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all original Cracker music
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BETSY BOLGER-PAULET
The world of a 5th generation Florida Cracker!
Excerpts are from "butterfly lessons:
including FLASHBACK, Lies in Conversation
and Cracker Love."
- a compilation.
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CASTNETTING COMMUNION
Weekend one:
Pinfish, are you scout for Mullet, wise?
By my mercy swimming free,
do you warn him that I
on seawall steal with net furled to cast?
When, after enmeshing only
your cousin Perch, at last
I hang the net, hose it down,
turn to give the roses a welcome drink,
from behind me, just a breath away,
comes his mocking splash.
Weekend Two:
Aha, tricky Mullet, I gotcha!
Net forms a perfect circle on the water,
just as you swim by.
Today, your friend was not around
to warn you ... you are caught beneath.
I'm sorry big bull mullet, but I
have no intention of being merciful,
of sending you back to swim again.
You are big, bigger than I had ever thought
my first catch would be,
and grilled you will make
a mighty satisfying Sunday dinner.
As the grandkids watch in awe,
I perform the ritual,
cut off your head,
still your jumping forever,
gut you, and show them what is inside.
Some will probably call it barbaric
those who think all food comes
from styrofoam trays under saran wrap.
But, I think it only responsible to
show the kids the truth.
If they are to eat the flesh,
they should be willing to witness the killing.
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VICKIE SAYS
Vickie says:
"There are TOO Seasons in Florida!!
It's just that they are so subtle!
Yankees can't see them."
Sometimes you really only feel them.
FALL:
That all of a sudden day when
October wind blows over you,
brings a welcome chill,
whispers to you as subtly
as a whip-poor-will
Or, all it takes is a glance up...
SPRING:
The sight of bird on wing
...carrying a twig.
WINTER:
shows her face on a cold brisk night
when the air sparkles by starlight.
Blink, and you've missed them.
But not so SUMMER:
She cannot be missed.
She comes with your first good burn
of the season,
when you glow like a coal
between cool white sheets.
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LATE NIGHT DISCOVERY
Documentary:
Nets stretched by greed
thousands of miles by
a fishing "company"
that drags from the sea
any and all they enmesh.
I cannot sleep;
I hear only the shrieking of the dolphin.
All for a tuna sandwich.
In my dreams, I cry over scenes
of tortured maimed pelican,
bills chopped off to make pouches
to hold some rich man's tobacco.
I suffer the burns of the boiling water
dumped on their heads simply because
they dare to take fish from the nets.
My father must be turning in his grave!
He, who took no fish that did not meet
the limit of the notches
cut on the side of the rail,
who tore off only one claw
of the male stone crab,
always careful to return the female,
who fed the pelican from his own net.
In the environmental war,
there are no permanent victories,
just stays of execution.
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G E N E R A T I O N S
(written decades apart
for children born of my heart)
MAKE A RHYME FOR TEACHER
"Make a rhyme for teacher, mom,"
my littlest in pink nightgown asks,
as she scurries from my desk,
brown eyes flashing,
winsome, so artfully coy.
"Pick up your toys. NOW!!"
my response to her bedtime ploy,
as she skips on down the hall
clutching teddy bear and story book
about a sun that would not set
and a magic talking fish.
"Make a rhyme for teacher mom."
That was her bedtime wish.
What to say to teacher...
I wonder, as I watch her go.
This child who'd been my baby,
just a few short years ago,
who for singing songs or tumbling,
her chores would gladly chuck.
What to say to teacher?
Well, I guess "I wish you luck."
ANGELA
Just like your mother
those 30 odd years ago,
Dancing down hallways
- dreams at your dainty fingertip
you trip...
pick yourself up
- glance 'round to check
if anyone saw your tumble
twirl...
start the dance anew.
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PRAYER TO THE DIVINE MOTHER
I need know nothing
but the Divine Mother;
All doubtful inquiries
will fatigue me.
By whatever foolish name
I have addressed my Mother,
by them, She knows my yearning.
...becomes an ornament
to grace my speech.
If I praise Her with all my power,
if I protest loudly,
by whatever means I call on Her,
She is there.
Even out of complaint, joy is born.
Let me cry aloud from moment to moment,
or let me sing.
Whatever form it takes,
it is only Her grace.
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SHRIEK IN THE NIGHT
for Claire
dishes done,children bedded, settled in my den,
comes the scream to break the stillness,
shatter this silent reverie...
"Eeeek, Mommy, a flying roach - kill him Mommy, please!"
I'm sorry roach, I really tried to save you.
Took the book to which you clung and flung it out the door,
but you insisted on flying back to terrorize her more.
And so, you had to go.
Surely, you must know,
"Eeeek, Mommy, a flying roach - kill him Mommy, please!" meant more.
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GOODBYE YASHODA
The ignorant see only the insurmountable wall of death,
hiding, seeming forever, the loved one.
But the one of non-attachment, she who loves others as expressions of the Divine Mother, understands that at death the dear one has only returned for a breathing space of Joy
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REMEMBER NOV. 8, 1972?
Where were you my friends?
I rode my bike
and counted on you.
We're in this alike!
But you did not come to quell
the avalanche, the swell
that will bury us all.
A landslide they called it.
The enemy was there
in colors true
- red, white, blue
To re-elect their man - or rather,
to crown him king, and in my ears
this truth must ring,
Four more years
of the Devil's disguise
Peace it's called - built on lies.
My friends, these people
wrapped in flags
care not for your simple world
- they despise your rags.
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MUSIC
Music is not crippled
With the dry bones of words.
Liquid, flowing like a stream,
It carries us into the presence of God.
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Melancholy
illusive sadness,
not because of anything
gone wrong
- not grief -
just there.
like a raindrop on a leaf,
sitting,
reflecting the loneliness of a moment separated.
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