Posts for June 24, 2016 (page 2)

It was evening, and it was finally raining after almost two weeks of close but no cigar. A car drove by the house, wheels sibilant and splashy. I’d seen the headlights a few blocks away, but all early sound of its movement was buried beneath water marching across the pavement, making them as distant and unconnected to this world as swamp lights, or now you. I was standing on the front stoop, under the awning and out of the rain, thinking about you in your far away place. The cloud tops were outlined by continuous lightning somewhere beyond them. Later, the weatherman would tell me the clouds topped out at about fifty-five thousand feet, insurmountable for even determined travelers. I wanted to make a video of the scene to share with you later, but like when someone you’re waiting to meet has their flight rerouted to Davenport because of storms, later was somewhere in another lifetime that I could only imagine. 

after Katerina Soykova-Klemer

With irony:
flames swallowing my student
for sending one
text
driving
to Senior awards night:

“almost done!”

Light dims to green-gray
Dark maw swallows us whole
To emerge blinking in sunlight
Distant rumbles perk our ears
Frustrated thunder chases us
Kicking through puddles with bare feet
Moisture weights the air
Wiping away the old
Asphalt steams
As hair and branches whip
Leaning on doorposts
Breeze drying damp skin
Fat raindrops on lips
Smugly tasting victory
As sun kisses mouth

Time saw her potential unlock and blossom like a flower
Then witnessed it droop in the evening shade

Her countenance showcased a brilliant work of art            
Then its blaze only slightly flickered

Her presence glowed pleasant, authentic light            
Then her smile disappeared, energy dimmed

Her lips engaged listeners with pinkie-promise-worthy honesty            
Then spewed only black truth and hot white lies

Her words tasted sweet and satisfied the palate            
Then nauseated like icing on molded cake

Her conscience sold refreshing lemonade-flavored stories            
Then blindly bought volumes of malarkey

Her love harmonized with notes of courage and hope
Then conceit cried out dissonance and despair

Her imagination hung a rainbow across the horizon
Then mindlessly scribbled sharp, edgy chaos

Her creativity burst with playful originality            
Then dwindled into a sole dotted i

She once inspired adoration and delight            
Then locked it all in treasure chests of loved ones.

For a woman named
Ursula-
any fire-headed mermaid’s
greatest demon-
you’ve sure nailed that
brown sugar disposition,
warm fuzzies moonshine

Things I have planted
…I leave behind;
grief and joy
move internally,
the garden will continue
to grow without me,
new land is ready to be turned.

Poem 24, June 24  

The late-season cornfield  

I see it to my left, a cornfield, recently planted
near Highway 61, sweet corn sprouts  an inch tall
in red clay, Kentucky soil.
I keep driving south toward Burkesville.  

The nightjar sang, whip-poor-will,
in early May, warning farmers to till & toil;
singing time to plant corn; its nocturnal call
although unheeded due to rains; it never recanted.  

I make a quick turnaround;
pull off the road;
enter the cornfield;
walk row after row.  

The field is not fertile ground
like Cumberland River bottom land.
A road once ran the length of it, revealed
by limestone gravel on clay. I turn to go  

back toward my car, and say:
“there you are,” as soon as I see
the corner-notched arrowhead,
speckled Kentucky flint washed clean,  
by yesterday’s rain.

Return to form introduced
Pleasures sought, almost found
Unprepared, reduced to

Zero

Phoenix wings, grandeur spread
Beckons pursuit recklessly
Upon a land mine, the foot falls

Glimpse that could be had again
Effortless opportunity
In the moment, silence cries

Nothing

Message sent on reluctant wind
Closes doors once unlocked
Now never to be opened again.

The only resemblance of you sticks to stale cigarettes
that I flip from lip to hip and then to college sidewalk strip.
The bruises have since faded from much more than a neck.
Perhaps happenstance that chance has taken yours
and with it, I’m still functioning.
Walking, my-heart-doesn’t-beat to the sound of your talking.
And thoughts of you, are only glued to cancer sticks and petty conversations,
Both of which I throw away.

I refuse to be your wanton supplicant,
Heart longing for a memory worth longing for.
You are a distant call,
stretching as far as old bed sheets and still moment mornings
that I spent wasting, waiting for you to get “home”.
Just to hear that we were both alone.
And that you weren’t looking for a beginning,
Maybe I’m still forgetting
all the steps it took for me to walk away from an offer never given.

Repentance isn’t necessarily a negative reaction.
It’s only a fraction of the sin I’ve been soaking in.
And the mere stench of where your body’s been,
Stings my eyes and makes filth seem sufficient.
My heart aches in vengeance
of stale company.
I’m lost.
Kicking habits I’ve never had, and cigarettes don’t seem half as bad
in retrospect to the full body wreck
your disease trotted hands could have choked from me.

I am a silent bystander in your accidental scene
of karmatic irony, and easily I walk away,
flicking memories that don’t deserve to be named.
I hope your cancer eats away at you.
Like every “Kindred Spirit” promise you never meant to see through,
because I know the beauty that I saw in you,
was only a mirror image reflected from my own eyes.
A pedestal I built up, expecting you to climb to
when you were too drunk to clean up your own shit faced slime.

To me,
you were a well I could have fell into.
And when I returned, no one would have remembered my name.
Your causes for calamity are so tightly wrapped in vanity,
that I could see my body would be a challenging anthology
you would rather burn than read.
I realized more than half of me,
was writing out your obituary with finger full’s of animosity
collecting like a mist at the neck of my beer.           You spat,
“It is what it is, my Dear” that people are just pretending to be living without fear.

Between smoke.            And toke.
I felt it in the back of my throat,
like an answer you still couldn’t hear.
I was burnt out and parched
for a love not smothered to ash,
or a lover unfiltered,
blistered like sidewalk smut and debris.

The only resemblance of you sticks to stale cigarettes
that I flip from lip to hip and then to college sidewalk strip.
The bruises have since faded from much more than a neck.
Perhaps happenstance that chance has taken yours
and with it, I’m still functioning.
Walking, my-heart-doesn’t-beat to the sound of your talking.
And thoughts of you, are only glued to cancer sticks and petty conversations,
Both of which I throw away.

I refuse to be your wanton supplicant,
Heart longing for a memory worth longing for.
You are a distant call,
stretching as far as old bed sheets and still moment mornings
that I spent wasting, waiting for you to get “home”.
Just to hear that we were both alone.
And that you weren’t looking for a beginning,
Maybe I’m still forgetting
all the steps it took for me to walk away from an offer never given.

Repentance isn’t necessarily a negative reaction.
It’s only a fraction of the sin I’ve been soaking in.
And the mere stench of where your body’s been,
Stings my eyes and makes filth seem sufficient.
My heart aches in vengeance
of stale company.
I’m lost.
Kicking habits I’ve never had, and cigarettes don’t seem half as bad
in retrospect to the full body wreck
your disease trotted hands could have choked from me.

I am a silent bystander in your accidental scene
of karmatic irony, and easily I walk away,
flicking memories that don’t deserve to be named.
I hope your cancer eats away at you.
Like every “Kindred Spirit” promise you never meant to see through,
because I know the beauty that I saw in you,
was only a mirror image reflected from my own eyes.
A pedestal I built up, expecting you to climb to
when you were too drunk to clean up your own shit faced slime.

To me,
you were a well I could have fell into.
And when I returned, no one would have remembered my name.
Your causes for calamity are so tightly wrapped in vanity,
that I could see my body would be a challenging anthology
you would rather burn than read.
I realized more than half of me,
was writing out your obituary with finger full’s of animosity
collecting like a mist at the neck of my beer.           You spat,
“It is what it is, my Dear” that people are just pretending to be living without fear.

Between smoke.            And toke.
I felt it in the back of my throat,
like an answer you still couldn’t hear.
I was burnt out and parched
for a love not smothered to ash,
or a lover unfiltered,
blistered like sidewalk smut and debris.