Poems for Anthony

My brother Anthony passed away on Oct. 28, 1999. I have a keepsake box full of letters, gifts, and postcards he sent me over the years. I wrote two poems during that time, and I keep them there, too. I have never shared them, but I want to now. The writing is immature, but the sentiment, for me, remains unchanged; so I don't find myself wanting to change anything about the poems:

I Knew the Wizard of Oz

I knew the real-life Wizard of Oz -
He could do anything
He read to me Curious George,
Only I was his little monkey, not George
He made a Donald Duck voice and told a story;
A bunch of poor little horses falling off a cliff -
I would roll in the floor and laugh.
I saw him in his coffin,
The poor Wizard,
But he told me not to weep.
"Hang on," he said to me, while I slept,
"Don't let go of the big brother bear hugs I gave you."
I knew the real-life Wizard of Oz -
He could do anything
We grew up, he protected me
He still does.
Everyone knows that the Wizard of Oz
Can never really die.


Time

Has it been a month?
It feels like a day
I stood there and cried
A shell casing in my hand;
I laid it before you
Has it been a day?
It feels like a month
The weak have become week
The strong have become weak
The Wizard of Oz is farther away than ever.
And now we realize how we really need him.

Has it been a month?
It hasn't rained since then.
A month is a long time to go
Without rain.

It's been a month.
Soon it will be two.
We miss him more.
I want him here.

New Orleans

There is no way to capture the experience of New Orleans. There's too much - of everything. Too much color, life, music, magic . . . I couldn't find enough words, and I couldn't put them together just how I wanted. This is the best I could do:

The air hanging thick
with something
you recognize
but cannot explain,
Hot and wonderful
carried up nostrils
To a living brain
filled with colors
from art, bigger than life
colors never seen -
Together, beautiful
While too much music
blends into a perfect noise

Sun shining by day
on horns that gleam
and blind the eye
as dark lips press
and dark hands tap
to give you a rhythm
your body can't resist

Until a stillness falls
and that same horn
is cooled
and shines
with different lights
and makes a sound
that is better
for the night

While dark boys,
beautiful,peculiar to their home,
dance in ways -
only they know how,
with moves that were born
in their nimble legs,
and the sound they make
is addictive -
bottle caps on shoes
patting into pavement

Voodoo
good and bad
on faces
that scowl and smile

Dancing in a street
Thick with its own aroma
A place you can
never really know -
Can never really touch
Can never really leave

Sept. 2010

My Charlie

My Charlie
Who doesn't talk
But isn't silent

Wasn't sure he remembered
when I walked through the door
who I was or that I'd been gone

He humored me with a little smile
let me get in the smallest hug
a kiss
then pointed and grunted
to his pile of French fries

My Charlie
with the crooked back
who used to have a hard time
breathing in winter
who was born so tiny
and slept in a laundry basket

He jumped in my bed this morning
with his tiny stuffed monkey
and his Mr. Potato Head
to smile and pat my hair
to humor me a little more
as I smothered him with kisses

My Charlie
who will take me by the finger
and lead me around the house
till he finds just what he wants
and point
and look at me with saucer-wide eyes
till I figure him out

This morning
he wanted me to carry him around
and let him turn the light switches
on and off -
to make me wish that I could laugh in wonder
the way that he does
at the simplest joys

My Charlie
will always stoop when he sits
and cough in winter
and be stingy with affection
and have magic in his eyes