In Dependence Day

O beautiful for spacious skies. . .
. . .God shed His grace on thee. . .
. . .One nation, under God,
with liberty and justice for all.

Faith in God, not in self, institutions, presidents or bailouts.

. . .From every mountainside
let freedom ring.

Hope for mankind, but founded on God.

. . .O’er the land of the free
and the home of the brave.

Never forgetting that it is love
at the heart of every sacrifice
that purchased our freedom.

. . .God bless America
My home, sweet home.

“God Bless America”  makes me cry every time I hear it.  It was this song my mother taught my great-grandmother to sing upon becoming a proud citizen of this country.  And I can still hear her singing it with such fervor in Hungarian-accented English. 

Riding by the Statue of Liberty on the Staten Island ferry years ago, I was surprised by a wave of emotion that rendered me speechless.  I thought of my great-grandmother arriving on Ellis Island with her husband and four children, unable to speak the language and leaving so much behind.  They were among countless others who were seeking a better future.  I am in awe of their courage and determination. 

Seeing that statue in the New York harbor, her torch held high, I wondered how many immigrants, unable to read the English, would know that these words were penned just for them.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses  yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

LaFonda Fireberry

Smoldering with passion,
no longer satisfied
to play with a corpse,
Attracts life-seekers
like moths to a flame.

The Fire Bearer discomforts.
(Uncontained wildfires
could prove to be dangerous.)

Outrageous artistry,
fans the embers of creativity
with reckless abandon,
secured only by the Invisible.

Prestige Scoffer

A fleeting illumination,
ubiquitous Pull-ups bestow dignity
on imaginary altruistic inspiration,
gilting (or guilting)
the disease of conceit
always synonymous
with the evil eye.

from lost and found poems (2006)

Wanton Acts

I want to live
In the sunshine of my life
Unaccompanied by the hovering graymail
Clouding my vision
Of childhood dreams bestowed from above.

 

I want to work
In colorful row houses,
Teeming with artists
That birth creative expression
In a sacred circle of midwifery encouragement.

I want to play
In a box of living colors
With a built-in sharpener,
Creating new combinations
Dubbed Orchid leaf green and Caramel blue.

I want to drink
In the expansive universe,
Belching it out in belly laughter
No excuse me reversions
For taking up voluminous myspace.

I want to roar
In my leonine gray mane,
Acting up, acting out
Without age/height/weight restrictions
Alive forever in the Son-shine of my life.

Inside Out in Colorful Hues

Gallery Opening

A blank canvas of perspective,
Of thought-provoking composition,
Designed to make a statement
For patrons of the arts.

Picasso-esque puppy,
Tilted head in confusion
Of humanspeak,
Words too complex
For Pavlovian responses,
No matter how smooth the rhetoric.

Illuminate
Enlighten
Faith beckons from the sketch.

Titanium white,
Corrosion-resistant purity,
Provides stability in heated exchanges.
While Mars Black wars against
Ivory Black dichotomy
Resulting in Charcoal Gray,
An inferior intensity
Possessing great hiding power.

Hope inspires
Exalts above the fray
With Chrome-Yellow brilliance.

Individualistic self-reliance
Chooses free-standing independence
On The checkerboard of Life,
Marching to a destiny
Hidden from view.
One way signs point
In opposite directions.
Confusing signals
Require jumping through hoops
To avoid capture.

Charity creates
Order out of chaos
Enabling the traveler
To arrive safely home.

An Ode to Steve

Steve In Cambodia

To the man on a mission
For God’s great commission,
What would He say
To you this day?

“I’m searching for a heart
To showcase My art,
To firmly hold,
As I lovingly mold,
To gently scold,
Those I enfold.”

A costly work that can’t be sold
A precious part of Christ’s own fold.

Who on earth can measure
The value of this treasure?

He cares enough to send the very best,
So Jesus put us to the test
To honor your request
For poetic rhyme (though not in jest)
Steve, you are loved and we pray blessed.

Written by Cynthia Barrow and Mikie Rath

Mother’s Day 2009

She was a singer,
Who could carry a tune in a bucket
Somewhere over the rainbow,
Teaching a Hungarian immigrant
To sing God Bless America
In heavily accented syllables,
Delighting a child with
Mareseatoats and doeseatoats
And littlelambseativy,
And falalalala’s in shopping malls.

She was a performer,
Cartwheels on the beach
(Or in someone’s living room)
Coney islands at midnight,
Firecrackers hidden from cruising police,
Turning an ordinary day
Into a three-ringed Circus Circus,
With the flick of a switch.

She was a cynic,
Masking the pain
Of fatherly abandonment.
Full of spunk
But less so of mothering,
Denied the same
In her interrupted girlhood.
Speaking her mind with abandon,
Never mind-ing
The wake of devastation left behind.

She was a master storyteller
Weaving magical tales of hilarity,
Recalling the miniseries of her youth.
Someone told her once,
“It is better to laugh than cry.”
So we laughed until we cried,
Playing Saturday-night Shanghai,
Eating leave-my-bowl-alone soup,
Against a backdrop of
Triple Lutz, Salchow, and double-axle toe loops.

She majored in banking
(a private family joke),
Finding security in greenbacks,
(a color she hated)
A lover of money,
With Vegas-size dreams,
Synonymous with freedom
Which she found only in death.

Memoir on the Demise of Pontiac

Manufacturer Photo stock

1959 was a pivotal year for Pontiac: the brand introduced its soon-to-be-trademarked split grille design and its new “wide track” design and ad campaigns.

The news of the demise of Pontiac brought back some humorous memories of my early driving experiences. I learned to drive in this behemoth, or as Pontiac so aptly calls it, this “wide track.”

Our Bonneville originally belonged to my grandfather and when he decided to trade up, he sold the car to my mom. Not only was it ginormous, it was white and, unlike this snazzy convertible, a hardtop. Grandpa, what were you thinking? A convertible would have been SO much nicer in Galveston!

It should be against the law to require a teenager to parallel park a car between two orange cones in order to obtain a license that makes it legal to hurl oneself down the boulevard in a car the size of a small city block. Fortunately, I ended up with a DPS officer that was kind and, after noting my gentle nudging of both cones without knocking either over, he allowed me to pass the test.

This car was “fully loaded” which meant it had power steering and air conditioning. I note the power steering only in reference to a time when I “borrowed” the car while my mom was at work and the power steering belt broke forcing me to throw all of my body weight onto the steering wheel to make a turn, right or left. Fortunately cruising the beach in the white whale required very little in the way of turns but navigating the driveway was simply a gift from God despite my disobedience.

My mother, a frustrated race car driver, used Galveston as her track du jour and this car would move. One evening, in a simple convenience store run to get bread and milk, my best friend and I offered to assist and rode along with a secret mission in mind. Mom accepted our assistance and even obliged our request to go “beach way” even though the store was just two blocks away. With my little brother riding shotgun – no car seats or restraining systems in those days – we added some eggs to the bread and milk purchase. As we threw eggs at passing motorists, squealing with delight (us) when they slammed on their brakes, she, equally delighted, squealed tires in movie-worthy getaway moves down neighborhood streets, once again acknowledging our assistance in finely honing her race driving skills should she ever get the opportunity. After our stash of eggs were left in various states of egginess around town, mom remarked how ridiculous it was to be careening around streets in a white car the size of a ship. Our cars from that point forward were darkly colored.

Pontiac’s GTO could very well be the most famous Pontiac of all and we’re sure to never forget it.

And I will never forget Bubba Court in his gold one. Drag racing my mother down the boulevard one night (she traded in the behemoth for a Buick Grand Sport), she drove away honking while he received the ticket for speeding.  She offered to pay, of course.

My first car was a 1968 olive green Pontiac Le Mans that was the biggest LeMon made. I sold it to my cousin and the transmission literally fell out of the car while he was turning a corner. Sorry Charlie! I told them I wanted a Firebird!

After a long stint with a rust-colored Pontiac coupe – the paint color not the result of living on the Gulf Coast – my fickle heart left Pontiac for Honda and I have never returned. Maybe in some small way, I contributed to Pontiac’s demise. Maybe not. Either way, I still have trouble parallel parking.

A Dangling Metaphor

“How are you?”

An innocent question,
Befitting a response
I read in a book today.

“Growing and learning.”

More accurate than,
“Great” (a lie) or,
“Okay” (credible, but lacking still),
And, “Hanging in there,”
Seemed a spineless platitude.

I wasn’t hanging
Anything presently,
Not even a slim thread.

“Growing larger?”

“No.”

(Growing deeper
Into an abyss. )

“What are you learning?”

“Faith.”

In My Father’s Arms

Oleanders, swaying to the rhythm
Of a Gulf breeze,
Project menacing images
In theatrical array
On the walls in my room.

Little and scared,
Too frightened to move,
I cry out for my father
Who rushes to my rescue
To vanquish the threatening shadows.

Safety envelops.
Held securely
In my father’s arms.
Fragility absorbed into strength
I drift serenely back
Into little-girl dreams.

The future, swaying to the rhythm
Of hurricane-force uncertainty,
Projects menacing images
In theatrical array
On the eyewall in my mind.

Vulnerable and scared,
Too frightened to move,
I cry out for my Father
Who rushes to my rescue
To vanquish the threatening shadows.

Safety envelops.
Held securely
In my Father’s arms,
Fragility absorbed into Strength
I drift serenely back
Into triumphant dreams.