Sitting (in Catherine’s chair)

Loneliness is not even something I could have
conceived of, not so many years ago, I seriously thought
I was done with all that, but
I sit
in Catherine’s chair
and gaze across the landscape
at the bed we bought
with the money the lawyer from Nashville sent
and realize with sudden clarity that I sleep in
the same position I found her in on that
dark day that
brought the loneliness crashing in again
from all corners of the room,
crushing the little spirit I have left inside.

Sitting
in Catherine’s chair, I can
see Gail’s tanka that I hung on the wall
just a week or two before she died. On every wall,
a painting by Catherine’s dad.
Hand me down art and hand me down words,
hand me down chairs and hand me down sons,
hand me down cats,  they left it all behind and
left me here
sitting.

Sitting and
grieving lost friends that time has accumulated,
one more out the blue and
into the black in the time it took
to write this poem and all I can think about is
lost time and how I read his last poem and
just clicked ‘like’, like that means something and while
sitting here listening to Stravener and Young and Dylan
helps to bring Scott into focus, I can’t escape the feeling that
I’m sitting and
grieving me.

Sitting and
wondering about why Hunter
pulled the trigger, amazed by the number of
people I know who touched his world, who have
touched mine as I have touched the hearts
of many, but in the quiet of the
evening, the heat of the late August day fading away,
it remains the last great secret and yes,
you are all real and
in my head and I wouldn’t have it any
other way and this is such an awesome power and
responsibility, because you know
whose chair I am sitting in.

I grow so tired of eulogies, but no one can seem to stop
the dying, it is the last great secret Chris, but here is the thing:
there should be a law against
sitting and
fading away.
The whispers become obscene shouts after three am and
endurance requires a method of
stifling the screams, give me the blood of life
flowing again and a loud guitar, glass of wine,
endless words that hold worlds within their meaning and
perhaps I can survive, hold them all within,
live all the life that remains,
give all I have within to those that
remain trapped here in bone and flesh.
All I have to do, is simply be,
me.

Sitting in Catherine’s chair, I know the real promise
to Gail is the nurture of what she left me,
that awesome hand me down son and the elfin
daughter we created, the visible ripples of the
life we lived, the love we loved.
I hereby promise to
rage,
rage,
rage,
against the dying
of the light
until my day
turns into night.



MJ Carson
8-28-2011

The Tall Dark Horse from Tennessee

He was, of course, ten feet tall.

The tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Camptown ladies sing this song…” ~ Stephen Foster

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee. I have an image in my head,

of a young Charles Bukowski, age ten, 1931;

running down to the corner news stand

to get his latest copy of Street and Smith’s

Sport Story to read Sam’s latest horse racing story.

I’ll give you even money on that one. I’ll bet Papa even

sneaked a peak to read the words of this man who

beat him to the left bank by two years.

“Man, that guy can write…horse racing and ladies in red…”

He was a front runner, odds on favorite

from any position, but he made the right move

at the wrong time. October, 1929 brought him to the ground

faster than the Hindenburg.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Doo-da, doo-da”~ Stephen Foster

He watched his first Kentucky Derby

the year Old Rosebud came home first (1914) and

watched his last run for the roses in 1973,

Secretariat, a good enough ending, I suppose

for the man who called Grantland Rice “granny” and

Damon Runyon quiet. A sportswriter in Louisville

had to know and love his horses

and their riders.

Earl Sande on Zev, he said, was the best combo ever.

Here’s a Sam quote for you:

“It’s okay to dream, but then you gotta do.”

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“And it’s run for the roses, as fast as you can…”~ Dan Fogelberg

Sam played guitar and every other instrument

in the band,

“Camptown racetrack five miles long” ~ Stephen Foster

Sam painted, just because he could, just like

he attended classes at the Sorbonne

because he and they were there,

he delighted in the Left Bank,

because he could clearly see,

they were he.

“My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man.

I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band.” ~ Dan Fogelberg

Sam gardened at age three, gave 25 years in service

to the teachers of farmers and was still writing

a weekly column (Coffee with Carson) for a large farm newspaper

on the day he reached the finish line.

“Oh, de doo-da day.” ~ Stephen Foster

Sam was a tall teller, a tall teller of

the stories of

our lives. He owned every room

he walked into, but not to enrich himself,

his goal was first and foremost,

to enrich you.

His poet was Wordsworth,

his authors Dickens, London and Hawthorne,

his friends legion and legend, his God

known only to him.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Goin’ to run all night

Goin’ to run all day

I bet my money on a bob-tailed nag

Somebody bet on the gray.” ~ Stephen Foster

He was a southern man who

had no time for bigotry or

suffering fools, not a popular stance in 1910. How many speak it

from the side of their mouth in 2010?

He was a champion of the underdog,

strong supporter of lost causes,

a believer until the end that

the fourth estate could rise above

pettiness.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“And much it grieved my heart to think

what man has made of man.” ~ William Wordsworth

The army put a rifle in the hands of

Mentor Watson Carson and sent

him off to see what he could do with France.

The crazy dreamer he worked for (Luke Lea) thought it fairly simple,

“Capture the Kaiser!” Bring him to justice in Paris, heads will roll.

As plans go,

it wasn’t a bad one, just suffered a bit in the

execution.

Ah, those boys from Tennessee fight fierce,

the 114^th Artillary, 30^th Division, all volunteer, of course.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Another year! – another deadly blow!

Another mighty empire overthrown!” ~ William Wordsworth

I knew him as Grandfather

with a capital G:

I had Coffee with Carson

when I was just five.

He got scolded by Mergie,

but he just scoffed at her admonishments,

he knew what was really important.

I remember the days of wonder:

Hey! Come take a look at this!

Tomatoes the size of softballs,

a lifetime of knowledge behind them,

Clickity-clack, clckity-clack, clickity-clack, beep, zing,

clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity-clack, beep, zing, whirl,

a lifetime of knowledge leaping upon the page,

the trunk in the attic on Holbrook full of war treasures,

the ’69 Chevy doing 70 between red-lights on Broadway,

walking with him in his old home town,

selling the cookbooks in Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg,

watching Bob Gibson dare the batters to hit his pitch,

the smell of pipe tobacco and old sweaters well worn.

I would have cut the grass for free

a thousand times.

I remember the last time and I remember

that sunset.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

I’ve already bet my life on him.

“_____It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days that cannot die” ~ William Wordsworth

Mike Carson

9-27-2010

The Faded Man

Plastic yellow roses don't
hold their color under
the skies of July.

Absurd colors swirl madly
into the black center as
the faded man searches for
something, anything that isn't
gray.

There's no marker.

In 1972, the faded man watched
his father console
his father
on the night his cousin died and
the faded man's father's father
couldn't understand why
a God would take
the young and leave
the old behind
to grieve in such
agony and pain.

The faded man has seen
grayer skies than he ever
would have imagined or
dreamed of and oh, yes,
he has seen rainbows
and blue skies;
but the gray plastic rose
has sent him tumbling
down the years
to all of the places
that sadness does not reach,
but he finds it lurking now
in every corner and
nothing, no thing, will take
it's place.

In 1976, the faded man
talked to God and
begged him to reconsider.
Ignored by God and
the rest of the universe,
he told them all to go to Hell.

The faded man feels faded
inside and out.
Secretly, he was never really sure
he was really here.

There should be a marker.

The faded man forces himself
down to his knees,
thinking maybe she
can hear him better
the closer he gets.

The faded man has lingered
long past all of the
others who put
the color in his life and
his mind circles round
and round the keen idea
that he might as well
end his fading now.

The faded man once brought home
a dozen yellow plastic roses and
now he wonders if
he should go get one
or a dozen
or a hundred, just
to watch them fade?
What would be the point?
That, of course, leads back to
the question of why and
what is the point of any of it.

The faded man can only hope that
he never stops caring about
the answer.

Mike Carson
7-30-2009

Virginia Carson Jefferson

I saw it rather clearly on that day
The tears flowing down
From eyes that had seen
99 years of life and death
As I held the same hand that
Held Molly McBride’s over seventy
Years before…seven years before Dad
Was born…you were thirty-four
When he came into your world
27 when Molly went out
And a young 65 when I came in
~
I can see…I can feel…
The girl inside, born in 1893
To the good Doctor P.K. and his Mary…
Did he deliver his own?
Of course he did…
He delivered the whole county
Your brothers Estell and Thurman, who died so young
Sharon and your beloved Sam and Minnie
So very long ago…
I can feel…see the little girl
At seven, waiting on the turn
Of the century
The one you almost made it all
The way through
~
You felt so fragile on that day
As I held you up
And led you over
To see what you never imagined
You would live to see
Your brother’s son lying there
So peaceful and serene
You tell me…in all your darkest hours…
This one you didn’t want to outlive
You tell me…
You can see both of them in me
I tell you…
I can only be me…I hope it is enough
You hold my daughter
And seem to know
They are all here in us
And I see tears of joy
As it was your way
~
This will be
One of the few memories
I will keep from one of the
Worst days of my life
The tears rolling down
Your ninety-nine year old face
Extreme sadness, extreme joy
Life, that’s what you taught me
That’s how you live
To be 102…
Staying young inside
Thank you, great teacher
Great Aunt Virgie
I will sing of you
For all my days
Perhaps I am, after all,
only half-way there

Mike Carson
2-18-2008

King Of The Printed Word

So much potential
lies in
the old royal
typewriter
its' green keys
waiting
for the words
to form