Posts for June 19, 2021 (page 5)

Strange dreams catch in our tangle,

Although a storm was stirring. 
A sailed towards a dream, a land of possobility.
But the storm hit hard and the waves were raging,
water splashing into my small canoe,
my ship, that I was trying to sail. 
I could see my dream,
A speck of land in the distance,
but could I reach it, no to close but yet too far.
To much water in my boat starting to sink and I sank.
Far below the water. But I swam. 
Towards that little speck of light in the distance,
to close but yet to far. But I got there, back to the top.
I could see the land in the distance,
to close but yet to far.

theme taboo
language lewd
bawdy rhymes drip
with innuendo. connotations 
undisguised, lascivious
as simile. lurid
line breaks strut
and pout, syncopate
pent up pentameter.
metaphors mixed dirty, extended
way too far. flirtatious racy rhythms
palpitate the heart. onomatopoeia pounds.
allegory slips the gown. wanton stanza, salty
sweet, strophe succulent in each explicit
syllable. wry irony wets her lips. this
poem is impermissible.

Twice I witnessed those smug smiles
Both from newly corpsed bodies.

First time from Mama
On the guerney prior to cremation

Three of us saying farewell
Husband Jim and daughter Holly

Making a fatal error of who passed
Joining her in the hereafter

We admonished Jim quickly–
No Dave is the son who passed not Rick!

Accidently bumping said guerney
Holly and I witnessed  Mom’s sly smile!

Second time from Jim.
He passed suddenly in the night.

We rushed to the hospital to claim him
As he lay full of peace and no more fight.

Speaker phone on as donor coordinator spoke
Has the deceased had sex with animals?

Holly and our dog Clancy both bolted
Rest of us jolted with laughter

I glanced at Jim after
With that sly smile on his face

Letting me know he was here
A piece of him was still there

To convey his gift of humor
Just like my mother.

Remember? We were introduced six summers ago.
I indulged in a shot of local bourbon
at the Grill Fish that keeps getting loose
of that hook on the corner of Limestone
up between Third Street Stuff and Transy.

We clicked. I knew it was right:
your arts community and even the humidity
(both thick and close). The rainfall. The stone.
Hills and mosses that call me back to England.

Remember? Went against tradition.
Reverse-pioneered, east-not-west.
Didn’t know honeysuckle smelled
just like the grape iris that we’d
planted special in Grammy’s yard.

We celebrated. It was often a kind of Easter here. Wide with different family and food, wider still
on account of I had a blank slate, a full heart,
maybe a subtle, sacrilegious resurrection.

My favorite gifts include
all the cardinals. The fireflies. The possum.
And this year’s cicada.

It’s hard, but I’m packing, cleaning, tying up loose ends
and ready to go for now. It’s not at all
like the last time I started over. But I found someone
with cargo space for our memories.
I travel east again.

Mumbling mumbling 
It started with mumbling
Lips quivering
Vibrating
Lightning speed
Incoherent mumbling

Growling growling
Then came the growling
Guttural moaning
Interspersed
Deep resonance
Bellicose growling

Talking talking
Soon came the talking
Ominous words
Somniloquy 
Threatening phrases
Speaking and sleeping 

Shaking shaking
And now I am shaking
In the other room
Separate 
Petrified nightly
Awake and shaking

Walking walking
Next came the walking
Following me around
Attached
Mumbling growling
Mindlessly walking

Screaming screaming 
Now he is screaming
Incessant howls
Unyielding
Shattering silences
Walking and screaming

Sleeping sleeping
Only while sleeping
No memory
Obliviate
Dismissive laughter
He was just sleeping

More and more I’m finding solace
being alone, less an less drive
to reach out and connect.  I don’t
equate staying home with lack
of popularity, don’t think
people feel sorry for me
because I’m alone.  I’m happy
reading on the porch,
an afternoon swim, Friday night
PBS New Hour.  I hope
no one calls.  Maybe
I’ll become Emily Dickinson
secluded in her bedroom.

Dad could always find a second
use for anything, especially containers

each with a unique shape / whether plastic
jars emptied of Jif peanut butter or marshmallow

Fluff or glass jars drained of their delicious
pickles / olives / mayonnaise / or blackberry

jam. He would share the jelly jars with Mother
as they were best to hold drippings. And

he never touched her Ball jars, no matter
how many times used / those were sacred

for canning. After a good rinse & wipe dry,
he would fasten the lids to exposed beams

in the basement. Before rejoining the jar, he filled
each one with whatever he had needed sorting /

storing / saving – crystal doorknobs or ceramic
drawer pulls / unnamed plastic parts left over from

some prior project. He mostly filled them with nails –
separated by purpose / by size / by material – box nails

& sinkers / ring shank & masonry / brads & duplex
heads / sizes 2d to 8d to 12d and larger (in the rope

pickle bologna jar) / made of aluminum or brass
or copper or steel / stainless for outdoor & galvanized

or plated for construction / vinyl-dipped or coated
in phosphate to make them more resilient to better

grip & hold stronger / longer. I don’t know
that he had an order / a pattern / a grand scheme

in mind / but their placement just made sense
in the end / that dark / dank cellar transformed

into a glorious night sky filled with constellations
of hooks & wires / galaxies of bolts & anchors / even

captured marbles would catch light like a shooting
star loosed across the room / reflected

^{Summer solstice and the garden’s growing,}

^{room for repeating crops as the first is harvested.}

^{The moon sign’s ripe for seeding flowers and late vegetables—}

^{peas, beans, tomatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, collards.}

^{My mother leads me to the moon and to my personal}

^{experience, which tells me to skip the late planting of} 

^{brassicas, mine never make, even plying my green thumb.} 

^{Watching and celebrating—that’s always in season.} 

Somebody clearly doesn’t know
the ball and flame way
it ended between us
or else I wouldn’t be invited
to your going away party
but don’t worry.
I have no intentions of going.

I could only be vampiric to the energy,
a constant back of the head thought,
an anxiety ridden reminder
of how a belabored soul breaks
and much as I was longing for one last meeting
to try and talk it all out,
I was never going to force you into it.

I just…I knew, years ago, California wouldn’t happen
but you had already given your heart to it
without ever giving me, or us, a chance,
not that such a chance is ever an obligation.
Still, I wonder how your conversation with God went
a year later, when the leaves turned orange again
and you hadn’t gone anywhere.

Your heart was definitely gone, though.
Not sure it was ever really here, to be honest.
You were always so focused
on where tomorrow was going to take you
that I don’t think you truly appreciated
where today had brought you,
but I’m just one man entangled by unrequited love.

It was only a matter of time
before you found something to replace California,
bringing this chapter to a close.
I do hope you find whatever you’re looking for
and I am happy for this next stage of your career
even if my place
is not to say goodbye.