Acceptance

A folk poem on the death of Velma DeFore Black, my maternal grandmother, 1989.

No more chicken and dumplings,

Mawmaw's gone to heaven.

No more patchwork quilts,

Mawmaw's gone to heaven.

No more sewing pillows,

No more arranging flowers for Homecoming Sunday 

at Mt. Philadelphia Baptist Church.

Mawmaw's gone to heaven.

No more calling Cousin Bethany "Miss Minerva,"

Mawmaw's gone to heaven.

No more walking slowly to steady her walk.

Mawmaw's gone to heaven.

No more endearing talks on growing up,

Mawmaw's gone to heaven.

No more comforting touches of that wrinkled, 

but ever-so-soft hand.

Mawmaw's gone to The Promised Land.

Blue Jay

written  July 17, 1992 11:05 am after reading Keats' Letters.

 (kind of a journal entry written in free verse)

This morning I awoke to see a Blue Jay,

regal in its cap, perched on my fence

facing away, looking over his shoulder,

resting peacefully.

He was framed by a circle of white morning glories

-the wild kind, of course.

And below his talons, more of white-

an arch of white impatiens billowing out of their box.

Yesterday he landed, looked both ways,

and took a dip in the pool of my pond,

dunking himself and bathing himself

-sloshing sideways-

and flew away.

Today, I wanted to take his picture

but he flew away.

So I snapped anyway--

And now I know the meaning of

Morning Glory.

To Terri: Motley Metaphors and Silly Similes on Friendship

--written after the throws (throes) of winter guard 7-17-1992 10:45-10:56 am, 
and after teaching a month-long poetry course at Kennesaw State University.


The lighthearted trickle
of the ballet dancer's
pas de Bourree
echos in your giggle.

But your laugh fans opens like a peacock's tail
-and your scream is heard as the peacock's is heard
when surprise and thrills overtake you.

Most of my friends last like potato chips at a party-
all that is left is the crumbs in an empty bowl.

Our friendship is my pond garden
and your front yard,
both nurtured and shared
and continuing to grow.

Drill Team Betty is alive and well
--living in your blackspandexbacklessstuff
and your Pepperell Dragon clothes.
--living in your splits that split my sides
--living in your complex plots
of attention and intrigue you create
to entertain me or to get to another.

--living in our bond of two lost souls searching
for our other halves.
--not for each other,
but searching for true love
in places that our parents would not want us to look.

Terri Gaines Moody Buckel is a high school teacher and dance coach living in metropolitan Atlanta.

The Essence of Frances

 upon your turning 60 years of age.

“You don’t know the essence of my being,” said Frances in 1983.

But now I do, say I

You are

A multifaceted Frannie. Fifi, Frances, Friend.

Frannie:

Coming to school with wet hair and dog-torn skirts

Carrying lesson plans in free hand on purple dittos

Walking across the hall with dripping dittos in a purple haze.

You (with purple fingers from writing awesome, creative lesson plans: Who else would compare Catcher in the Rye with Jim Morrison, James Taylor, and Bob Dylan, and make it work in Writer’s Workshop?)

Lover of  Rock and Roll, Leonard Cohen, and dancing in stilettos at Proms, Rock Concerts, and Wedding Receptions, sometimes off the beat.

Pointing thumbs up to Prom girls with big booties and bustiers

“Drama Queen?” asks Jean.  “Oh no, not me," says you with the devilish smile foretold in your 6th grade school pic.

Veggie sandwiches and the best Eggplant Parmesan that you hate to cook.

Cigarettes and Coffee.

FiFi:

Fabulous fun parties with Eastern Onion surprises

Magicians, video stories,
door prizes for best costumes,(really Candy C as a cat? leotard and cat ears wins?)
 and solo dances with Fred.

Beaded wigs and cantaloupes,

 “Stop it!”  “Does this shirt make my boobs look big?” you say as Greg grabs your bodacious tatas.

Trading big boxes delivered by beautiful boys to keep us alert.

Rolling in the grass with Juno, Artemis, Zoë

And Tug of War, of course.

Feather fans and exotic jewelry, “too old for you.”

Practical jokes and pranks gone awry.
toothpaste in a condom under the sink, Craven Wayne.

Is it a Rose?

Frances:

High School Reunions

Funerals for Friends, “Gone but not forgotten”

And for lost students, drugs, car wrecks and suicides

From a school built on the Trail of Tears.

Promises made and kept:

Photos in Coffin: “Friends til we die.”

Tolerant

Democrat

Caregiver

Unconditional Love

Unconditional Acceptance (except for Republicans).

“Remember this day!”

Friend.

Atlanta: creating and fulfilling dreams 4/15/96 :an essay.

I wrote the following essay for the Atlanta Olympics in 1996. Coca-Cola had a competition "to welcome the world to Atlanta."  I entered the contest by writing this essay on what Atlanta means to me.  The result would be to have my portrait included on the "Centennial Olympic Wall" to honor Atlantans and their diversity.

I was selected as a semi-finalist and was called in to Coca-Cola Corporation for an interview in front of a group panel.  The chair of the interview committee asked me a question. She asked, "Your writing is exactly what we are looking for....but you are White.  How can you be White and believe in Diversity?"

I was so taken aback by the question that I fumbled my answer. I replied that I had friends of all races, colors, ages, and genders. I began to tell  the committee of my beliefs, and about one third of the way through my answer, I noticed the man at the head of the table, closed his interview book, thanked me for coming, and said, "let's go to lunch." Needless-to-say, I did not advance past this interview. I received a letter of consolation in the mail along with an Olympic pin.  I have always wondered, "my writing is exactly what Coca-Cola was looking for, so why did my skin color matter?"  I did notice that the consolation letter did say that my "story was so impressive, we encourage you to enter phase 3 of the program."


At this juncture in my life, I was 33, and had just buried my best friend only 3 days before. What I could not tell the members of the interview team that I am gay, and that I had just lost 17 friends to the AIDs epidemic, and that the recent loss of my best friend from college left me drained. At that point in my life, I did not have the strength or courage to face another challenge. I could not speak the truth that I am gay.  In Georgia you could be fired for being gay with no just cause other than your sexual orientation. (This remains true today in Georgia, and in other states, too.)  I was afraid, afraid of being fired, afraid of being ostracized because so many people in my conservative Cobb County, gays were being shunned by the County Commissioners*, and so many people believed that "all gays have aids amd all fags should die."  These were my fears, possibly unwarranted, but warranted and reinforced by the media at that time.

See the essay below this letter.

Living in Atlanta brings to mind an image of the New South where hope over bigotry and freedom from oppression are intertwined
with the magnolia memories of the Old South, of my heritage of generations of southerners branching across the states, but with roots here in Georgia.

Living in Atlanta has provided me an opportunity to learn in its major universities and colleges, an opportunity to fulfill my American dream to become a teacher, and an opportunity to create my own personal garden where new traditions flourish.

Atlanta provides me a spirit of oneness, the peach of friendship, and the Stone Mountain of acceptance.  I see the freedom flags flying during dogwood days of Spring--in parades as celebrations of dreams, of life, of victories, of holidays, and of art and music.

And now, I see Atlanta as a city of international fellowship, of unity among nations in the games of strength of the human physique, but more-so in the strength of the human spirit.

Atlanta is the Mecca beckoning dreamers. Atlanta is a city where we lay the wreath of dreams--the city where all residents "have a dream."

Robert Robinson
4-15-1996

*http://articles.philly.com/1994-08-28/sports/25840464_1_gay-rights-gay-demonstrators-cobb-county

La Dolce Vita (Nov. 15, 1993)

La Dolce Vita

Amore, Amore
finding love in Rome
along the mist-paved morning streets--
before the day's 'getting and spending'
finding time to contemplate my journey's end
the completion of my quest
in the quiet dawn of Rome.

Ah, amore!
The quest to search my soul
and know the current of my river
and where the current leads--

The river leads to a stillness with me,
Rid of Despair.
Gentle tears sprinkle my river
and make my current steady-
tears that say adieu;
-addio to my beloved Gabriella.

Tears of truth-
telling me of destiny,
of the purpose of my compelling quest-
to travel across the globe-
only for chance?

Ha! Say no,
Destiny remain supreme!
I have fulfilled my purpose.
Does life end
or now begin?

Flow, river flow-
lead me now on the current back to Rome,
back to Gabriell,
or lead my beloved to me-
and forever onward to la dolce vita!

by Robert Robinson
Nov. 15, 1993

Or Not

One day
When you are 'old,'
'gray,'
'and nodding by the fire'
And I am dead,
You may think of me,

Realize
that you
turned me down,
blocked me,
rejected me.

Not because
you didn't love me-
(You told me you did, at least)
But because
our "friends" told you

that I was fat
that I was old
that I was jealous
that I was perverted
that I was bat-shit crazy.

You may realize
one day
that I was kind,
gentle, thoughtful,
loving.

I only wanted,
Wanted
to give
what was best for you,
what you said you wanted

A quiet dinner for two
A trip on a plane
A pair of sunglasses
A vacation in Italy.
Someone to protect you.

But our "friends"
told you otherwise.
But  you were not wise.
And you heard,
but did not see

That one was fat
That one  was old
That one was jealous
That one was perverted
That one was bat-shit crazy.

That they each hate 
in themselves
what the they project 
onto others, 
onto me.

One day
When you are old,
'gray,'
'and nodding by the fire'
And I am dead,
You may think of me,
Or not.

To L.M.
November 9, 2014
2:15 to 2:25.

This writing is cheesy, no doubt. Yet, it's honest and true.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,	5
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled	10
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

In Fog

I held my coffee cup-

looked out the window.

A fog had blanketed the farm 

and covered the frozen grass.

I could not tell where the land ended

and the river began.

I looked out the window, in the distance

saw a doe and her two fawn.

They knew not of my glance.

But yet they arched and listened.

Mother Nature told them

I was there. 

Here.

In the present. Now.

The fawn ran through the fog

toward their mother.

They leaped in arches and passes.

in arches and passes.

Like dolphins leaping

out of the ocean.

Toward the sun.

Toward the light.

I told you this,

as you lay dying.

Of the cancer

that killed your husband.

And your eyes glinted

And you smiled.

For a moment you smiled.

And forgot the cancer.

The same cancer

That killed your husband.

And you moved

Toward the sun.

Toward the light.

(I wrote this in a fit of nostalgia, for 15 minutes on November 9, 2014, from 12:00 - 12:15, for Margaret Miller, my Marietta mom, who took me under her wing when I began my life in Georgia as a teacher.) The Spirits are moving me today.