Category Archives: poetry

Jigsaw

What is this, my friend?

You, the one who never makes plans,
have cobbled this one together
from the remnants of the morning.

You really shouldn’t be left alone,
you know,
but it was with relish that you contemplated an afternoon of dead rest,
owing to their shopping and a movie plans.

Out the doorway they shuffled,
with rearward glances and catcalls of false regret
that you were under the weather.
You smiled slyly and pushed the door up.
There.

One cup of hot freshly ground coffee.
One lazyboy that the cats have owned for a long time.
Fresh batteries in the remote,
good stories on Netflix.
None of those shoot ’em up, blow ’em up, car-chasing, teeny bopper,
obscene stand-up comic kinds of pictures.

Said cats are sorely pissed that you have had the temerity to take their chair,
but they settle in, seeming to recognize that this is your day.
Plus, you have cheezies, and that seals the deal.

Now for something calming and easy to digest.
A romantic comedy?
Nah, too contrived.
A documentary on whales?
Seen one, seen ’em all.
Horror?
It took you ten years to get over the last one you saw.

This is cynicism 101, you know, right?

The two fuzz buddies settle down,
and take turns licking your orange fingers.

A half hour later,
while you’re still scrolling through movies as if you were playing the slots,
something heavy wells up from within you.
No reason.  No reason.
The puzzle of your life, so carefully fitted,
has lost its connectedness.
Higgledy-piggledy, topsy-turvy.
There’s that old familiar throat tightness.
Those ball bearings you’ve gotta swallow,
and you do it.
Even here, you do it.
Even here, alone, you struggle for control,
but pools of your tears darken your shirt of pastel blue.

The felines somehow sense this sadness.
They creep up your shoulders and nuzzle your ears with their purrs.
And you can touch them.
You can hold them.
You can cry it out until they are wet and want to lick the salt.
Never would you let anyone see this.

By eight o’clock you are composed,
redness and puffiness gone.

You are hoping they hurry home.

The affair

I feel possessed when you come ’round.
Vampire of my affections
that I save, unknowingly,
to cast, as pearls.
Lost upon you?
So nervous you are.
Just a touch makes a static spark,
and you jump back, mistrustful.
I hold out to you my right hand,
and slowly shutter my eyes
in token of obeisance.
I may, I think, know the art
that is needed to quiet your qualms.
A studied gentleness of touch.
An equal and opposite reaction
to your fickle withdrawals or to your nuzzlings.
As I stop my strokings,
your almond eyes register their displeasure.
I feel a petulant bite.

See you later, alligator.

No tuna for you tonight.

Mister M.

 

 

We mumbles,
yes we mumbles,
and oftentimes we screams.
Depends a lot on Mister “M”,
Director of our dreams.

We stumbles and we fumbles,
through the achy breaky pains.
And he always makes us stay inside,
excepting when it rains.

Now, quite a skimpy imp he is,
but never is he humble.
He Keeps us down and out of it,
no matter how we grumble.

He takes delight in malady
and worthiness a-crumble.
Remembrance of normality
has taken quite a tumble.

We hear that even Superman
could not defeat the imp.
We’ve got to learn to think again
to cure us of its gimp.

So, fight its stories drear and dark,
and give it no more place.
Unhappiness, his mortal mark,
may leave but little trace.

Skeletal

all the days of a life
in misery’s company
its dark bird upon the shoulder
visible to none but its host
but not in mirrors.
its hooks,
in the trapezius,
do not disturb much
unless rebellious thoughts foment.
it tells
what may say
what may think
what is self
until at last the Self cries
bring me the hydrogen winds of the bomb,
make vapour of my body
my love
and render my bones to the sun.

The teacher

 

 …and a woman once taught me some painful truths.
…and how does a boy, who thinks himself a man,
deal with the searing pain of such branding?
dismissed with derision.
hell hath no fury.
…and why does he care?
but, he does.
needs a confessor.
seeks his redemption.
cursing his own emasculation
by hands perceived unfit.
sculpting justification,
he rides his high horse
and says nothing.

… and, a silent fool is none the wiser.

The Birth

so sleepy.
caresses with gloves of plush velvet.
and so, let me slide…
I fly over brooding lands of Origin.
my mast head turns to visions magnetic.

pieces of The Art, half seen.
rumors of stories ancient.
obscured, they tantalize.
they collect within me until I must pause to consider each.

as a bird, I alight, upon a branch of rusting iron.
and there do i give hot birth to the leaden egg.
marbled in its weight, it burns,
swirling, showing on its shell a hint of bright beginnings.

i wait only for the Word,
but confounded am i by the echoes of witless conversations.
theatrical in their urgency.
demented and demonic.
the Great Lie.

there is the sound of one hand clapping.

the falsity bursts into crackling embers, then full dark.

There is a bang.

***

Image credit: http://www.dinosaurus.puisto.com

Day and night, night and day

In the early morning,
I held you when you cried.
In time, you began the building of your world.
You knew important things,
like the bear went over the mountain,
and also that the Camptown racetrack was five miles long.

At bedtime, native drums could be heard
as I thumped out their rhythm on your back and sang a song that said
that down in the jungle you would live in a tent
and you wouldn’t pay money, you wouldn’t pay rent,
you wouldn’t even know the time. But you wouldn’t mind.
Every night you asked for more, and got mad if I shortened the verse.

I reached out with the blue of my covered fingers, and you took the proffered hand.

In the broad noon of the day, you had built well. Worldly connections.
True and false friends.
I saw you less, as you ranged further and further, looking for something that you thought was beyond your doorstep.

But, you were the first to appear if I was in peril.

In this evening, now, you see the faltering.
As in a certain prophecy, it seems you have found a purpose.
I reach out once more, with weakened hand.
The blue shows through.

Take me to that place where there is no time, but I won’t mind.

To the winos and the connoisseurs

But you must already know these things, no?

Then have a little titter at the expense of this neophyte initiate.

When I drink, it’s usually a beer or two (rarely three).

Upon a time, it was good rye whisky-

neat, please, and room temperature.

On Christmas past, someone brought a one and a half litre bottle

of Black Tower Rivaner Rhine wine.

It’s been in my fridge since then, unopened,

until a day or two or three ago.

At which time I felt like a drink.

Not used to wine, I gulped it a bit.

But then, you know,

it left a pleasant afterglow.

And so I sipped,

coating my mouth with the perfume.

Taste buds as erect as chilled nipples,

sprouting new branches.

Such fine detectives.

No need for sudden buzz, now.

Savor.  Lengthen.  Make the glass last.

But alas the glass did pass,

save for a single drop perceived.

Wet the tongue tip just once more.

Fire up the city lights, I pray,

A’fore one last lullaby.