th' dust never really settled

About seven-thousand people, called "Oakies"  (because they were predominantly from Oklahoma) died during this period, mostly from starvation and dust-pneumonia.  Finally, in the fall of 1939 a significant amount of rain fell and for the moment the dust settled.  We know and remember, however, that th' dust never really settled.

 

The poetry in this site is not focused on the Dust Bowl or even on the settling or unsettling of dust.  It is an assortment of life's experiences, people met and places visited. I think of the dust storms created when bombs are dropped, those generated when natural disasters such as tornados or hurricanes make their way through unfortunate places, or even the dust that is stirred when someone is gunned down and fall onto the ground.  My point is this:  the dust never really settled.

 

My hope is that you will enjoy this site and let me know any thoughts, positive or negative, you have.  The submission form is at the bottom of the last page (PURPLE POETRY).

 

th' dust never really settled

tolbert's poetry

 

th’ dust never really settled

 

th’ dust never really settled

on those backroads of virginia

yesterday past

 

and though times were rough

and winter brought only snow and cold

there was still a warmth

in th’ house heated only by kerosene lamps

and patchwork quilts

 

swirlin’ dust

can’t be found beneath th’ packed snow

and th’ dust never really settled

 

chocolate mud first formed crators

then valleys

an’ th’ pourin’ rain brought only wet feet,

soaked heads, runnin’ noses

an’ wishes that a doctor cared

for those who needed

but couldn’t return the favor                                                       

with anything more than ‘thank you’

 

country doctors

never found their way to th’ country

 

thanksgiving cornbread ushered toyless christmas

th’ new year replaced th’ old

rain melted th’ snow

and thunder yelled, seemingly only at me

 

but th’ dust never really settled

though thick colorful quilts were removed

and with them th’ memories of numb fingers

pokin’ in bottomless pockets of kneeless trousers

 

with grumblin’ bellies

children went off to bed

but th’ dust never really settled

 

th’ difference between a tear and a laugh at bedtime

came more from th’ stomach than from th’ heart

and th’ coolness of th’ night was still

but for th’swirling dust

 

’cause th’ dust never really settled

on those backroads of virginia

yesterday past

 

 

 

 

 

breakfast for two

 

sunrises were always meant for breakfast

when pink clouds and white carnations

shared the same sky

though at different elevations and a moment apart

 

small talk and breadcrumbs on the table

made the server nervous

when his shaky hand poured your black coffee into a white cup

just before the sugar spilled

 

nothing else mattered except that my eyes danced with yours

(and the menu was in french anyway)

still i could hear your fingers touch mine

laying on the checkered tablecloth just beyond the chocolate stain

 

our server’s twelve words in english exceeded my four in french

as he shuffled congruent verbs with scrambled eggs

and blended colorful adjectives with biscuits

too brown to eat and too soft to throw

 

i can even remember the wind

and the way it parted your hair and laid it before your eyes

knowing the sounds of traffic differ in paris from san francisco

though we were in neither and partly in both

 

but sunrise kissed the cities for lovers

and painted them with splashes not on the menu

while holding surprises and croissants against a blue-gray milieu

as the music faded and breakfast was served

 

 

home is where i had never been

 

i have gone north on southern days

and west against the eastern breeze

in confusion i have wondered where i am

where i have been, where i will be

 

in dreams i have been to kentucky

enjoyed coffee at sidewalk cafés

and traced your lips on rainy days

while consuming your smile with my eyes

 

your hands fit into mine in carmel and sausalito

where a moment can last a lifetime

for lovers who feel the ocean breeze

and listen to the depths of their own hearts

 

i measure your beauty against a tiburon backdrop

where colors flap in the wind like a wayward sail

your smile compliments the city

and sausalito is alive with music

 

i have gone south on northern days

and west against the eastern breeze

seen your smile on a bright carolina morning

and kissed you in a kentucky dream

 

when with you it never mattered

whether i went north or south, east or west

i always knew i was home

and home is where i had never been

 

the taste of love

 

remember the morning

when the taste of love was like chocolate

and we swallowed smiles like we owned them

 

your body was my playground

and i painted it with an olive on my tongue

and desire in my eyes

 

bed sheets removed themselves

in the battle we fought

with wrestling thighs and exploring fingers

 

that was a day when i told you i love you

like i had done so many days before

and so many since

 

the morning was younger than us

but we played as though we owned the sun

would engulf the moon and harness the stars

 

only clouds mattered on that day

and we wished they would stay forever

but clouds are clouds and they move on

 

have we moved on

until there can never be another morning

when love tasted like chocolate

 

as i watch the clouds i long for that morning

it was in the wintertime

but i will always be warmed by the smile you wore

 

brokenness

 

she stooped lower than the ground would allow
hoping to find paper dolls lost before yesterday
when marionettes and puppet clowns strolled
on the boardwalk

she wept with no shame as her tears freely fell
and her broken heart felt shattered beyond repair
in places where bruises should never form
deep within her soul

curly hair and liquid smiles had long since died
replaced by scraped knees and scuffed shoes
on her way to cotton candy and licorice stick mornings
golden with sunrise

now the western sky of her life is aglow
with the setting sun of another day gone by
as she sits alone on a seafoam blanket softly floating
on the folding waves

her salt-filled tears mingle with the vast ocean
as she remembers the oneness of life
and that her crying feeds the immense waters 
as her tears fall one last time with the sinking sun

 

 

dancer

 

i closed my eyes and watched her dance;

her hair fanned out like a silk sensu

free and beautiful,

flipping and swirling with such ease

and folding back, brushed

by the silent fingers of the wind.

 

soft lips defined her face

delicate in their beauty

seductive in their innocence

able to command a word to march

or swallow grapes and orange slices

 

i watched her move;

my eyes only slightly closed

as she danced to the music of a weeping moon

and stepped across stars that never dimmed

 

the structured opus from a forest orchestra surged

as her hands waved to heaven

hoping someone lived there

wishing for faith, yet having its fullness

as she began to weep in her emptiness

 

i dared not open my eyes

rather i watched in awe of beauty

cloaked in the finest silk, tartan and tweed

as she listened to the music within

and watched as her feet translated it

 

her emptiness became my own

and her tears fell onto mine

as in the quiet of a solitude moment

we danced

to no music except that which plays eternal

we danced

we wept

for sin is a harsh master

 

 

departure

 

i touched her face

i kissed her lips

i felt her tears

as i turned away

 

her hair was long

i brushed it aside

and we kissed again

as never before

 

i remember her tears

on my fingertips

and her lingering kiss on my lips

encasing her forced smile

 

i walked her to the waiting taxi

hoping she would change her mind

but somehow we both smiled

hating the smell of yellow cabs

 

and it was the sound of the trunk

slammed with a final exclamation

that she would leave

on her one way trip to tomorrow

 

some distant elusive place

where we reflect upon fond memories

wondering if maybe today had failed

and if the taxi stopped short of tomorrow

 

 

encounter on pier 39

 

 she sat inaudibly alone on pier thirty-nine

 watching sail boats go lazily by

 i didn’t know her but she was a friend of mine

 and it hurt so badly to see her cry

 

 with my guitar in my left hand and camera in my right

 i approached her quietly, careful not to intrude

 the waters were darker than the moonless night

 and i spoke softly to avoid being rude

 

“may i, dear lady, play a simple song for you?”

 i asked, carefully watching her beautiful blue eyes

 “i have not written it yet so we’ll see how i do.”

 and with that she started to cry.

 

“i wanted to jump into the water tonight.”

 she confessed when i started to strum

 i said, “i could tell your darkness swallowed the light

 i suppose that’s what told me to come.”

 

i laid my camera down and strummed out a song

 a story just to say i understood

 and that however she felt things had gone wrong

 somehow she could still find some good

 

“ i’ve said words i meant and regretted when i was low

 twisted sentences until they were wrung much too dry

 and left paragraphs in corners with no place to go

 while hating to live and wishing to die

 

 my soul has ached like fire in the dark of midnight

 crunched and crushed like flattened cardboard in the street

 like a thin brown shelter from wind, covering my fright

while cutting off pieces to cover my feet

 

 so i know your heart, my blonde-haired friend

 cause i’ve seen through the eyes of a broken old man

 so let’s walk away and not do this again.”

 and with that i took her outstretched hand.

 

 i never saw her again after that memorable night

 but the song was etched forever into my heart

 and somehow it seemed we soared to new heights

 and with freedom found a brand new start

 

 i still avoid the choppy waters of pier thirty-nine

 and evade the beautiful golden gate

 yet i wonder what became of this friend of mine

who stood one night dangerously tempting fate

 

 

peace in the meadow

 

I walked to the meadow

where dandelions scattered silently in the wind

as though God had waved His baton;

the maestro of all living things

 

I wept

while watching the robe of Jesus

blowing gently in the breeze

as He stretched out His arms,

blessed the little children and commanded,

 

“Let the little children come to me,

 and do not forbid them;

 for of such is the kingdom of God.”

 

Yet as I watched the dandelions unruly glide

I knew that such was the heart of man

and I wept for my own heart,

scattered and unsettled

 

I cried while walking into the meadow green

still capped like snow

with the soft white of dandelions

while silent music played loudly as from a golden harp

 

And I sat, praying at the feet of Jesus

and there I felt His hand

gently stroking the top of my head

as His tears fell freely

 

I heard Him say,

“Blessed are you who hunger now,

for you shall be filled.

Blessed are you who weep now,

for you shall laugh.”

 

I took His promise

in the form of a dandelion

and in one breath I blew the seeds of life

back into the ground

 

aging

 

we know more now than we knew then

we were younger

smiles came easy

and memories were made

like spun cotton candy

and one pony carousels

 

there were fewer reasons to cry

more seasons to fly

and the red in red roses

seemed never to fade away

 

it was easy to laugh and run into the forest

golden with morning

to lay for hours watching clouds

and read poetry, never turning the page

because the words we swallowed were our own

 

your lips were soft and mine memorized them

and sometimes it seemed that we knew more

…and how i wish we had

because then we would have made love

in forbidden places

and left the taste of chocolate on our lips

 

now we are older

and memories are fading faster than the lifting fog

we cry easier and more often for no reason

and smiles only crawl across our faces

because the carousel stopped long ago

 

will you remember me when i walk slowly?

will you be there to remind me who i am?

i will stand beside you always

though i may forget your eye color

and why you look at me with tear-filled eyes

 

the sky will always be ours to share…

trees will cause us to stop

and try to remember

when we walked onto the moss covered floor

hugging trees and one another

 

and the star-filled sky

laying like a blanket over sausalito

will cause our hearts to stir

and remember the color of desire

when we laughed and kissed

with lips softened by passion

 

when memories melted,

flowing like a meandering stream

to places of our hearts

reserved for one day, one day

when these celebrations are all we have

 

life’s lessons

 

while traveling alone down life’s desolate road

i met several strangers who lightened my load

there was the wasted singer without a tune

who was hopelessly lost and facing his doom

 

as he strummed his guitar it strained with his song

about the rights of workers and the wars that are wrong

 

the poet with carnations could never leave his room

like an infant still curled in the warmth of the womb

his words were like colors, pastels in the day

‘til the colors all faded into pale shades of gray

 

there was the merchant with money who peddled his pride

then sold his own soul for the price of a bride

his wares were imported and sold in the night

to kids on street corners in bags of pure white

 

there was the sailor left stranded while holding his beer

in the midst of wine masters serving unfounded fear

all the soldiers had died but i met with their names

on white tombstones recalling their loss as our gain

 

heroes became presidents strung out on a wall

they had forgotten young warriors who died at their call

 

i met with the lawyers who kneeled in the court

holding lives in the balance like a sickening sport

that gavel still pounds somewhere in my mind

while i try hard to forget that justice is blind

 

i met with a prophet armed only with words

cloaked with a sign saying ‘do not disturb’

and i listened intently as he poured out the blame

then blessed all his sayings in god’s holy name

 

every preacher was certain only his was the way

to life everlasting come god’s judgment day

gravediggers dig deeply when burying your soul

then leave it for pirates still searching for gold

 

i met a young maiden who had always been pure

yet she took me to places i had not been before

she cried as i left her alone on her bed

curled up in a promise and a dream in her head

 

i went to the farmers to learn how to grow

but found we can reap only that which we sow

 

i watched a skilled tradesman so good in his craft

and learned a carpenter can’t build where the jester has laughed

 

in my sojourn i saw beauty when i returned home

in the face of a child who had no need to roam

 

for children are innocent and free of this strife

until one day they travel this journey called life

 

lost minutes

 

so many nights i watch the clock

the minute hand agonizing its way from one

to two to three

until it stands straight up

splitting the one and two of twelve

at the top of an otherwise empty dial

 

questions born in the daylight hours

and aching bones

keep me awake

and only dreams are visited

while the minute hand silently mocks me

on its journey from twelve to twelve

 

each clockwise jump of the minute hand

erases a hope

of what might have been

if minutes could be saved

and spent like pennies in a chocolate store

in mid-april mendocino

 

if i could i would dream

of sleeping in a timeless bed

where no minute hand could scream my name

during the blackest hour of midnight

and no memories of yesteryear

could push ahead the moving hand of time

 

there must be a way

to stop the scream of the silent minute hand

without stopping the irritating thumping noise

in the recesses of my heart

there must be a way

to roll over and dream in black and white

 

it moved again

one more minute forever lost

 

madrid in springtime

 

i have never seen madrid in the springtime

i have never seen madrid at all

 

does the sun rise differently in madrid

than in san francisco

on those rare city days when there is no fog

nor wind to chase the clouds away

 

i have seen morning in san francisco

where lovers stroll hand in hand

down meandering paths

parting with the majesty of coit tower

 

somehow

it reminded me of what madrid must be like

in the springtime

 

lovers carry multi-colored blankets

tucked under their arms

and wear smiles and sunglasses

on days like this

 

the water changes color with the day

as the bay is filled with sailboats

hoisting colorful sails to the blue sky background

whipping around in circles

and going nowhere until the sun begins to set

 

tiberon sits quietly like an oil painting

in the near distance

with colors bright and plentiful

defining the boundaries of the quaint little town

where they lap into the pacific

and rinse off like rounded stones of gray and brown

 

madrid would be seen through the lens of a camera

should i ever visit

in the springtime

while remembering san francisco

for now

i will look across the bay

and wonder if madrid in the springtime

is a place for lovers

 

would you join me someday

when i rub the sleepy dreams from my eyes

and raise my sails to the wind

hoping to catch a glimpse of madrid

in the spring time

 

i have never seen madrid in the springtime

i have never seen madrid at all

 

morning escaped like an echo

 

morning escaped like an echo

 winding through whispering pine trees

 crawling with bent fingers over frozen ponds

 searching for the minute of birth

 

 fogged windowpanes slowed the reflection

 as ghost-like fog and mist stopped

 dead against the cold moisture-laden glass

 where morning died an honorable death

 

 mourning died in the burrowed soil

 while storm clouds threatened to weep

 onto stones planted around her

 as she lay in a place safe from yesterday

 

 haunting music still plays in my head

 my fingers on guitar strings too late

 my shallow words too soft for her ears

 my heart too broken to know how to heal

 

 morning escaped like an echo

 winding through whispering pine trees

 mourning died in the burrowed soil

 while storm clouds threatened to weep

 

 

morning was sadder than april

 

he looked at his clock and calendar at the same time

then glanced back at march before it ended

and ahead to april before it had begun.

 

there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance…

no breeze to push the clouds along

and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.

 

it was morning and morning was sadder than all of april

—nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide—

just time—minutes really—before he had to go.

 

there were no birds in the sky on a day such as this…

third monday—march too far gone—

yet april too far away.

 

morning was sadder than all of april

and he had chosen to watch as march surrendered it’s place

to the delegation of memories.

 

morning pushed hard on the clouds,

moving quieter than the silence of daybreak,

waiting like a vagrant at a bus depot and with less hope for kindness.

 

there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance across the countryside…

and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.

morning was sadder than all of april

and only fragments of march remained.

 

 

park bench

 

 

i watched them move his park bench

while the music man stood by,

hungry for the sound of breakfast

with tears welling in his eyes

 

there is so much you can learn about a man

as he quietly weeps

when the smallness of his world shrinks

and he has no promises to keep

 

with his eyes he asked why his world was stolen

when rich men still have a place to sit—

away from the hollow clatter of street music

in a world where he no longer fits

 

the park bench was gone when i looked again

and the music man sat sadly alone

hoping for bread from the table of beggars

before walking back to his “empty space” home

 

they moved his bench from beneath the trees

it had once been his hardened bed

where he watched changing leaves and squirrels at play

with newspapers under his head

 

though “amazing grace” still played in his heart

silence replaced his favorite song

and workers moved his bed away

calloused, as though they did nothing wrong.

it was soon after when the snow quietly fell

on an old man laying on the ground

where there once was a bench,

an old man’s bed that covered with snow he was found

 

he had a note tucked inside his coat

“it is well with my soul” it simply said

he had made peace and had no regrets

and had forgiven those who had taken his bed

 

 

naked mattress

.

the naked mattress seemed more abandoned

than on nights gone by when

european percale sheets lifted

like a kite from the corners

as though they had somewhere to go.

.

the sagging mattress appeared cold—

now that she looked at it from the way he had always seen it—

bare and abused by bodies that left tears and sweat.

.

as she stood crying, face buried in her hands,

her freshened lips kissed the only flesh she could trust.

her heart, abandoned just like the barren mattress,

made her suddenly aware of the putrid smell

lingering from more nights than she cared to know

and more men than she dared remember.

.

she saw no form in the wrinkled sheets

and the corners that had betrayed her

—corners that once defined the pattern—

now laid limp on the dusty hardwood floor

like the man she had exhausted with her passion.

.

on his back he seemed desolate

having no blanket to warm his outstretched body

and no sheets to protect his misplaced dignity.

.

she cried, wondering who he was and why he stayed

when he could have abandoned her in the night

and left her life more stained than the naked mattress.

.

looking at the rain on her windowpanes

she wondered if her life was little more than dampened pavement

and hurrying lonely men who dared never look up at her

although many had looked down upon her sagging mattress

 

 

i can’t knock anymore

 

the path from here to yesterday    

has too often been traveled

in search of street signs and answers

 

darkened corners harbor memories

that reach out like a stranger

in want of a cigarette

and in need of a shower

 

dusty smelly hallways are

permeated with cheap wine

spilled by staggering men who

stumble in narrow corridors

 

and nobody is home

when i knock on the door

 

the streets of last night

are covered with newspapers

sports pages and obituaries

honoring heroes dead and alive

 

homeless men and women

pluck windblown newspapers from their gutters

to wear as jackets and fashion as blankets

 

somewhere in the distance

a little boy cries

that hollow sound of hopelessness

wailing in the silence of nighttime blackness

 

a grown man walks away, satisfied

as the boys weeping sounds grow faint

and fainter still

 

and hauntingly still

until silence

is louder than his brokenhearted lament

and nobody was home

when he knocked on the door

 

nobody was home

 

he can’t knock anymore