Chris Rice Cooper

Chris Rice Cooper

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Photo Poem On John Fitzgerald Kennedy Jr . . . November 25, 1960 - July 16, 1999

Christal Cooper – 434 Words
https://www.facebook.com/christalann.ricecooper

* Poem Written and Copyright by Christal Rice Cooper 



The Parting of Camelot

Don’t let it be forgot
That once there was a spot
Known as Camelot . . . .

1.
Camelot was born back then
and you, John, John,
swimming in the womb.

Each time you kicked she spoke
French. And then,
patrolling the White House

garden plots, hide-and-seek
with Daddy in The Oval Office,
and important meetings

of great minds, including you,
stroking Mommy’s pearls.
When you sneezed while riding
 
near the orchards on Hammersmith Farm,
she never let you near the pears again.
It wasn’t the pears. It was the horse.

John, John, no!
Daddy tried to be stern
as the First Lady.

Caroline, you, running,
never touched by
Mommy, who prefers the horses

on Hammersmith Farm
while Maud looks after
you and Caroline

that cold day. At three, you only
knew the color blue.
Photos, memories, real or only

photos the whole world sees.
And you roaming New York
on your bike, your skates, chased

by all the president’s men,
the figures of your father.
Your bad boy cousins share

your name, blood, DNA,
yearning for seclusion
without paparazzi.

2.
There is safety in darkness,
your kayak floating on the Hudson’s womb.
The stars the only safe lights.

Never when the sun shines
on ADHD, dyslexia,
tutors. Mother

pushing you to law school,
politics.  Ignoring your need
for Shakespeare’s dramas.

Never theater, acting
Like Marilyn.  Filth.
She gives in,

hires someone to clean for you,
for the sureness of white walls,
the scent of flowers.

Even after she’s dead,
You hide the George Magazine
Your father would have approved of


3.
Always parked at LaGuardia
where you ran with Carolyn,
there is the only woman

hesitant to marry America’s Son
in Cumberland Island.
The statuesque blonde

Mrs. Kennedy to-be. A role to play,
in Carolina Herrera dresses,
Botox, Lubriderm.

A temper matching yours –
until she sees your ankle
wrapped in white.

These days flying in a
six-seat Piper Saratoga II HP
in Manhattan, a stretch of sky

to Hyannis Port, for a meal with the Mrs.,
and the stars calling out:
But, soft!  What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief.

The small star calls
your name, known only to God
the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost
of Mother’s past.
Mother of Jesus.
And you.

The blues of Hyannis Port and
the blues of the sky
divide like the Red Sea.
 
You are the new star
come home to a place
higher than clouds.













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