Monthly Archives: July 2014

Coming Attractions: What We Call Each Other [nomenclature]: The Navajo Word for Black

stay tuned …


Not one key Word [breaking ranks]

Not George and the dragon.
Arthur with the sword,
not just Shakespeare or Plath
Changing Woman or arrow cutters
but all the world’s poets
and storytellers
and definitely both sexes

are singing from woods
“dumb” animals, even,
with their wounded eyes.

We are all trying to save the world.

Let’s do it.


Seeley: Epiphany I

Epiphany I

In the room with black windows

pieces of dust gather together

discussing their purpose

I eavesdrop straining to hear

the whispers escape into silence

the walls hold themselves up

no one can tell the color of anything

— L.W. Seeley, Jr.

Triptych [smallpox blanket]

Three little girls lined up in
A row. Their father
Towers in terrible wrath.

“Did you do it?
Or you?
Or you?”

The girls, near-mute,
Look sideways at
Each other. Who

Did it this time?

“Swear on the Bible.
Put your right hand
On the book,
And swear.”

We all swore
Our innocence
Though one of
Us was always
Lying – usually
The youngest
Difficult child.

But we all knew
What would follow
The lie. One by
One, the girls
Were ordered
Face down –
The oldest sister had her
Own room, so
Her bed was most convenient—
For their beatings.

But everyone
Was fully clothed,
So it was decent
And the neighbors
Could safely
Ignore the screams.

I always screamed loudest too.

See, he wanted
Sons, so
I became his son
And fought him back.

Yes, I broke the comb.
Yes, I was playing
With your shaving cream
In the bathroom
Where you keep
The Playboy magazines.

Of course I need a beating. And sorry,
Sisters, I’m just too scared
To confess.

by Karen M. Seeley,
copyright 2014

Dad’s Poetry: Landscape

This emptiness we call a world,
swept edge to edge by aimless winds
is rubble built on ashes, where
six dancing shadows follow faith
and blisters answer prayer.

The counted moments of the clock
are stacked in crates upon a plain
besieged beneath a clouded sun,
beaten by incessant rain.

If landscape cannot make a refuge
nor memory a place to stand
yet you and I on this high rocky
pinnacle are met, and touch, and know
the realms where mind alone can never go.

– by L.W. Seeley, Jr.

Tags: dad’s poetry