all the poems
i wrote about you
should have warned me
that this was going
to happen.
every line,
every stanza,
every metaphor
pointed right
to this moment.
now we’re here,
and though i’ve never
been fired up
like this before,
i can’t fucking write
about you
anymore.
I walked inside
your home today
and it took me twenty
minutes to realize
they came
to take back your oxygen
machine; It took
me twenty minutes
to realize
our last piece of you
was gone.
Lying in slumber
room after room,
until the next Sabbath
cold as a tomb.
Then on that day
shouts will be heard
hallelujah in song
and proclaiming His Word.
The building’s left cold
when the people do part,
but the message is placed
in each of our hearts.
Glass-front house,
sharp-edged artbook tables,
baby-proofing was saying no,
or let her learn the hard way,
cold marble,
above the butcher block
I used to perch on was
the skylight a man fell through,
missing me by inches;
pressure on his cuts didn’t stop the blood from
staining the floor and countertop dark red.
Gallery white walls and brick,
Par-kay floors,
red velour sofa in a
modern organic shape
redwood siding painted gray.
The Eucalyptus tree centered
the enclosed garden,
the avocado tree’s unpicked fruit
fell and split in the ivy,
eaten by neighborhood dogs and raccoons.
It’s five-thirty-seven
in the evening
and per the clock
and arm, it’s become time
to get a little odd
just to stay even.
So when I get bored
I multiply two-by-four
to do figure-eights
and skate above
the once liquid lake, which is
fro-zen into a deep state.
Meditate, relax, and
if you’re hungry:
vegetate on this
bowl full of goods.
Lately I’ve been penny-wise,
seldom ever solemn. But today
I put away that clown face,
I quit juggling all my problems.
Early hours fade from
sunrise, saving time
twice per year claiming
it’ll add up into a pile.
Where?
“Over here.”
There?
“Nowhere near.”
It’s far away, ran away,
gone astray like the
dreams that feed
my insomnia. Dreams
I only wish would stay.
Dreams that only
nightmares are afraid
of. Dreams of which
our lives are made of.
It seems as if it’s
all just made-up.
Fake, synthetic
Splenda tastes pathetic.
I used to think my
stock was low,
no food inside my cabinets.
I used to bake with sweet and low,
now my sugar is authentic.
Preheated, ready for ascension.
Hints of a distinct smell is
nostalgia waiting for the dinner bell
as I rummage the kitchen
for ingredients not yet in play.
How does one prepare a meal
with no love?
How does one prepare a life
with no knowledge?
Cultural norms and stereotypes
darken lights in need of wattage.
Colorful thorns and roses
weep with seeds in need
of water while they scream
beneath the silence of their bondage.
It’s always funny, ransom money
can free a mind in hostage.
No protection, “Where’s the condom?”
This fetish, so despondent.
I’ll never be demolished
by my wrecking ball, symbolic.
Dropped the ball, dropped out of college.
Bounced back just like hydraulics.
Found my rock, it kept me solid.
Took the time to mold and polish
every line, a workaholic.
Words are wine, I’m drunk with time,
I’m a functioning alcoholic.
(after Stephen Burt)
Relatively simple, the poem makes
intricate use of imagined space
and time, moves from one room
across town into another then into
the open, from astrological
comet to eschatological prophet
to hour-by-hour child’s day, with early
bedtime and a way to sneak out.
White-on-black chalkboard prefigures
the starry sky; the questionable
tomorrow points to the future, where
the boy writes the poem. Innocent
apocalypse reverses life and death,
floor and ceiling, up and down: gravel
bed, construction site, top of building
absent or buried down from above.
Neither teacher nor student understands
comets go only where gravity and inertia
take them. Everyone should know the boy
lives as children assume, seeks such unusual
certainty that the poem breaks even
the little children, shouts at them but
pointedly does not blame this world,
having lived to write this poem.
Few seem to know your name
once cast into coalescing clouds
commandeering horizons,
danger in the distance.
Saintly spirit from beyond
believed to ward off the noxious weather,
there must be something to your power
to not be completely lost to history.
But like the storm ravaging land and sea,
our emotions will come to darken our skies.
Anxiety, depression, fear and the like
chart their march through the human heart.
In the midst of one of my hurricane seasons
is when I first learned to trust your voice,
your name inspiring a shelter of faith.
You will get through this.
Then when floodwaters lapped at my foundations
and wind buffeted my walls,
I waivered but never collapsed,
for your legacy was my rock.
It took time but soon the rage
of my head against my soul
broke enough to see the blue of brightness,
the peace of plodding cumulus cloud.
That peace endures, even as
the occasional shadow still brushes my heart.
Today’s mindful prayer to this obscure saint
is of an entirely different sort.
I am not the only hurricane you have faced
and many more people are still in need
of the mystical grace you bestowed on me,
that I could not be myself without.
Lead me, dear saint, in your future endeavors
to be the answer to the sufferer’s storm.
Use me to be the same calming voice you spoke to me.
You will get through this.
have nothing to do with Don Quixote,
and everything to do with my grandma;
her favorite cookie, full of spice and almonds.
Their aroma saturates her pantry, with notes
of ripe pie apples joining the chorus.
I munch hot dogs slathered with spicy mustard.
My mom, grandma and I cluster
around grandma’s chrome and formica
dinette set. Gossip and laughter arc
between them. I just chew and listen, because
grandma’s hot dogs taste the best. They save
their appetites for the cookies. I would
prefer chocolate chip, but I eat a few
Windmills, anyway, as a show of solidarity.
Of course, now, it would just be me, sitting
around that table. And I would be worrying
about the nitrites and MSG additives
in the hot dogs, and too many carbs in the bun.
And, it’s hard to find the Windmill cookies
these days, just like it’s hard to recreate
a moment in time.
that ends with a wall of windows, soaked in exterior light, surely a full moon? Much of the interior space empty. A china hutch we can’t see into. An empty mantel, large painting on the wall above, or is it a framed mirror pulling the outside in?
A glide of light enters the fireplace, as if kindling a blaze there. Rectangular table for two set with one clear drinking glass, an empty breadbasket, a vase not nearly full of flowers. A white lace tablecloth hangs further down one side, inches from floorboards the color of the sea, each pointing outside. And why wouldn’t they? The trees lure us with their green-black gleam.
Moonlight flows over everything, streams through high stained-glass windows, hurls hazy pink and orange splotches through the gauzy tablecloth.
They’ve carried chairs to the patio, gaze at midnight blue between branches, pinpricked with stars or fireflies Luminous floor planks wait for the couple’s return. Will they dance on their wide expanse?
~ Inspired by the painting “Room in Early Summer” 2018-19 by Simeon Nijenhuis
