Posts for June 30, 2024 (page 9)

one

I wore the uniform, proudly.

Don’t really like war, peace

being so much better for all,

but they attacked us, they

had no intention of stopping.

You can’t just lie down and die.

two

I did terrible things. Terrible.

No surprise, and no complaining,

if I pass straight from Life to Hell.

My only defense is wondering:

When the choices are do or die

isn’t the whole thing a mortal sin?

three

Close to forty years have gone,

and my uniform still fits comfortable.

That doesn’t surprise me at all,

given how I work as hard as ever.

You asked me why I keep it around.

Why not? I still have the nightmares.

four

You flatter me. These aren’t my girls.

They’re my son’s, my pride and joy,

the future I likely won’t live to see.

I pray it will be a good one for them.

I’ve tried to be a good man, to live

the Sermon on the Mount each day

and to every living soul I meet,

an example for those who recall me.

I’m a Christian man, I believe in God,

but I know each other is all we have

to come through the trials we’ll face

down all the years, down the long path.

(after the circa 1900 photograph “Unidentified African American Civil War veteran in Grand Army of the Republic uniform with two children,” attributed to “Goodman and Springer, Mt. Pleasant, Pa,” from the Library of Congress collection at https://www.loc.gov/item/2018652209/)

Enjoining good acts;
a feeling or moral obligation to do right or do good;
Blameworthiness of one’s own conduct –
all fine definitions of our collective conscience.
Someone recently told me to vote with my conscience.
I definitely will come Election Day.
A man who opposes all my perceptions of 
kindness,
goodness,
decency,
morality,
empathy
cannot and will not 
be my choice.

(With apologies to Pete Townshend)

This month is over
Excepting one poem, not so easy
Playing so free with verse, not for me  

Writing poetic has yet to free me
Harangues and taunts still haunt me
Voices inside that tell me to ride
Fast and far away  

Will I ever play so free,
like a breath rippling by
Or haunted forever, will I doubt til I die

The eyes, the ears
are of no benefit

if the mind is
blind and deaf. 

Green canopy hides dark sky
Middle age, a tree with brilliant leaves
Shape shifting in the shadows

Different decade, different songs
Man’s stupidity displayed
Downturned eyes, the click of a cane on the pavement

Now begins the conquest of darkness
Cracks in asphalt green with moss
A box of ashes in the closet

The remnants of matter
Stuck to the wet, concrete floor
Beyond the fence with a broken lock

Why bother watching nightly news?
Electric eels surpass us in voltage
Passing shades of demise —

Strange dreams of life, so many twists
Regretted hours
I put up a good fight

What will world be like when meek inherit?
Hold tight that invisible spark
High above a pool of childhood glee

It’s a beautiful place.

Never participated before,
Over participated this time,
Submitting every single poem I wrote.
But your poems inspired me,
Your feedback encouraged me.

It gave me a place
On the lee side of my world
Where I could escape
For a little while. 

It brought me joy
At a time in my life
When I desperately needed
Some joy.

House Cleaning Day was always the terror
Awaiting us every month
Mom wakes up at six sharp
With her league of clean pop music
And “back in the day” Sturgill Simpson

I wasn’t born a prodigy at luck-based games
And so when my curled fist lost to my brother’s spread-out hand
In a tense round of rock-paper-scissors
I was stuck scrubbing the toilet,
And peeling hair out of the shower
Cleaning out the grime inevitably collected
In a bathroom shared by two teenagers

But I refused
To touch my brother’s side of the sink

I didn’t want to see what horrors lay beneath the shaving cream he’s had since seventh grade
Or clear up his drain that has started making used-car noises similar to Dad’s twelve-year-old Honda
Or be caught dead rearranging his beat-up toothbrush, his 99-cent deodorant, his prehistoric retainer

I hoped, longed, and prayed for the day
He would pack up all that crap into a suitcase
And give me a perfect, boy-free bathroom
All to myself
The curious thing, however, is that when he gathered all his things and moved out of the house
I couldn’t find myself spreading my hair products and facial cleansers across the sink
Like I always said I would once he started college
I kept them crammed on my side,
Leaving the counter half-empty

Suddenly, I started to miss walking into the bathroom
And seeing a mixed-up array of acne treatments,
Or a men’s razor propped up against the faucet
I didn’t think I would miss something so annoying
And I never thought I’d be whining over half of a fake marble countertop

But here I am
Holding back tears every time I glance at his now-empty side of the sink
And wishing
He never left at all

The poet sits, pen in hand,
blank paper laying on the table,
distasteful as an unwritten tombstone

or is it a door, waiting to be opened,
leading to, perhaps,
a beautiful new world,
or an incomprehensible tragedy,
or an inconsequential lark

the pen, once it touches the paper,
pushes, pulls, turns–
leaving behind symbols
to approximate that
which had existed, before,
only in the mind
of the poet

later, the poet hands
the paper to the reader,
who converts the markings,
stained onto the page,
into ideas, filtered through
the personal framework
living inside the reader’s mind–
word, phrase, line, stanza

building up each
into a cumulative whole,
which, if successful,
leaves behind
something new,
passed from one mind
to another

later,
the poet sits, pen in hand–
starting again

This pink Catawba sky—

could it be the eve before the end?
Prayed-for rain has brought lush
backdrop for whatever comes next.
Grandson clinks through gate, veering
my thoughts from the end
to how each day seeds the next—
a random scattering of what was
thus carries on beneath 

this pink Catawba sky.

Emily Withenbury suggested a cento for this last day–with a twist–the lines come from our own poetry from this month. My thirty lines . . . (title is one of them).

my mind paints life-scapes–
i brush on their colors, soft,
smear sagey hue on canvas,
listen to sage whispers
dance against white blooms.
a nugget of life’s meaning,
penciling color onto black and white
i hear, let color flow over you–
yes, the yellow of sunflowers.

then daybreak observations
shout, we elegant dance.
kentucky speaks from very near–
a look and feel and smile
enjoying stillness under colorful masses
with soft breezes, rich colors, callings–
i break free, in garden
play at new play, rural peace,
consider the steady measure of day.

in dim moonlight, i see deer leap,
girl swing from oak branch. she smiles, laughs.
through new days, forever gifts of magic,
i live vicariously via songs
among butterfly wings
who whisper i’m cool, too
and echos of triumphant trumpets
satisfy for now, reasons to be still,
and i breathe in a ton of love.

in poetry, in hope,
i bid all an adieu. for now.