To Maya Angelou

In 7th grade, in Mrs. Blackwell's English class, Maya Angelou became the first poet to ever truly reach me. Without her, without that first tiny push on the door, I would likely never have thought to allow in all the others who have done so since. Without her, I may never have put pen to paper, never written a poem, essay or story, never have found my voice.

If it's true that we are carried past death by the legacy we leave in others, then I, humbly and with deepest gratitude, carry her, as she has carried me, with each word I write. Read more!

Old Writing: Wood Smoke

I came out of the building today

And into the overcast afternoon

In the air was the faint scent of wood smoke

Though it wasn’t cold

And still early yet

But it carried me back

To lost afternoons

And the smells of thing remembered

But long since passed-

The loam of rich soil

As I lay in bed of leaves and needles

Fallen from boughs that watched over me in the night

When no one else would

Cigarette smoke

And a certain, sharp smell

That I’ll always associate with yellow t-shirts.

As I walked to my car,

I remembered afternoons gone

And a little part of me lost

To the wood smoke

As it faded into the deep grey dusk

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When Asked Why America Fell

When asked why America fell, they will say…

We spent too much time worrying about our guns

And too little worrying about our children’s education

We gave too much credence to men who had read one book

And far too little to those who had read many

We spent too much time trying to regulate people

And not nearly enough regulating our economy

We screamed constantly about being overtaxed

And never realized most were simply underpaid

We silenced our voices, hearts and minds

And spoke, felt and thought only what we were told

We vilified, crucified, the intellectuals and educated

And raised in their places those who spoke with slogans and smiles

We mistook fanaticism and pandering for toughness

And called toughness tyranny

We marched, step-lock, to those at the extremes

And called compromise cowardice

We neglected the long-term survival of the nation

For the brightest, shiniest distractions of the present

We fought too hard against the things that didn’t matter

And never, ever hard enough for the things that did

We were unwilling to sacrifice freedom at any cost

Except where the price was paid by others

We spent all our time pointing at problems

And none of it coming up with solutions

We let those in power convince us we couldn’t change a thing

Rather than reminding them often enough that we could

When asked why America fell, they will say…

We gave up, one by one,

In fear of the world and each other,

The strength of our unity

The power of our innovation

The protection of the weak

The checking of the strong

And the voice of our nation

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A Poem: Falling Snow

Falling snow reminds me of you…

Which is weird,

Because I don’t think we ever saw it together.

There was that time,

In North Carolina,

Driving through the mountains,

Early in the morning,

When we saw all that snow,

Tucked into the valley,

Turning the autumn leaves to white,

And, being the Southern boys we were,

Made mom pull over

So we could play

In what amounted to a light frosting

Like it was a blizzard.

You remember.

Or when we spent that long, frigid night

Outside the Dome,

Camping for tickets

To a show I never made it to,

Watching the temperature drop,

Lower, lower, down past zero,

On the big billboard down the street,

As we huddled with the other fools,

Beneath the blanket of that girl,

The one who thought she was a vampire.

You remember.

We saw it fallen,

Felt the cold,

But never saw it fall.

Until that night…

A year after,

When I sat at home,

Alone, save for a voice on the phone,

Standing at my open door,

Looking into the sky,

Still wandering, lost,

In the twisting agony

Of your passing.

Then the snow…

A few tiny flakes,

Catching the light

In the too dark sky,

Hardly anything,

But enough.

I remember.

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Poetry: Between the Lines

I fell in love with a girl once,
Whose name I never knew.
I never saw her face,
Though I'm sure it was lovely,
The sort of soft, quiet beauty
That lingers in the mind
With a smile that hints
Of unspoken secret
And whispered promise.
Nor did I ever look into her eyes,
Though I can see them when I close mine,
Bright and deep,
With the faint touch
Of a sadness long past.

I found her in the pages of a book
I bought at a secondhand store.
She was there, in the margins,
In a handwriting that managed to somehow
Be both tight and flowing,
Adding things, here and there,
As though conversing with the novel.

The book, which was mediocre, at best,
Became a vehicle,
Nothing more,
For my getting to know her,
Her wit, her humor,
Twice, her pain,
Never overt, but neither hidden,
Worn with the humble truth
Of the survivor.

When it was over,
When there was no more,
I put the book aside,
It's narrative fading,
But not ours,
Fanciful as it was.
She was a dream,
Ephemeral and sweet
Forever out of reach,
The girl between the lines. Read more!

Poetry: Generations

We were a generation that had never known war.
 To be born, raised,
 In a time of peace and prosperity,
 Instills a sense of invulnerability,
 A lack of awareness
 Of the fragility
 Of such idyllic things.
 To us, Vietnam was a story
 Told by old, haunted men,
 Tragic and terrible, certainly,
 But somehow removed.
 The Gulf War
 Little more than a brief memory.
 Too short and too early
 To be felt.
 So it was that,
 When the world broke,
 Its pieces ripping away
 Innocent fallacies,
 Fear slouched in.
 Creeping through fresh wounds,
 Carrying insidious infection.

We were a generation that had never known war
 And from that fear
 Was born a generation
 That has never known peace. Read more!

Poetry: Her Eyes

The way she smiles,

  Her eyes in the shadows

  Beneath dark hair,

  Unable to meet mine,

  Though not for fear of rebuke,

  But, rather, of acceptance,

  Of perfect, imperfect faith,

  Reflected within.

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Poetry: Clarity

The clarity of winter,

  The freedom of winds

  Carried from far off places,

  Whispering secrets, calling

  For those willing to listen,

  To follow,

  To dreams long forgotten

  Left behind in childhood's brighter days.

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The Sounds Outside the City

Living in a real house, outside the city limits, for the first time in my life, I initially thought there was no sound without the comforting susurration of the traffic, the scream of the siren.  Having been here for a week now, though, I realize there are things to be heard as the house breathes, creaks, moves and settles in the sunlight, adjusting to the humidity.  I still miss the cars, though. Read more!

Let Me Tell You About the Day I Died

Let Me Tell You About The Day I Died

Let me tell you what I remember

About the day I died.

I’d like to say

The birds were singing

The sun was shining

And I woke up with a smile.

But the truth is,

And the truth is important,

That I don’t remember.

There was no rain,

And, as it was spring,

There was likely a bird or two.

You hear people say,

“In the end,

It’s the little things that matter.”

That’s truth, it is,

But it isn’t.

And it’s not their fault,

They don’t know,

Can’t know,

Because it isn’t the end for them.

Close, yes,

But, at the end,

The very end,

When vision fades,

There are no words.

Only breaths,

One, then another,

And sound.

I didn’t see my life,

Which they also said would happen.

I heard it,

Hours, years,

In a moment,

As I passed.

The Carpenters,

As performed by a music box,

A song to which I knew no words.

The jump-up excitement

Of Benny Goodman

And his slow, nameless instrumentals

To which they danced

Across the living room,

When I was a child.

There were Motown medleys,

A healthy dose of grunge,

Classical, folk, jazz and the blues,
Even a little country,

And more 80s pop

Than strictly necessary.

(Not that I complained,

Never.)

Hallelujahs, Famous Blue Raincoats,

The Smiths, of course,
Singing me to sleep,

And The Beatles,

A thousand others,

Carrying me into,

And back out of,

My life.

Conjuring faces,
Memories, people, places,
Things I'd lost,
Some found, some not,
Heartbreak and hope

Fade to Black,

Because he said it was his,

Hang,

Because I said it was his.

All in All,

A touch of Sarah McLachlan,

And some Mazzy Star,

For her.

Near the end,

And I knew it was,
In that way you do,

The Counting Crows

And memories of two children

Sitting in the grass

Of my grandmother’s house

In a world no one else saw.

Finally,

As the music faded,

I heard her singing to me,

Maybe she was,

I could almost feel her hand,

That I was her sunshine.

And I was happy.

-Z. Hebert

05/22/12

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Old Writing: Thunder

An exchange of energies in Heaven,

Nothing more.

Not a presage to rain,

Nor the pensive rantings of stars

In the emptiness of the night.

Stark, white within black,

A flash across midnight

Painted overhead

Here, then gone.

Revelations pass,

Too quick to grasp,

In the burst of rumbling,

The cry of light.

Then darkness returns,

Soft, peaceful, all-encompassing,

Alone.

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Lifetimes

Deep brown eyes, Mahogany hair

She carries the scent

Of a bookstore I once knew,

Of incense and coffee,

Ageless words

And the exhilaration of possibility

In a blue dress and inquisitive gaze

That carry me,

Backwards and forwards,

Through lifetimes lived

And to be lived.

Read more!