Interesting but don't know how it translates

https://www.washingtonpost.com/elections/interactive/2024/trump-harris-donors-zip-code-map/?itid=hp-top-table-main_p001_f006&utm_campaign=wp_post_most&utm_medium=email&utm_source=newsletter&wpisrc=nl_most&carta-url=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.washingtonpost.com%2Fcar-ln-tr%2F3f669f0%2F671a7190f4ba5a5e73f0838e%2F602b21109bbc0f73f6763a21%2F13%2F57%2F671a7190f4ba5a5e73f0838e 

Work Poem 2

 

There is a Green Hill Far Away

 

The highlight of my career

Was reading aloud

The Nelson-Denny Reading Test

To a group of five students

Whose test accommodations

Included but were not

Limited to having tests

Read aloud. The first part was

On vocabulary and

I would read a sentence with

A highlighted word and the

Four possible words that defined

It. I would pause while they made

Their guesses. Two students had

Scribes, a couple retired nurses

From the community who

Marked the Scantron sheets for their

Students. Someone usually

Had a question which slowed the

Process to a maddening

Pace. The second part required

The students to listen to

A passage and answer questions

Regarding the content. I

Read, listening to a ticking

Fluorescent light, the student

Who constantly tapped his

Knuckles on the table and

Watched the scribes wince as they blacked

The wrong answer their student

Had chosen. After three hours,

The crucifixion was finished.

I bought Cokes for each of the

Students, and they were happy

As I had ever seen them.

Castle Dracula

 

Work Poem

 

The Miracle

 

The craziest of the crazies who came

To the learning lab had to take a test

For her freshman English class to prove

Competency. She had negotiated

All the way to the school president

And been granted unlimited time for

The fifty-minute event which for her

Meant ask to stay through the entire night.

And every moment she would be hoping

For a reason to sue us. We referred

To this student as she whose name cannot

Be said because if you spoke of her, she

Would miraculously appear after an

Absence of a year or more, like the time

She asked me to help her write her story

As she had become convinced her memoir

Would be a bestseller—she had this tale

About driving her car down the road when

She was very hungry, pulling up to

A stoplight and seeing a loaf of bread

Lying beside her car—that was as far

As she could get, could draw no conclusions,

Had no idea what it meant except that

The Lord will provide. When she came to take

Her test, she started that same old story.

Maybe she would finish it as after

All, she had till the end of time, rapture

Or apocalypse, to finish the thing.

I checked on her once, by herself in the lab

As the other students did not wish to

Be near or even far as she emitted

The crazy funk of her forty or so

Years. An hour and a half in, she called

An ambulance and fainted when it drove

Up behind the building. She refused to

Leave in it and we refused to allow

Her to resume the test since her bounty

Of time did not include an ambulance

Break. I looked at her paper once she had

Left. “I was driving my car one cold day.

I was very hungry, but when I stopped

At a stoplight, I saw a loaf of bread.”

Baseball Day Poem

 

Stafford and Miller

 

Played on the Kenworth playground

Growing up, mill hill houses without

The mill, tackle football without pads,

Boys carrying a sock full of marbles,

A hardscrabble treasure to be gambled

In finger-drawn circles, whose eye,

Whose thumb made strong from

Thumping water melons for grandpa.

Two boys, taller and stronger than

The rest, grown men at thirteen,

One lefty, one righty, unloading

On fenceless fields, who knew then

As the Great Depression waned,

They would win silver bats for

The highest minor league batting

Average in consecutive seasons?

Who knew anything really with

The war bearing down and the

Movie reels showing dead-eyed

Skeleton men in barbed cages.

Who knew I would one day

Hold both bats, trying to feel

Whatever power they might

Have left in them.

Wednesday Po

 

Descent

 

Earth

Is

Grass

Growing

Through

Scat

An

Actor

Saying

Sorry

Don’t

Feed

The

Bulldog

If

You’re

Gonna

Dance

With

The

Devil

You

Might

As

Well

Dance

With

Me

There

Are

Lots

Of

Keys

But

Only

One

Door

Come

On

in

 

Tuesday Poem

 

What if the people didn’t

Think much of you caught up

To get whatever it was

Right when you were about to

Top the mountain you had been

Climbing since you were born, and

It was like My Name is Earl

Except your fucked over friends

Had the list that started with

Broke the front forks on my RM

Suzuki and never paid,

Bottles of speed you took to

Sell at college, never paid,

Common denominator

Seemed to be money, but guys,

You said, my water is near

About to turn into wine

If you can give me the time.

They are old men too, you know,

Like aren’t we all anymore.

They huddle up to decide;

One looks like Larry Bird

Wants to stomp you like a dog.

He’s mulled on this forever,

And it’s like he’s reached his own

Mountain top of sorts, wearing

Pointy cowboy boots, a

Belt to whoop you good.

The other one’s phone rings

And they leave quick as they came

Relieved and stinking like fear.

Maybe you can outrun your

Past, you think, just before the blast.

 

Ebbets Field Demolition 1960

 

Monday BB Poem

 

The Game Plays On

 

I hear you, Willie; I see you, Henry—

They never measured your launch

Angle, exit velocity—

Just watched the magic happen.

Even then, the schools rolled carts

With TVs into classrooms.

The PE teacher taught us

To keep score as Bob Gibson

Shoveled the curse on the Sox,

First baseman with a worried

Look nervously tapped home plate.

Daddy said Babe Ruth went to

Heaven, but something wasn’t

Right about old Tyrus Cobb.

Nineteenth World Series

That Daddy’s missed, he saw one

Major League baseball game,

Fulton County, Atlanta--

Was enough for Mom and him.

Henry hit a home run and

Chief Knockahoma war danced

Outside his left field teepee.

The game plays on till I don’t

Know the players anymore.

Pete Rose is dead and they bet

On all conceivable results.

 

Dumb-looking as a rock band

 

Somebody tell me how to

Keep politics from making

Me insane, water torture

Of false voices pledging,

Hammer beaten signs—let us

Bow our heads, my dad would say,

Supper steaming on service

Station china, the prayer like

The pause before a payoff

Pitch—we were dumb to any

Frenzy, to circling sharks,

To barroom arguments,

We were dumb looking as a

Rock band before their big break.

Somebody tell me how to

Travel back to Mom’s haircut

Chair, when Brrr Rabbit and Brrr

Fox were close as we came to

Political operatives.

Poetry is not dead

 Poetry is not dead

 

 

It is playing possum

In a thousand indifferent places.

Poetry is jumping from the top rope

Wearing a yellow leather mask.

Poetry is sitting on the post-hurricane

Slop jar in the dark.

Poetry is asleep in the bullpen

While the tense game plays on.

Poetry gathers silence where the moon

Barrels across the Jacob Fork River.

Every day, somewhere in light so fresh,

A copperhead can smell it,

Poetry leaps to its life.

Hump Day Po B

 

We’re Still Talking About You

 

Never the guy who would write

Something, always the subject

Who was written about, think

McMurphy, Moriarty,

Cody, clinging to belief

In reincarnation, the

Idea of sex, driving

The bus, the Hudson, Packard,

Digging the jazz, the weak tea,

Changing tires like a ballet,

Dreaming his alley shadow

Drunken daddy, wondering

The Frisco train tracks in search

Of the empty answer, nothing

Is nothing, the holy goof,

The sad horseless cowboy,

Fifty-six years after death,

We’re still talking about you.

Hump Day Po

 

There is little I have learned

More than this: people will do

Just about whatever they

Can get away with: call it

Humanity 101.

Look at any emperor,

Any rock n roll guitar

Player, friend of an uncle,

CEO, famous golfer—

All those things you tell yourself

You never going to do

When you make it to the top.

And yet, history spirals.

The grooves grow ever deeper.

The earth still a dank prison.

If you burned this gloomy poem,

It would barely make a flame.

 

Monday Poem B

 

If you don’t have a story,

 

 

Then let them chase horcruxes.

Or let them ride in a bus

Covered in fantasy paint.

Claim this is about travel

Though there is nowhere to go.

Talk about the silence of

Fishermen, the glib manic

Fury of drunken hunters.

Spread peanut butter on rye.

Picture a dog or a child.

Uncover a drum of sleep.

Monday Poem

 

What you can’t pay back you try

To pay forward; Dad was a

Preacher, a job that gave him

The flex to be these other

Things he wanted, Little League

Baseball coach, backyard catcher,

Set his own hours, always

Found time to work on pitching

With me most afternoons: he

Worked for the Lord even when

He sat on that bean pickin

Stool calling for the slow curve,

Left knuckle down on the seam—

When my time came, I worked with

Runners instead of ballers,

A kid from the church, students,

A nephew, my reluctant

Boys, who never really

Caught the bug the way I did—

Now I’m still waiting to see

What they will do.

 

 

Pome

 

Half-Talent Friday Night

 

 I’m trying to watch old videos

From you tube, a local country

Band who nearly almost made it,

But on the TV a college baseball

Coach has allowed his starter

To hurl over 130 pitches,

An undersized lefty,

Not likely a prospect,

And I am now completely

Distracted from the quality

Harmonies, the rare footage

From the PB Scotts dome

In 1983 Blowing Rock.

No wonder the MLB

Hates college baseball

I’m thinking as the home

Team ties the game

On a ninth inning homer,

Pitch number 138.

After which the “coach”

Finally makes the change.

The band’s lead singer’s

Name is Walkup, and he

By God looked like a prospect

In the hard suffering world

Of music. Two batters

Later the home team

Hits a two-run homer walk off.

In the next video Walkup

Is a white-bearded old man,

Still harmonizing with

What’s left of the crew,

In a much reduced venue.

They play seated on stools,

Cowboy hats replaced by ball caps.

The bar’s beer lights blink behind them.

The audience is sparse as the

Chess pieces left at the end

Of a long game.

Rooftop in Little Washington

 

Rooftop in Little Washington

One customer described as

A stunning view of the river,

A caterwauler with a

Townes voice slowly begins

Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here

And the sunset flocks pinkly

Above the Pamlico pushing

A King’s Tide into back yards.

The dessert disappoints, the

Lemon bar too much like a

Common cobbler, you sigh and

Drift to the chorus as he

Plays mandolin into the

Pre-recorded guitar track

Too loud and you lift the fork

For the final bite as a

Harley growls down Water Street

And three, four, you tap your feet.

 

 Poem at the River

Ted Pope doesn’t want to go

To Heaven and I do not

As well—he has his reasons

I am sorting through my own.

There was a night a lot like

This one when a facebook friend

Made an offhanded remark

About how there was a likely

No historical Jesus,

An idea I had not thought

Possible, the myth firmly

Woven into my world,

Bible stories in Sunday

School, reinforced at home, no

Prayer missed before any meal.

No historical Jesus—

My brethren would have of course

Blamed my doubts on the Devil,

The idea that everything I’d

Been taught might be a fraud and

Suddenly I knew it True

And I understood what a

Paradigm shift was, how it

Cleaned you up and gave yourself

Back to you.

Poem

 

Origins

 

His parents raised cross county,

Farm kids on the rural map,

Sliding like pieces on a

Board game as the dice rolled them

Square to square, over fields and

Creeks, school yards, cemeteries,

Late summers and trips to town,

Worshipping and making a

Case for a dream against war

And other calamities

That might keep them in distant

Corners, then college washing

Cafeteria dishes—

He got the nerve to ask her out,

Bought his first preacher suit—the

One chess move his daddy taught,

Castled to protect his queen—

The old story of how we

Came to be here, living lean.