Dee Galloway

I was born in Beatrice, Nebraska, to one of the world's greatest moms, Virginia Becks Wilson, who used to recite the poetry of Paul Lawrence Dunbar and Langston Hughes as she worked around the house, so I guess it's not surprising that I became a poet. I've been writing poetry since junior high school where one of my classmates recited one of my poems in class. (It was called "Social Slop" and was a scathing review of what I considered the useless information we were fed in social studies classes.) I was asked to submit it to the junior high school literary magazine where I was privileged to have several poems published during the following two years. After a VERY long dry spell, I started writing again and recently had two poems published in ACC's literary magazine, The Progenitor.

Poetry is my favorite language; I think because it's compact yet chock full of meaning. It's the only way I'm able to speak about many of the painful things that have happened in my life ("How She Kept the Baby Quiet When She Fled") actually relates to my escape from an abusive relationship), but I hope it will also evolve into my favorite language for expressing joy as well.

No, she's not an angry drunk, but…

when
she’s drinking
she plays
her music
VERY LOUD	combination
after	of the
a while	bump bump bump
she starts	of her (not
singing	angry?)
wailing really	music
and clapping	slap slap	and
her hands	of her (not	I’m
snapping her fingers	angry?)	losing it
pretty soon	hands	stop!
it’s	atonal	(bump)
out of	(not?)	STOP!
control	shriek	(bump)
	(angry?)	STOP IT!
	of her	(bump)
	singing	this is
	tiny click	not
	of her	(slap)
	teeth	not
	against	(slap)
	the glass	the woman
		(click)
		I wanted

      Top of the Page.

---

Lacunae

every time the music stops
look back over the shoulder
divorce decree
empty doorways
deep scoops of vacant air
just before the parachute opens

      Top of the Page.

---

Legitimate Fear

it's hard
to believe
your heart knows
what it's doing
when it puts you
in the line of
fire

but there's
no shame
in fearing a bullet
and you
don't have
to hand him
the gun

      Top of the Page.

---

The Significance of Water

Two-thirds of who and what we are is the thing that shapes us
knifes through rock to carve canyons
plows valleys and banks us
while crafting reservoirs

Two-thirds of who and what we are
is the thing that stabilizes us
warms us in chilled places
cools us in fevered zones
bringing us balance always

Two-thirds of who and what we are
is the thing that covers us
drenches some we love
leaves others parched and desiccated
making us its slave and master

Two-thirds of who and what we are
is the thing that replenishes us
makes us bountiful, lush and green

Whether or not life begins here
perhaps it should

      Top of the Page.

---

Father Figure

Most of the time
what I see and feel
when I look at him
is not a questing
or questioning response
to me.

What I see is a man
looking to erase
marks left by past loss
beyond hope at the time,
trying to leave his
own marks of fatherhood
on the world at large.

Who could I be to him
but another daughter to raise
more rightly
with fewer mistakes
this time.


      Top of the Page.

---

In the Absence of Rites

(for Nancy S.)

now is the festival time
and here is our tradition:
we grow daughters into women
work sons into men
by what rites do we teach them
to cherish themselves lost and won

cakes and candles measure
passing years bright caps
and streamers mark them
now awake among dreamers

now is the festival time
and here is our tradition:
we grow daughters into women
work sons into men
by what celebrations do we welcome them
to society of prey to fraternity of hunter

even before yeshiva doors swing open
tutors sharpen textbooks
apply knowledge directly
young hunter learns early to butcher

even before convent bells peal
headmistresses chalk cell outlines
frame preferred pastures
new prey learns early where she must graze

fashioned in the image of his tutor
can hunter be faulted
for hunting in his only forest
formed from her headmistress' fear
can prey be faulted
for panting as she runs

now is the festival time
and here is our tradition:
we grow our daughters into women
we work our sons into men
without ceremonies to initiate them
alone simultaneously together
into the social mandate into the mystery

lonely behind the eyes our sons and daughters wait
they sleep vacant in doorways or barren in deserts
lonely behind the eyes our sons and daughters wait
for sacramental cups to pass into their humbled hands

      Top of the Page.

---

Patience

Perhaps you also felt the tiny spark
produced when souls rise to meet each other.

There is an urgency that often accompanies such
a spark, that makes us think we must act now
to make sure it can be reproduced, again and again.
But it's a false urgency, for even if now
is the only moment we have, it isn't necessarily
the moment we have to act.

I'd usually follow
the urgent spark into dark, inviting
woods and inside dark and frightful caves.
There was certainly beauty to be found
there, and sometimes joys scattered about
that I would gather and memorize for later.

Then I would regain the mouth of the cave
and find the path that led out of the woods.
I'd stand on the road and look back to see
a longer, smoother path leading round
the woods, avoiding the caves. And on this longer,
smoother path I'd see the same beauty, the
same joys waiting to be memorized and gathered.

Now I take the longer, smoother paths
whenever I can – which isn't every time.
Slower now, I gather joys and memorize
beauty, sometimes meeting the urgent spark
again, somewhere further down the road.

      Top of the Page.

Table of Contents