful sight!

I;d never again deny my soul's needs.

The cage door was open, I knew I'd been freed!

And I heard myself say, flying into the blue,

"God does answer prayers!  Dreams do come true!"

All Rights ReservedKFH©6-82

Poetic License~ Deep calling to deep....My Turn in Time...

 A Call out for Information

I am hoping someone may know of a theater I believed was called the Jax (sp)Theater adjacent to Booker T Washington High School in the 1950's.  If any pictures, a street name or anything will be appreciated. I know it had to be near S. Roman in Central City.  Also I am trying to find the name of a movie theater in the Lower 9th Ward near Andry St & Alfred Lawless School in New Orleans.  

 Booker T Washington HS

Thank you JHM

I wrote these poems when I returned to La, not back to New Orleans but to a very tiny town that I did not know until time for me to leave that I was not even 30 minutes from the birthplace of my grandmother Sally born around 1885 & my mother born in 1914.  I learned a lot in that one year some of which made me understand more of New Orleans or being in the South in general.  


It also got me going on picking up where I had left off, developing the stories of my visual art into a compilation of short stories.


I was able to connect lots of threads not only in my personal family but as a general rule the cultural experiences relearning my life as a Southern woman with a definitive West Coast groove mired into my personal moxie.  To say it was hard work would be a  serious understatement but at the same time their was an almost psychic relief in unspoken why's I had not been successful in relieving before.


Yesterday I had an oppportunity to speak with my eldest sister who is technically old enough to be my mother who I met for the very 1st time when I was 15.  I knew of her, but she was married had moved to California when I was a baby.


I learned a lot about my family through her recollections, filling in spaces I had not been able to not of lack of want and some heavy duty research, but there was still lots of unanswers...She was from my mother's first marriage so she was at an advantage of knowing my father while he courted & married my mother, to telling me about one great-grandmother who died the year I was born as well as my grandfather who died when I was barely 4.  She also knew some of the other great-great grandparents.


Well lo & behold I now have names dating back to 1850's in a missing link/branch of the family, what my father did for a living before I was born (he was a projectionist for a movie theater in the 1940's after serving in WWII).  It explains my early love of movies which the 1st one I had recollections of was Imitation of Life of which I wept for days afterward.  


I now know MY grandson has an ancestor, a great-great-great-great grandfather that too bears his name of Isaiah & who was enslaved.  He has a name & a last name & a marriage license to a woman name Laia with who he married post-emancipation.




Sale of John  for $1150 circa1854:

Man with medals 1840:

Oh the irony of discovering this on the 150th anniversary of the Civil War!
 Union soldiers 1860

My story today,however, is not about the Civil War or the criminal horrors of slavery.


It is about learning so much more about my family that were property owners, long marriages, long lives sacrifices, dreams some realized, many sabotaged.  I am learning something about life long before I was a twinkle in my parents eyes.


I also because of my sister have addresses of where some of these famil members lived & the houses still exist.  Thanks to Google map, I found my grandfather brother's home, my great-grandmother's home, even the neighborhood  I spent some of my adolescence in.  Amazing despite some of the minor "improvements", some of the pervasive landscaping that was there then 50 years ago sans the gravekl road now paved, it is still the same.  


NOTE:  I did not grow up in rural Louisiana.  I grew up in the city, pre-Civil Rights when segregation reign supreme.  I am from New Orleans, spent the tweener and early teen years in the state capital before going on to California.  So no stereotypical assumptions, y'all.    I had mixed emotions seeing some of the neighborhoods I knew as a child & going on into adolescence.    


My sister is sending me of all things which I am going to have framed some left over WWII war ration books that belong to my grandparents still intact which I will have shadowboxed & some of my mothers clothes and jewelry which will be repurposed.


NOTE: My mother is still alive & kickin'.  She will be 96 in June & still in her full mental capabilities.  My family tends to live to the 90's & 100's yrs.  It amused me for a moment that my sister was sending me some of my mother's clothes to wear when I am a whole foot taller then she, however I will make a quilt out of it.


So that is my story and here are the poems:

Coming Back South

By Jacquelyn Hughes Mooney©03


I came back South, not to pick wildflowers…
I came back not to see butterflies, clovers nor drink mint juleps.
I did not come back South for overly romantic, haunting reminiscing…
The mysteries that continue to tug at my heart.
Or to untangle the 19,228 yesterdays that laid up in the marshy soils.
And under the weeping willows or anchor itself in the marrow of faces…
Of ones who were not mercifully taken away from here.
I came back south to fathom the unbelievable…
The seemingly unreachable…
Persnickety tumbling on those back roads…
A paradigm on surface appearance seems to have no rhyme or reason.
I came back south to listen to wind sounds intertwined in trees at dusk.
And high moons at noon in June that shouldn’t be there.
Ancient winds of times blowing to unveil shield treasures…
To unfold secrets too many folks try to cover up, cover over
So for once we can all stop pretending
And that is why I came south.


All rights reserved JHM 3-24-03©



Coming Back South (Epilouge)


By Jacquelyn Hughes Mooney©03


And now I know…
Why things are as crazy as they are.


Folks just be a’moaning, just a’groaning…
Because they don’t know what they can’t see,
It can’t be my reality.


I ponder the paradox of a parasitic course.
Crushed souls crushing others into pulverized matter.
131,400 days of loathing.
And the monstrosity that grew, bathing all it came into contact with (even today).
Drenching everything and everybody that dared to be born.
Or challenge their right to live or perchance to dream.


Now I know the what’s…
And the why’d that you did to mothersfathersunclescousins and others.
Operating this carousel of delusions, a mirage for all the mismashed…
That was supposed to pass for living.
This is your reality.


Then the involuntary participants engaged themselves by becoming willing partners…
In this madcap twist.
Now I know what pounded all my days, all 18,245 (not counting leap years).
Folks just be a’moaning, just a groaning, ‘cause they don’t know what they can’t see.
It will not be my reality.


But watch those that have an elaborate scheme just putting on a show!
Pretending that everything is all right (when it ain’t).
And you go grazing through numbed motions feeding on the craziness.
If you must lie to the world, do not lie to yourself.
Folks just a’moaning…
Because they don’t know what they can’t see.


There is a life larger then this.
And you are larger then that!
Life is so plump and rich that it dares to swell you beyond capacity.
But will not delay or destroy all what you have to give.
See the doves flying over the valley of 1,000 hills, no longer crying
“I don’t know why, its too late, too late, too late”.
It will continue to be crazy as long as you want.
Folks be a’moaning, just a ‘groaning because they don’t know what they can’t see.
It is not my reality.


All rights reservedJHM6-16-03©


Potrait of a woman 1850

Poetic License: Licencia poética, Blanca Varela, poeta

 


Currículum Profesional 

By Blanca Varela 

digamos que ganaste la carrera 

y el premio era otra carrera 

que no ganó la victoria bebida, 

pero su propia sal 

que nunca has oído los gritos, 

sino ladridos 

de los perros 
y que tu sombra fue 
su único competidor e injusto 

 
Blanca Varela, poeta 


Professional Résumé 
By Blanca Varela 

let's say that you won the race 
and the prize was another race 
that you didn't drink victory's win 
but your own salt 
that you never heard the cheers 
and the dogs barking... 

and that your shadow 
was your sole 
and unfair competitor 

 
Blanca Varela, poeta 

Translated by Michael L. Smith

Poetic License~Trapeta B. Mayson

I love the phrase "long to be static free". 

I Long To Be 

by Trapeta B. Mayson © 
I long to be static free 
Confusion, chaos free 
I want to be around wash and wear folks 
Just leave me on the line to dry on breezy days folks 
I hate when people press me 
Depress me, Oppress me, want to Suppress me 

I simply long to be 
Without complicated label, temperature controls 
Special instructions 

I long to be static free 
Free from the cling, the pull 
The situations sticking to me 
Like stubborn lint balls on wool 
Give me folks that's into cotton, into naturals 
Without fanfares, Sunday go to meet attire 
I don't want nothing tight on me, upsetting me 

I don't like drama, performances 
Requiring costumes, clown attire, masks 
Just leave me on the line to dry 
On breezy days with other wash and wear folks 

I long to be 
Static free, confusion, chaos free 
No need to press me 
No need to press me 


From her book “Mocha Melodies”© 

,

Ms.Trapeta B. Mayson,poet