Clouds laze along
I’m from
Pieces of tin foil, folded for reuse
Fels Naphtha soap,
Used on shirt collars and sassy mouths
I’m from
camelias, white, pink and variegated
A prolific Meyer lemon bush and an ancient apricot tree,
Whose abundance became pies, jam and canned fruit
I’m from
An RCA Victor record player in a special kitchen cabinet,
Fats Waller, show tunes, Mitch Miller, and big band,
Parental spins around the kitchen
I‘m from
The cigarette butts squished out in egg yolks,
Sky-high, from-scratch waffles, bread and angel food cake,
Warm summer evenings of barbeque smoke
I’m from
“Watch your tone, young lady”
“You’ll remember this discussion longer than you’ll remember a beating”
“Lift up your head, square your shoulders, take responsibility, and move on”
I’m from
Irony, sarcasm, love
Laughing out loud at yourself
And above all,
Grit.
i
Here’s a poet
who hates to see
self in a mirror
Too much gray
Too many lines
Not as fine
as a clock
or calendar
though all three remind
of the finitude
of time
time
time
ii
Who says
poeming is careering
how does it trump (no pun)
a job
I used to write truths for print (and was good [not great])
Now I only write to learn
and every lesson burns
with kindling left unlearned
iii
Frost
or Warren
or Heaney
or Thomas
(not I)
It’s not my place
to poem of place
my roots so rotted as the suburbs
my diction
so much fiction
or just plain tired
(((Truth)))
Then what
and how
is this
careering
iv
Back to that blasted mirror
reflecting more than gray & lines
so little time
to change the endgame
(or with the endgame just the same unfinish
the finished)
rewrite the rhyme
however little the final verse
may rhyme
Damn time
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.
