50+ Lifestyles

Max’s Musings

By Max Molleston

This is, by reputation a windy month. March, that is. Some of us do recall the very wintery strong as could be wind, that howled and pushed snow into new piles, as if there weren’t enough of those. Early in my poetry selections for you, I came across a book by an African-American prize winning poet who wrote the poems in her book Carolina Ghost Woods. The poet is Judy Jordan, and her volume was published by the Louisiana State University Press, at Baton Rouge. The volume earned an award, Walt Whitman Award for 1999. As you may know, my prose efforts for the past several years have dealt with portions of the U.S. Civil War 1861-1865. Ms. Jordan’s writing is wistful and yet a biting reminder. This poem centers on slavery and loss of lives surrounding the era of Plantation agriculture.

SHARECROPPERS GRAVE

The night is hoot owls, wind-whistled flue, babies bundled in burlap. Breath of another child, mid-gasp.

In the next room, those who live and the ones sickness took— the pail of milk, thick and frothing, they did not drink.

Small holes, secret graves, children scattered around

the iron fence. Not even a scratched stone.

The wind rises, clouds cover the moon, a dog’s bark

and those owls, alone and no end.

My children who won’t hear. The night full of cries

they will never make.

We muse on this sentiment in the poem, deep and abiding, dedicated to Judy Jordan’s grandmother. There is more in this vein, in her second poem, Scattered Prayers, (CNHJ 1927-1969). I assume for us CNHJ is Ms. Jordan’s mother.

She knows we’ve lost the farm she worked her life for. She hears the auctioneer’s thin call, The banker’s paper shuffle.

In the shrink of light, dirt falling from her hand.

The sun leaving the trees one by one,

She remembers seed rotted in the ground one year, the next so dry even the weeds wouldn’t grow. She’s the lone kitchen match

Our house burnt for the insurance; she’s what’s left— four chimneys and the sun breaking across the tin roof.

She knew which forked branch for dowsing, how many feet down for water, which stump, the time of moon,

the words for washing away warts.

This poem, and you have read parts of it, declares life and it’s travels for many of us, but particularly for the lives of slaves, the women, and stupendous trials that (her mother) and folks like her carried on through a shortened four score and two years, the dates with the title, (CNHJ, 1927-1969) Poetry is generally about reflecting. Looking ahead is a huge endeavor for thinkers and writers, and so the past is appealing and at hand. We do, as people who plan, look ahead to Spring, I mean the real Spring as we help nature to flourish, planting and caring for the abundant greenery we enjoy. Join us here for the adventure in April.