Bluely Dancing Eyes Poem by James Murdock

The gleam upon your bluely eyes
it dances like the universe,
speaking to me of the seriousness
of not one single thing,
telling me I must be here
with you
and not in some ugly matter of the past
or in some unknown circumstance
to come.

You inherited a love for books and songs
from a grandfather who cries
while reading Sydney Lanier or
drinking beer to the peace-longing
of Tom T Hall.
And also from a great-great-granddaddy
who wrote books on how
the old testament
should be abandoned to antiquity.
He would've held you like the
sweetpea that you are,
Tallulah.

His great-granddaughter,
your mother,
is a kind and patient soul and
as humane as human can be.
She would rather have
harmony
than interesting discord.
When you were a baby, we
never argued but held each other
to show you that the earth is not only
made of madness.

Say "Hey mama"
and you might as well have melted the sun.
Cry when Mema leaves the room and all
of time and space should pack the
bags of finished business.
Star child blue eyes looking
outward from the center,
tasting yard weeds
because you saw your father
eating cleavers in early spring.

Today is Women's Day and I watched you
marching around beating your drum
and declaring to trample the future
and singing a song no one has heard,
you curse normalcy.
You make funny faces when you rise
from sleep and you
spin in the sunlight at banana
breakfast time.
Bluely dancing-eyed girl
sweet Shiva on the wind,
I honor you.

Have you looked at me yet like
I am dumb?
While I take care of you I feel
newer than you.
I am waiting to take you to the ocean
pisces child, or to the
crystal rivers of Western Carolina,
that you might wear a gown made
of mosses
and let your heart beat to the rhythms of
wild Pisgah.

We could've set westward to the
dry and bare-tan pueblos
and painted your face with the four
sacred corners and watched closely
the way of the buffalo.
But like the pluralist pollinator freaks
your good folks are
you belong amongst the lily patch
and eating orange flowers with
your summer salad.

You belong now bowing to the daffodil
and lying in the purple vetch
in the field beside your house
with dog leg clover paths,
your Einstein curl in the yellow moon
and your laugh rising with the jay.
You have made this field a paradise—
you have, Lula Ray.