Today, 28 Oct 2024, marks two years since Bonnie’s passing. It feels like two seconds and two decades simultaneously. A short remembrance video has been posted to Facebook and also to Google Drive where it can be viewed by clicking on this link:
It runs about four minutes. I hope you will watch the video to remember and celebrate Bonnie, a most extraordinary and wonderful person. A second video, about six minutes, is located at:
By the time I met Bonnie at age 15, I’d concluded that people are inherently evil. Having come from a violent childhood environment, I believed that, when others acted with honor and kindness, it testified to their strength to overcome basic nature, whether due to fear of religious or societal reprisal or the development of a higher understanding that people *should* be better than their base instinct. Bonnie, however, maintained everyone is born good, that some choose to commit evil acts, a choice that, over time, corrupts them completely.
Bonnie’s faith in humanity — that we’re more spiritual than carnal — did not waver. She never criticized a person’s religious faith, only a person’s hypocrisy when he or she used the faith to harm others. Bonnie believed that individual consciousness, or the soul, becomes part of a collective consciousness following an individual’s death. Since consciousness is energy and energy is eternal, Bonnie’s supposition is as sound, or perhaps more so since it’s science-based, as any religious doctrine.
Through the years because of Bonnie, my early view of people changed, and I’ve concluded that most of us are born neither good nor evil, that we begin as empty vessels to be filled by experience and choice. I’ve also accepted that some among us are indeed born pure and good and remain so throughout their lives, that those people are what Buddhism calls Bodhisattvas. Such individuals teach and lead others primarily by example, void of coercion and hypocrisy, toward a higher level of existence. I believe Bonnie’s such an individual, a notion she dismissed with a chuckle and blush, though she knew I was serious. You most likely know such a person as well.
Far too soon, these extraordinary and wonderful people are taken — unjustly, unfairly, cruelly — even as the most vile among us continue to thrive. Nevertheless, I now accept what Bonnie always believed and taught by the way she lived, that goodness is inherent in some, attainable by all.
Thank you for watching the video. I hope it triggers good memories and joy.
Tuxtails Publishing has released Structured Madness ~ New Poems in Traditional Formats, my latest collection, featuring modern thematic poems in strictly structured styles. In the 1990s, I began researching the histories and structures of the myriad of poetry formats, both familiar and unfamiliar, from cultures around the world. Most, I found, have a tendency toward dated language and topics. During the COVID pandemic, I decided to challenge myself by crafting poems that combine traditional and modern formats with modern language and themes.
The result is Structured Madness ~ New Poems in Traditional Formats, a collection of 80 previously unpublished poems that explore modern relationships and themes in traditional and modern poetic formats, from the sestina and Shakespearean sonnet to the magic 9, haiku, and luc bat, as well as many others. Below is the book’s preface, explaining the project’s evolution and intent more thoroughly.
The print book is available from Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and other online retailers. The eBook is exclusively available from Amazon.com.
My writing and music career spans five decades, producing more than twenty published books and thirteen albums with more on the way. For more information about Tuxtails, please visit http://tuxtailspublishing.com. For more information about my work, please visit http://csfuqua.com and http://csfuqua.bandcamp.com.
Thank you so much for supporting my work. Wishing you the best.
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From the Structured Madness Preface:
Like most of my work, Structured Madness is dedicated to the person who has had and continues to have the most profound influence on every aspect of my life, the person who, over the course of our fifty-one-plus years together, has believed in, supported, and encouraged me fully from the start.
I was hesitant to write this book, having toyed with the idea for several years, but, as always, Bonnie encouraged me to tackle the project because she suspected, once begun, I’d enjoy it. And I did, more than any previous writing project except for my first novel, Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget, which was based on one of her ideas. Throughout the writing, we worked in the same room. While I wrote, she crocheted a baby blanket for a friend’s newborn, an afghan for our daughter, a rasta hat for me, and more. I would read to her rough drafts of poems, and she’d demonstrate to me nifty new stitches for particular projects…Is it any wonder I dedicated my work to her…?
…Fifty years of writing professionally.
Newspaper and magazine articles, nonfiction books, novels, short fiction, poetry. Lots of poetry—99.9 percent of that poetry free verse because I, the product of an increasingly chaotic world, wasn’t interested in traditional structure. Who needs antiquated formats with thees and thous clogging lines that sound, at best, contrived? Certainly not I, nor most of my generation of writers. Convention and formality—those are the products and dictates from and for another time. What we—what I—hoped and strived to accomplish was innovation, an unadorned directness in the most succinct form of storytelling, expanding standards by refusing to succumb to them.
At best, I was a naive novice; at worst, I was a pompous, inexperienced twit.
Free verse, despite crafted line breaks and stanzas, sounds a lot like flash and micro fiction when read aloud. In recent years, I’ve wanted to break free of the free verse format, to challenge my abilities, to experiment in style and form without indulging in so-called experimental poetry of the day, to craft a poem that sounds poetic when read aloud. I craved something new but also familiar enough it didn’t scare the bejesus out of me.
Decades ago I received a poster of poetry formats as partial payment for publication of one my poems. The poster’s setup was more like a cryptographic puzzle than a how-to, but it intrigued me enough to begin researching the myriad poetry formats for thorough explanations, histories, and examples of both familiar and unfamiliar styles from cultures around the world. Although the rhyme and meter structures were curiously enticing, many of the examples, including modern, were laden with outdated language, expressions, themes, and topics. If I were to utilize conventional formats, I wanted to wrap them in contemporary language, culture, and topics with the hope of creating something worthy enough of the formats while being entertaining and intriguing enough to please a modern audience.
Whether I’ve achieved that goal is up to you to decide. In any case, I did not want to create an instruction manual. My goal in everything I write is to craft something I hope will entertain and engage readers. If it achieves that, I’m ecstatic. If it achieves more, even better. Perhaps this book will introduce formats with which you aren’t familiar, formats you may want to explore further. Each poem is identified by its format with each format defined in the glossary.
I’ve learned a lot by writing these poems, and I plan to learn more in the coming years by further exploring many of these forms and others I’ve yet to try. Change, a certain woman of wisdom has told me many times, can be a good thing. Even at my age.
Any way you look at it, parenting is rife with challenges and joys. Fatherhood ~ Poems of Parenthood, the latest book by author/musician C.S. Fuqua, published by UK-based Stairwell Books, explores the facets of parenting from a father’s perspective in 90 poems written over a 30-year period.
In 1991, Fuqua became an “at-home dad” charged with the day-to-day care of a newborn daughter. He and his spouse Bonnie were what the media then called a new breed of parents, those who chose not to settle into traditional roles of woman-as-homemaker, man-as-breadwinner. While his wife pursued a career in public service, Fuqua established himself as a freelance writer.
In the lean, early years of marriage, the couple had dismissed the idea of becoming parents, Fuqua said, “because we weren’t ready for parenthood—not monetarily, not intellectually, not emotionally.” By age thirty-five and their thirteenth wedding anniversary, “We’d become financially stable and decided it was time.”
Beginning with two miscarriages, the couple found themselves on an emotional rollercoaster like they’d never experienced before, one that only intensified with the birth of their daughter. “But something magical happened,” Fuqua said. “With most of my time now devoted to her, our daughter became my primary creative muse, and I began to devote much of my writing to the exploration of parenthood—the daily experiences, insecurities, failures, successes.”
Fuqua spent most days caring for the couple’s daughter, playing with her, taking her on exploratory walks, conversing with and reading to her as though she understood every word, involving her in social development situations, and sharing all duties with his spouse in the evenings, on weekends, and her days off—all about which he wrote in poetry, in fiction, and in journal-style letters to their daughter that he continues to write today.
In 2007, Uncial Press published a collection of 38 of Fuqua’s parenting-related poems entitled The Swing ~ Poems of Parenthood, which won the Best Poetry Collection EPIC Award for 2008 and remained in print for the next fourteen years. In 2021, Fuqua decided to expand the collection with poems he’d written since its publication, more than doubling the number of The Swing’s original poems, all of which are included in Fatherhood.
Fatherhood chronicles 30 years of parenting experiences, from pregnancy to the child’s adulthood—the joy, sorrow, insecurity, confidence, anxiety, calm, irrationality, fear, pride, confusion, clarity, mourning, celebration, hope, and so much more—“all due,” Fuqua said, “to one extraordinary young woman who’s astounded her mom and me from day one with her intellect, humanity, and grace.”
Fuqua has been writing professionally since 1979. His published books include White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems, Walking after Midnight ~ Collected Stories, Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget (SF novel), Hush, Puppy! A Southern Fried Tale (children’s book), and Native American Flute ~ A Comprehensive Guide, among others.His short fiction and poetry have appeared in hundreds of national and international publications as diverse as Rattle, The Pearl, Cemetery Dance, The Christian Science Monitor, Main Street Rag, and Year’s Best Horror Stories. Learn more about his writing and music at http://csfuqua.com.
A powerful but tender chronicling of his daughter’s birth and growth by the master of the American Horror genre and exponent of the Native American flute. A reminder that, while we hew our children from granite, we are ourselves shaped and crafted by their love.
Stairwell Books
Fatherhood by CS Fuqua is a lyrical journal of childrearing, from tragedy of miscarriage to a difficult birth through childhood. Fuqua shares the growth and molding of this parent/child relationship, focusing on the joy of watching his daughter become her own person, tinged with the sad knowledge that she will eventually leave home. “When the Bird Has Flown” sums it up nicely: “Rushing through the moments, / the forgettable and the milestones, / sprinting headlong from one / to the next, / and the next, / unaware of loss, / no pause to consider or savor, / centered instead / on what mysteries lie ahead, / always ahead…” Recommended.
M. Scott Douglass, Publisher/Managing Editor The Main Street Rag, author of Just Passing Through (Paycock Press, 2017)
C.S. Fuqua’s latest poetry collection, Fatherhood: Poems onParenthood, is a delightful and emotionally insightful work about the challenges and day-by-day revelations of a father who makes it his vocation to raise a daughter with grace, integrity, and much love. The poems in this volume are tightly crafted, lyrical gems, filled with learned wisdom, wry humor, and humanistic dignity, as this poet/father documents his daughter’s life from infancy to young womanhood, and shares with the reader the glorious journey of his own life lessons, attempting to be a good and nurturing parent.
Davidson Garrett, author of Arias of a Rhapsodic Spirit
C.S Fuqua’s transcendent verses encapsulate the many moods and dispositions of fatherhood. His reflections are compelling, affecting, witty and tender. A recommended read for the expectant father.”
Ali Kinteh, author of The Nepenthe Park Chronicles
There’s a beautifully composed realness that shapes C.S. Fuqua’s poetry. I reveled in his language and storytelling. I want to gift this book to all my friends and family who are new parents, older parents and all future parents, because this is about life and love. It is a layered journey and Fuqua brings us into his unique, somewhat familiar “home” through poetry that we can dwell in.
Laura Kerr, Canadian Artist & Poet
The power of C.S. Fuqua’s poetry lies in the relentless chronicling of real people with real sorrow, triumph, regret, and above all, the sad beauty of the human experience. Superb poetry from American poet and musician, C.S. Fuqua.
Tony Nesca, Author of About A Girl (Screaming Skull Press)
Few have the deft touch for poetry as does C.S. Fuqua. He is not shackled by the bonds of rhyme, but is instead freed by language, each word, each phrase, each sentence weaving a complete story in just a few lines. This is what poetry is supposed to be. Take for example the phrase in the poem “Cabinet”: “…doing her damnedest to reach the bug spray.” In this last phrase of one of his introductory poems we see the oncoming future of Fuqua and his daughter as he devotes his life to keeping her safe. In the poem, “The Chant,” we have the phrase, “She sees skin as a rainbow.” The personality of his daughter is there in that one short phrase. The rest of the words beautifully support, but this one short phrase tells us everything we need to know about his beloved daughter. Sometimes Fuqua reaches for a beautiful image in a full line, like in the poem, “Tokyo Fabric”: “He nods at my daughter, reflecting her grin, the cat purring like soft forest rain, the universe melting under those fingers, that fur, that sound.” Fuqua says he loves poetry because it’s a challenge to write a complete story in a poem. You will read many short stories in Fatherhood.
Dick Claassen, Author of Sacred Native American Flute
These two themes recur often yet unplanned in the fiction and poetry I write. They usually emerge from a character’s self-doubt, countered by an unrealistic belief that situations, no matter how awful or threatening, will eventually turn out okay, that adversity will ultimately surrender to peace. But why do these particular themes keep showing up?
A few years ago, a political disagreement with my father ignited in him a firestorm of condemnation of other cultures and races—never mind the mixed racial heritage of my spouse and our daughter. Communication ended abruptly in mutual expletives. After more than five decades, he and I were finally done. I figured I’d never hear from him again, that the next time I visited him would be at his graveside.
The relationship with my father has always been tenuous at best. I felt safe with him only once—in 1958 as he carried me through the hospital parking lot on my way to a tonsillectomy. I was two. Fear soon obliterated that initial sense of safety, thanks to repeated episodes of rage, from verbal abuse and an eagerness to fight, to animal cruelty and domestic violence, a few incidents recounted in my published fiction.
My parents separated when I was twelve. I’d spent that summer of 1968 working in my father’s Phillips 66 service station in Crestview, Florida—sometimes alone and always under order to wear a “Wallace for President” Dixieland hat and campaign necktie. Dad’s small, two-pump station had three restrooms in back, designated as “Men,” “Women,” and “Restroom,” the third to which he directed people of color.
In the station’s front window, he’d hung a hand-drawn recreation of an auto tag that read “Put your (heart symbol) in Dixie, or get your (donkey symbol) out.” One hot day, a traveller from a northern state noticed the sign after I’d gassed his car. “If I’d seen that damn thing,” he snarled, “I wouldn’t have stopped.” I was glad my father was away at the time. Otherwise, a fight would have certainly ensued.
Bizarrely hot-tempered, my father was quick to violence. I witnessed such fury that crippled and killed animals and bruised and broke people both emotionally and physically. I felt a flood of relief and freedom when my parents split and I ended up in Pensacola, Florida, fifty miles from Crestview and my father. Marrying his second wife shortly after the divorce finalized the following year, he moved some forty-five miles north to his hometown, Andalusia, Alabama. With his wife’s deft support, he established a used car dealership that provided a good income, even though he faced legal problems at one point for buying and selling stolen cars. Due more to his wife’s business savvy than his public charm or honesty, he skirted prosecution and became wealthier than he’d ever imagined he would, though it had no effect on his refusal to pay child support, doling out only small portions when I visited him.
During my visits that never exceeded two days, he appeared to have mellowed since the divorce—specifically, his propensity to violence had apparently evaporated. I became jealous of his wife’s two sons whom he’d adopted. They, I believed, enjoyed the father I craved, a reasonable man who respected them enough to do what a parent should do. The emotional distance between us increased while the frequency of my visits decreased. Only after his death did I become aware of the psychological and physical violence he waged against his new family.
My father’s wife died in April 2015, succumbing to cancer. During her decline, her children visited her at home, but not without consequence. When his wife’s daughter said she would not move into my father’s home to take care of him after her mother’s death, he became so livid he threatened to kill her if she ever returned for any reason. She didn’t. When his oldest adopted son visited his mother a few days before she died, my father accused the son of plotting to steal his money and slugged him. The son responded instinctively, knocking my father to the floor.
“Get out!” my father raged. “Get out before I kill you! I’ll put you in the ground you ever come here again!”
Increased paranoia followed his wife’s death and led to rabid accusations that relatives were constantly plotting to steal his land and money. He threatened to kill many and alienated all but one, a cousin whose tolerance ensured the care he needed.
Already receiving thrice-weekly kidney dialysis before his wife’s death, my father had developed a notorious reputation among Andalusia’s medical workers for verbally abusing doctors and dialysis personnel. In early August 2016, he suffered a mild heart attack that placed him in a hospital where doctors determined he’d require rehabilitation center placement upon release. Facilities in his hometown, thanks to his reputation, refused to take him, necessitating placement in a Crestview facility where he existed under sedation most of the time. Shortly after placement, my cousin informed me that his condition had begun to deteriorate rapidly, that he suffered from advanced diabetes, kidney disease, and increasing dementia.
Living in New Mexico, I decided not to visit him. Any possibility of reconciliation, no matter how remote, had surely vanished within his sedation and dementia. Then my wife’s brother in Pensacola died unexpectedly, and we made the 1,350-mile drive to attend his memorial, placing us within forty minutes of the Crestview rehab facility.
On a rainy Wednesday morning in a town that’s grown unrecognizably large since my childhood, the nurse in the rehab facility’s locked wing pointed out my father at the end of a line of wheelchair-bound patients parked along one wall. The greasy pompadour he’d worn most of his adult life had been replaced by shorter hair, brushed into a faux mohawk, the result of a nurse’s playfulness. He stared blankly toward the opposite wall, murmuring. I knelt before his chair and took his hand.
“Dad?”
He slowly turned his gaze.
“You know me?”
After a moment, he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Who am I?”
He smiled slightly. “Ray,” he whispered.
“No, not Ray.” I had no idea who Ray was. “Try again.”
Something clicked. His face tightened, his lips parted slightly, and he began to cry. “Chris…”
Just as quickly, his expression muddled, and the stare returned. He nodded. And nodded again.
I engaged him in talk as best as possible and took a few photographs.
He held my hand off and on, muttering things like, “I used to have lots of money. No more. It’s okay, it’s okay. Madelyn [his deceased wife] is coming soon.”
Aides began wheeling patients to the dining room for lunch.
“You seen Mama?” he asked. His mother had died some forty years earlier. “She ain’t been by.”
“No, but you’ll see her soon,” I said. “She’s waiting.”
A shadow of a smile played on his lips. He nodded once. “I love everybody.” He nodded again. “Everybody loves me.”
“I’m sure they do.”
He leaned slightly forward. “I’m proud…”
My breath caught as I thought for just a moment that, at last, he was about to express something he’d never before expressed.
“I’m proud,” he whispered again, “real proud of my life.”
I let the breath go. “Yeah, you should be.”
He sat back.
An African-American nurse arrived to take him to the dining room. My father, whose racist rants were legendary, reached for her hand and grinned.
“She’s nice,” he said. “People…people’s the same everywhere.”
The nurse positioned herself behind the chair.
“We need to go,” I said. “Time for you to get some lunch.”
He raised a hand toward my wife—that at one time unsuitable, racially-diverse person who’d married me thirty-eight years before.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She hugged him lightly.
He then held his hand out to me. His face twisted momentarily as though he might cry again.
“I love you,” he said. And he nodded.
“Yeah, I love you, too, Dad.”
His eyes glazed.
I lowered his hand to his lap.
The nurse said, “Y’all can wait or come back after lunch if you’d like.”
We thanked her and stepped aside, and she wheeled him away.
Six days later, the day after our return to New Mexico, he died. My cousin said that he had been en route from dialysis to the rehabilitation center when he went to sleep for the last time.
I didn’t travel to Andalusia for the funeral, but my cousin filled me in. The preacher of the church my father attended—designated as a primary recipient of Dad’s estate after he disinherited his adopted children and me—delivered a glowing tribute that had some attendees wondering who the hell the preacher was talking about.
That’s fine.
Southern preachers consider eulogies sacred opportunities to exploit insecurity to harvest souls by lobbing sizable chunks of fire and brimstone while praising the exceptional life of the dearly departed, now cozied up in heaven with Jesus.
What does it hurt?
Most of us—kind or cruel—reach for higher standards at some point. And we all fail in different degrees. It’s okay to remember people as better than they were. It’s okay to grant a little salvation.
At some point, I’ll stand at my father’s graveside, keenly aware of how he influenced me to strive to be his opposite, of how he will always affect the characters and themes in my fiction and poetry.
