Posts for June 20, 2021 (page 3)

sometimes our homes turn against us
books grow stale and the words colorless
while the spines go limp in starved hands
the favorite chair grows sharp and spined
with springs that find the wrong places
so you find yourself standing in the kitchen
more and more and more every day
no matter how much you turn down the air
it doesn’t seem to get any colder 

next come the people that you thought
loved and understood you the most
compared to all those blank looking faces
that you see daily at the shove and grind
begin to grow sharp and feral against 
the restlessness that keeps you leaning 
on the counters looking out the window
at nothing or the clouds or silver planes

so you leave
and it hurts
the world
takes you
and cuts you
into pieces

you don’t heal before they find you
people that deserve you
that limping thing of wounds and grief
they’ll help you find those things
to make sure when the time comes
you become the person you need to be
but they’ll allow you 
kindly
a visit to remember 
the you that was 
in the before
because it’s your testament of adversity
no longer a victim of all that pain and violence
and those teeth breaking nights
when you were sure that 
stepping out into traffic
would ensure that they couldn’t 
hurt you anymore

I wish I could say this to all of those
that didn’t make it this far
before it was too late

no matter
I still love you

a cobbler tang
floats in steam
through the house,
it urges you to lie in grass
feel dew on your toes
listen to bees,
it makes you swing on the porch
and watch the bluebirds feed
until it’s time to come in,
and you watch her set the pan
on the table,
juices still bubbling
hot as July, and hear
daddy smack his lips
and say, God, you cooked
the summer out

In low dance of clouds, winged serenades
a warm ocean breeze
romping with me
dancing shadows of trees.

Soft morning mist
pink setting sun
the kiss of soft fog
tickling rain drops.

Magic Monarch moment
blooms that leave me breathless
electric thread – your hand in mine
seduction of wild secret places.

Find something to love
let in wild joy
to mend the soul
recharge for the worrisome world.

-Sue Neufarth Howard

I hear a jukebox playing line-dance music
in Waffle House, the dishes banging percussion
and the singer’s voice covered by the murmur
of customers, slam of cash register, pan 
sizzling. This is almost the essence of it all,
of country music itself–in the din, a twang
of guitar, a whine of fiddle–pop open
a biscuit and hunker down–the soundscape
of my life.

today i didn’t wake up to 
a perfect, delicious family breakfast
today i didn’t take dress up 
for church, for afternoon lunch

today i didn’t scribble a sappy poem
on the leftside of a Walgreens card

today i woke up at 12:30 pm, 
eyes glued shut with mascara and tears
today i drove throughout downtown,
4 window air condintioning and Billy Joel blues

today i ate grilled cheese and listened 
to the chirping of the birds 
today i didn’t celebrate today 
today i didn’t mutter the words
happy father’s day

it’s just another June day to me

the trees canopy the road,
the leaves bending down—-weeping,
almost. i wish that i
was the type of person
who could look at any tree,
flower, or bird & tell you
its name. & to whisper yours
as you touch my knee,
dabbled with blades of grass.

birds of many colors fly
across the road; the creek water
rushes; the wind rustles the leaves

the wilderness curses me
in the way that it’s my one source
of comfort yet a harsh reminder
of how my soul aches
& is so deeply, deeply lonely

Time burns out faster than the candle I lit at both ends

Gee, Vic
I been stinko
he said from the bed
the hospital put him in
after the sleeping pills
plus Old Heaven Hill
rendered Dad pie-eyed and mute
on the living room couch.

In a day or two, he was sober,
and much enjoyed the society
of his roommates.  Mom,
never one to care for meetings,
went once to Al Anon.

One June in what we didn’t know
was his last year of life,
Mom packed his bag.  I
coerced him into the car.
Shit, Vic, take me home
he growled as we drove up
to the annual silent retreat,
his 33rd, with the Jesuits,
and the Men of Milford.

Instead of home we stopped off
to get some food in him
at a restaurant on the way.
A polite waiter I would have liked to kill
served him his Manhattan.
Then he went on
to make a good retreat.

No kind of meteorologist back then
knew to predict the perfect storm
of addictions, mood disorders,
low serum folate levels in the brain.

Still and to this day,
there’s no one else can sing
O Salutaris Hostia like my Dad.

****Written after a comment from dustin cecil****

How much moon does it take to see?
A starving man will appreciate what little he receives.

Could it be there really is a purpose
to an unnatural yearning for essentially a stranger,
a purpose fulfilled by its very existence
as a singular spot of hope on the darkest night?

Are you merely meant to be a distraction to desire
luring my hunger back through so many years
to a cache of spiritual energy, a memory of kindness
secretly stored for a time of emotional famine?

They say that sometimes we write poetry
solely for ourselves, which is not destined to see
the light of any day, maybe because the memory
would never open its eyes for anyone else.

Maybe I just needed a character
to offset life’s daily destructions just long enough
for me to find a foothold of success
in the effort toward building a better me.

I’m being vague, but
someday I hope I can fully share
how you might have saved my life
years and years in advance.

Guess what I’m really trying to say now is
our little chance encounter may have been
all the moonlight I need to survive the dark.
I will follow it as long as it shines.

Silken strands of words
Wove their way through my tweedy defenses
And I began to weave a story
So large it smothered my senses.

Ignoring the fraying ends that melted in flame
I thought you would patch the holes.

Instead, mine grew deeper.

Light a match
Burn the stack down
I found the needle I lost.