Perversity of memory
Last night I said something
in a dream, and some part of me
thought, Take note of that – it will make
a good poem tomorrow. But today I don’t recall
what I said, only that it was a fragment
of poetry I wanted to remember.
Last night I said something
in a dream, and some part of me
thought, Take note of that – it will make
a good poem tomorrow. But today I don’t recall
what I said, only that it was a fragment
of poetry I wanted to remember.
Possible miscarriage
Pre-eclampsia, bed rest
Six weeks early
Eighteen hours of pain
Blue baby, not breathing
Death watching in our shadows
D-Day baby, granddad was right
Not going down without a fight
Ten years later, how big you’ve grown
Happy Birthday
I.
It’s lonely, this long wait
for reparations.
It’s cold outside the castles
built by thieves.
It’s cruel trying to name
ten tender leaders.
It’s gruesome how so many
live on lies.
II.
I’m wailing when I want to sing
of glory.
I crumble as I find
nowhere to stand.
My people think the same they thought
through ages:
The rich and gorgeous things
belong to us.
III.
I grieve because I find
no love and mercy—
no interest in a different
way to live.
I want a map that leads
away from taking.
A way to change our minds.
To start again.
LETTERS TO THE DEAD: SIX
6/6/2018
Dear Pat (1945 – 1968)
……………………………………..And there,
in immensity’s mire, I encountered their dead;
Dead grazing the barriers,
Dead opening roadways and doorways.
Pablo Neruda
it’s easy to love the dead
they don’t talk back
sometimes they whisper
in your ear and you’re never sure
if they mean do this or do that,
just last month jennifer’s physic
said you were coming through
= as if half-centuries are mere
stepping stones to yesterday
today i sit in a cafe reading blogs
titled LETTERS TO THE DEAD
(maybe you don’t know about our
profoundly nefarious web
but maybe, my brother,
you know everything).
and i watch across the street
where old men go in and come out
with drugs in crook-necked bags,
extending their lives into diminishment
how could you know
that your son (born a month after
you passed into a different plane)
would be a professor of russian history
or that our brother kevin would be queer
and die young from a virus called aids?
oh, the world of ’68
that explosion of who we would be
that reverberation that rings in old ears
that mix of personal and impersonal,
riots in the streets with you decked out
in the parlor of roth funeral home
the lines were long and afterward
dad went into the melancholy mode
of “the good die young”
you were his namesake for heaven’s sake
Pat, if you’ve been my guardian angel
you’ve certainly done a-hell-of-a-job;
with all my close calls, my boneheaded mistakes
i’ve come out better than i deserve
and do you believe (as i do) that these
online LETTERS TO THE DEAD
are really for the living, to justify ourselves
to our facebook followers?
still, i feel you and see you
in my dtreams or behind my writing tree
at the post office or the grocery
at the lot of our long-gone house,
not a shadow
but a quiet presence amid the hubbub
as always,
Jim
i’ll get my shit together
tomorrow
write my five year plan
tomorrow
begin that thirty day workout
tomorrow
shave my itchy hairy legs
tomorrow
pay the credit card bill
tomorrow
visit you and your parents
tomorrow
apply for another new job
tomorrow
write a more interesting poem
tomorrow
When snow starts to stick
we hang bird feeder in the front yard pine.
I drink my morning coffee under a blanket
and watch out the window
as blue jays, cardinals, and sparrows come to visit.
The cardinals are brave and come up to the porch.
The rust-colored females watch the males
and listen to their song
their heads patiently cocked to one side.
I hang a second feeder in the backyard
but squirrels frequent it more than birds.
One day I find it broken on the ground.
Though it wasn’t what I intended
someone ate this winter.
On a warm winter day
I take my son to the arboretum.
We see chickadees and house finches
and a hawk briefly glides overhead
but he is more interested in a stray cat
that rubs against his legs.
Yet, during his free time at school
he draws a picture for me
of birds.
Under waning moons
covens gather thyme & sage
burnt offerings bless
Fires of Venus
the maiden and a flower
hail Antheraea
Lunar voyager
crimson antler courier
over woods of woe
Transmutation spell
rites of fire char olden skulls
ancient ash remains
He stands amid the busiest intersection in town.
Strings of salt and pepper hair wave in the wind.
He disrupts traffic.
One step forward,
two steps back.
Every movement makes people sweat as they zoom past.
The police are called.
He is dropped off after a few laps around town.
On the way he stops by Blue’s gas station to get a pizza.
Holds it at his side. Like one would carry a book.
Cheese slides off of the crust onto the top of the box.
A couple of hours pass and his clunky boots stomp up to our door.
Anxious knocks fill our ears.
He sits in military position on the loveseat and never sleeps.
His eyes are locked. Staring straight ahead.
Occasionally he will sloppily roll a cigarette and go out to the porch to smoke.
His cough could keep the heaviest sleeper awake.
His fingertips are black because he smokes them until they sting, and he never washes his hands.
Residue and stench is soaked into the furniture that he sits on.
Prepare.
He is caught up on the latest news, the Government is poisoning the water.
Your mom is contaminating the food. —
That’s why your thighs are big.
Scientists put a toxic liquid from volcanoes in side of Coca-Cola. —
That’s why your eyes are green.
Santa Claus is charging a laser and pointing it at us this Christmas.
The cats are building a device to contact the Starship. —
He glares at them.
You stole from him. —
You criminal!
No,
sorry,
you gave him twenty dollars.
Thanks.
You need to prepare.
Things I’ve Misunderstood – going into my thirtieth year I am reflecting on things I find myself relearning, or thinking about differently than I have before. Sometimes it sucks. Today’s poem is about one of those times.
Sex and Power
“Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” Oscar Wilde
And I squirmed
bargaining with myself
all too willing to cut a deal
and be able to continue looking in the mirror.
There’s been sex for love, cardio and boredom
but also just because I could
Power
Well,
Shit
Responsible
Body does not distinguish between physical and psychological threats
Extreme stress
Disrupting nearly every system in your body
Over extended and whelmed
Wearing you out from the cellular level on up
Self-care neglected
Rewiring your brain, eroding your bones,
Stress, anger, frustration
Thickening your blood, destroying your gut
Not among the 31% happy with their role
This can actually kill you
