Tom's Miskito Mission

tired

i am that kind of tired where
when you close your eyes you see movies
on your eyelids with no people in them
just lights
and things moving
and you don't care or feel like
counting toothbrushstrokes
or trying to reach her one more time
because the nasty Nica cellphone service
offered quadruple minutes to the States
for one day only
and you bought into
lines choked past midnight.

Jungle Boy

A squadron of spider monkeys squatted
in a Ceiba tree in Central Park.
From a lush and prominent place,
surveying the sidewalk,
They pointed at me with black fingers
on their feet,
(the palms of which are like damp earth)
teeth bared, they shrieked,
“We know who you are,
Jungle Boy.
Where do you think you are going?
Your feet don’t fit fine shoes;
Vines embrace you;
Let anonymity be your lover
till you lay down; 
we will mingle our bones
and you shall not be mistaken
for someone else.”

March Moon rose late
Over the race track in Sebring.
She looked like she had been out smoking
all night; a wispy veil
like two days growth of beard 
soiled her round face. She spat out the side
of her mouth as she lifted her top,
exposing scars of implants
where once were craters.
“I have stripped myself of beauty,"
she said,
"I give you these instead.
What’s the matter, Jungle Boy,
don’t you like America?
Go back where you came from
if you don’t like it here.”

I cried out to God. He said,
"Foxes have holes,
and birds of the air have nests.
Nevertheless,
rock and stone shall not be your pillow,
Lean your head on my bosom
and I will give you rest."

Morning, No Mountain

Flat.
Straight.
Here.
Florida.

Gone the chill in the air,
the mountain, the phone call saying,
"I'm on my way."
Downhill:
brake, brake, glide, brake,
woosh of tires,
motor at rest, running.
grey car passed back and forth
between the two of us,
a squire standing later,
always outside
someone's garage.
We kiss beside borrowed windows
that shout "Galileo, come look!"

Eastward through the jet-short night
five time zones are traversed;
the hours count, though not lived--
hours hard earned and spent
on thoughts of you.
I called you, confused
in the middle of the night
thinking it was day
on your Maui mountainside.
I left voicemail like a paperboy;
My work was love, you never saw me
standing there.
There was frost on the wings
in Dallas, the flight delayed,
the tram chilled
and empty.

Foxes have holes
My love has no-place
Birds have nests
My love is straw-
A toothpick in my mouth
flying homeward, searching-

The proverb states:
"Where there is no vision
the people perish."
Therefore, conversely,
my love shall prosper.

glory

when the windows of heaven opened wide 

i stood with naked eye, 

in drops of dew was glory magnified

it fell on me from midnight sky. 

 

when at daybreak birds sang chanties instead

of chirps and cheeps and cocks’ alarms

i could no longer get out of bed

but lay there listening in my darling’s arms.

 

housewife

the smell of my mom

iron steam on cotton clothes

before the day

of synthetics.

 

the sound of my mom

listening, listening

harry belafonte on the phonograph

and the iron's hissing.

 

i never knew

till after she was dead

my mom had a job

editor for a womens' magazine she was

before my dad and she were wed.

 

the memory of my mom

housewife, cleanser of boys' tongues.

her gifts to us were these

grammar and lilt of words

when my bros and I were young.

melt me down

they say the copper in the penny

is worth more than the penny

so whatever it is you think i'm worth

he who's in me

's worth more.

Kupi Awa Taih Dakwan

The following poem was written and read on Valentine's Day, February 14th, 2008 at a small coffee house in Sebring, Florida. I had been asked to write something specifically for the event, but was unable to express anything in English, on account of the fact that my failed marriage of some 26 years to the mother of my children, Martana, had been lived out in another language and in another culture. I wrote an English translation, which Lindsey Murphy was kind enough to read simultaneously. I may post that translation at some point, but right now I feel that you need to speak Miskito in order to appreciate the things that happened, the things I was feeling. If you can't, you may skip this and read most of the other poems which are written in English. 

Du pali dalin, du pali

Ai si watma ki

Twakkam saura puknika tilara

Mamwan lap tiwatika

Tahplikam laya tilwanka ra

Katwi tiwatma.

Luhpiam nani sut batak si waram ki.

Ya mita man ra mai lulkan kan?

Mamikam lika, Mamikam mita!

Luhpa waikna kum aisubaia wisi

Pulhpul lupia kaiki mita

Bisi Papikam mihta ra mai swin.

Tat baikram, kupyam baikan

Karas alkaia taka lapta mai aman

Siksa mair lupia baku, draskam man dimi si

tawan ul raun kirh

Pauta wauhwi, wauhwi tauki,

Aisubankam yua plun wauhi luram ki.

Mamikam mita mai lulkan kan

Papikam mita mai lulkan kan

Yang mita mai lulkras kari.

Pulhpul mairin painkira mai kaikri

Mihtam lupia makabaia wisi

Lisangni kum ra mai brih wari.

Tatkam baikram kan pliska bara

Kiamwalri. 

Kubuskam kiasmika kia

Tamya ra diman ba

isingkkam kasak mana

baku prais kulkri.

Suki aisika tara kum wan lama kat bal

wan kaikan,

Bilamh nani wan klinghklingka dabisi

kaikan, yawan wal kumi takan.

Nanara masriki nani ra wataui

Madaukra baku taukamni.

Mairin pihni nani tilara praui

kupi lukraskira takaskamni,

Naples wapka taura bui

Lalma tanira taui

Naikra laih kabu sanilka kat bukisni.

"Duri kum bri kari kaka...

...apia, dia muni?"

Yawan wal dakwi takan sa

Lawankam kangbaia lukaia ra

Kitarki awa dakwan kaikisna,

Tiunkam sip sakras ai munisa.

Marit laka man krikram ba.

Wan watla man slingbram ba.

Wan kupya awa man kalki

Lulkram sa.

Nanara nini maki ai winisma kuna

Na kabuka na tara sa,

kasak tara sa.

 

Borrowed

 

Quarter moon curved upward

Red as a righted canoe

Settles between pines

It's around a quarter to nine

and I'm walking a borrowed dog

in a body I'll leave behind

Gawking in awe

at stars none of which

are mine.

Lord, your works are larger than my

Eyesearsnosetonguetouch

I have no thing, no,

I have nothing but

Am in You.

Waspam, Rio Coco

 

WASPAM, RIO COCO 
Airplanes roll to a stop at a single spot
On the gravel airstrip in green Waspam. 
Baggage stubs are stories strewn on the ground,
of loved ones returned and gone into town. 

Did you grieve there nights of milk and honey? 
The Milky Way Dave's crown for your widowed head, 
“Trail of the wind” in the Miskito tongue, it’s said 
to forecast tomorrow as sure as money.

It stretched lengthwise, beginning to end 
Above the pebbly field on that school night 
When you heard God pronounce my name.
Answer to whose prayer, most precious friend? 

But I in dread flying dreams was not free
Waihli pursued me, through sultry air, dense and dead,
Heavy as the sweaty AC unit my father kicked
which crashed behind the rotting shed.
Diwas, oh land breeze ever so slight
A mere wisp, thou angel... gird my flight, 
lift me over the statue of St Pete who weeps
in the shadow of a chicken coop, as roosters crow.
Please, deliver my life from things below. 

Sleep timed out before dawn, my bed was wet  
I wished stars would give me dew for sweat.
Not wanting to leave the mosquito net... I was next seen 
in an amphitheater in Philadelphia; there’s a silver screen--
No! It was the shimmering throne of God. 

There were too many people, there was too much need.
I wished He’d notice ME, but who was I to plead,
“Pick me out from this flailing crowd
all shoving, nodding, cutting line
and singing Halleluia the entire time.

I would not insist, but darling you appeared
to the rear, at the door; above the ruby glow 
of a sign in Spanish spelling EXITO.
“If it’s some mistake...” However, reassured,
you spoke the words: “I am your reward 
Thus say I and thus says the Lord.” 

 I am not able to name the stars in the sky
but am so happy to know
the red light atop the cell phone tower
past the airstrip, on the west end of town
down in Waspam, Rio Coco. 

Luhpalila (Mikito Lullaby for Phyli)

Luhpalila, luhpalila lupia, lata ra takras

Waitla ra takaskaia balram, luhpalila.

Dia mata balram? 

Tamya ba lalalni an lipni.

¡Luhpi nina painkira kum aiakaia sma ki!

(illustration by Mary Kelsey)