A Tribute to Potter John

 …through the wanderings of blight 

    Potter-John’s fingers had, once,

                     their traction on everyone. 

Then, palm deep lowered into new clay,

     soft as a child-soul,

     soil porous with the colors of Light,

            clay from the clouds, 

                           he would say, 

transforming each hour.

            Who can say otherwise? 

The kindness of shade and shadow

cast from the tallest magnolia tree,

    leaves abounding,

                     in his palms.

 His finger-gates fluttering,

               rounding the clouds,

               from one season to the other; 

each hand harboring a gracious sight-Light, 

     turning cup-rims into a crowns.

             Who can say otherwise of Potter John?

Even as Potter-John lay dying

from a Drunk’s spinning car wheels 

      his fingers turned the soil into a prayerful cloud.

 

The Waffle House Woman

Looking back into the backs of heads

        Walls, always on my mind.

Lookin back sitting still,

the Waffle House grill hissing

          Kissing, always on my mind.

Lockin back, deep shadows, purple-gray hanging over

from too many fools on bar stools, 

hanging on my jewels.

          Always on my mind.

          

Looking back, my tatoos,

the thicken ink sinking into my bones,

pulling my jeans against hips, thighs, mostly

my eyes into the shadows of hair. 

            Always on my mind. 

            

Lookin back, I give myself,

one more time to wake-up with a cup of coffee

instead of along side another horse-breath, 

            roasted hot peppers, peanuts, and red lips stick 

            prints everywhere....always on my mind. 

            

Looking back, out the glass door, face to face, 

I wonder why there are so many Waffle House tunes

              Always on My Mind. 

            but on my lips.