Closeness, at this moment, denied
in this full stop, this frozen frame
I taste the tongue of these airs
I breathe the lung of its layers
This painting, one of my prayers
Come.
I do want you.
Stay a moment.
But, wait a moment longer.
Please.
You know me.
Drawing by David Hayward, entitled “Solitary”
WHO ….was a pupil.
In Her class.
She never used a pointer, but knew how to single you out. He called it The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate, and that digit indeed touched his oblivious forehead. He had his nose in a Hare Krishna book whilst the class was studying Eastern religion.
SHE made an example.
WHO followed her home. The sun was setting. She opened the door to her garage.
He watched, something sharp in his back pocket.
He closed the door.
SHE gave him a hand…….
Who is a midnight driver ….
That stays about ten over the highway limit, so as to appear normal. Dead on between the lines, no wandering onto the shoulder. Spits out a bloody froth. Wiggles a loose tooth with the tongue. A hand rests on the seat, bloody too.
Revenge was served hot tonight.
Something’s been severed, in spite.
The Animal smiles, uncontrite.
Hare Krishna to all, and to all a Good Night…….
This modern day
The ads exclaim
When selling us their pills
Can help! Can help!
(A weakling’s claim)
They’ll never cure our ills
The promises they make are rash
They see themselves as clever
And think we’ll pay our hard earned cash
For snake oil cures
No, never!
The doubtful claims are bold and shiny
And now we all have hope
The side effects they wish were tiny
(And so they softly spoke)
This drug, it’s not for everyone
And so you must be cautious
May cause rash or swollen tongue
And might just make you nauseous
So, thinking persons, don’t be dense
These warnings, printed finely
Should make you use your common sense.
”Twas given you, divinely.
We were kids
In the old apartment,
Just sprouting into adolescence
Not in poverty
But we knew
Who the Bailiff was
And somehow
We were always saved
And could always stay
The bricks were yellow
The hallways dim with dirt
Broken windows
Smelly carpets
Pothole pavement
Freeze in winter
Boil in summer
Lazy landlord
Nothing fixed on time
But pay the rent we must
On time
It was home I think
For nigh on ten years
My brother and I
We two, inseparable
Bunk beds, one room
That was us
He had the top one
He was lightest
But not light enough
He came crashing down
On me, one night
Bolts not tight. What a fright
That got fixed, then one night
We had spaghetti for dinner
He got sick
Over the side, down the ladder
We fell in with little hooligans
Maybe we were hooligans at heart
Made stun guns
From sawed off hockey sticks
With clothespin triggers
Holding tight bands of rubber
With bobby pin bullets
The Police did not like this much
And we heard about something called
Juvenile Hall
Guns confiscated
Wrists slapped
Started a gang
With pretend wooden swords
And Mom’s old sheets for flags.
You’ll put someone’s eye out with that
The side door at Yellow Brick
Had a tall narrow window
So you could see outside
Coming down the stairs
It got smashed
And was left open
For a day or two or three
Our friend Stanley
Got used to running down the steps
And right through the open gap
Until one day the glass man came
And we didn’t know
We heard a loud crash
And screaming
Stanley nearly died
He was so cut up
The neighbors brought towels
They were soaked in his blood
There was a fire in the night
Outside in our underwear
In October, all clear
My little brother had a special friend
Named Stewie
But they moved away
His Mom Sophie would drive him
For visits, sometimes overnight
One time, she came to get him
They went to go home
And were never heard from again
Died on the road
Bad crash
Our little girlie friends
Started growing a little
I liked Rosie, and brought her cookies
Puppy love
There was Arlene too
She took needles every day
And the backs of her legs were red
We loved Elvis
And at thirteen came The Beatles
Change in the world
I went to work as a bagel baker
At thirteen. At thirteen.
Life had new things in store
It was our time
To leave the street we called
The Yellow Brick Road.
***
At our summer retreat
I am ten, and a half.
From the outhouse,
I hear your voices,
casual as you return from the pool.
Such a ninny-
Won’t go in the water.
Howard, tell him he’s supposed to enjoy himself.
That’s why we’re here.
Unsuspecting conversations hurt the most.
They are honest and free.
I come back to the trailer,
fake nonchalance.
Hurt inside, feeling foreign.
They all go off to visit the neighbors.
I stay back.
What’s the matter, stick in the mud?
I say I will go shoot some baskets.
When they are gone,
I take a towel and go to the pool.
I watch. I see.
I climb the high dive tower,
and I drop.
But not for you.
In February’s frozen spring
I came across a curious thing-
a solitary sapling in the sun.
It looked as if ’twere shivering,
with papered leaves a-quivering,
and the wind imparted voices to each one.
I thought its spindly arms were bare
until I heard the chattering there
and spied the little curlicues of brown.
And thought- so many made it through
the winter’s blast, the icy blue,
and held on fast to make their chittering sound
Today, my Manna told me stories of the stars. How we, at the Hub, sent our Envoys far far afield, long ago in the Folding Times. How one of them came to a world of blue and green and white. Many lived there, but still there was much room, and bounty for all. Fleeces of white beauty floated in their skies. There were depths of flowing waters, yes! If you can believe. Creatures many and varied. Years divided by the weathers, and blessed by a life-giving sun. The one who stopped there saw these things. I said to my Manna “Why treat me as a child? These are fairytales to make us think there is a Heaven, no?” My Manna smiles and hugs me, tousles my hair. After all, I will turn 1,562 tomorrow.
Through a half inch chink in my prison of warm rubble, I stare. Gluttonous for the light. I screamed, at first. Now, breath is shallow and rationed. In thirty minutes, I will manage a gooselike honk. I am held motionless and squeezed in painful pincers of crazy two-by-fours, in steel and glass. I squat. I smell of myself. Never been so familiar with my own kneecaps. One arm, my best one, captive by a deadly weight. The clockwork beams coming through my spyhole show me flesh, so purple. I thirst. Three nights I count, and I am fading. These nights have been clear, and I see a star selection. For a while, the burning smell permeated all. Now, it is my own effluent and decay. I babble to myself ….the sad joke is on you now, brother. You proud atheist. If there was a Pride Parade for such, you would have been the flag bearer. You feel like praying now, don’t you? But you don’t know to whom.
All of this day, this bright dreamlike day, I see stars too. They are before me, black spiders pulsing. Please.
Gael, over at https://muellermusings.com/ has given us all the poetry that is needed in describing a visit to Antarctica.
There is no edge, no door, no wall. It is open. It is the end of the world. The filmy horizon is the only link to other continents. You are free to leave.
The entrance, however, is anything but open. Just getting to the entrance requires a bit of stamina and a lot of patience. You need to know the rules.
Rule#1. This is NOT your home.
Antarctica is home to whales, seals, penguins, birds, ice, snow and rock. It is inhospitable. The weather, at its best, can kill a human. This rule is not open to debate.
Rule#2. Be prepared.
Crossing the Drake Passage is an E-ticket. Our crossing was rather uneventful but seasickness was rampant. It is exhilarating and frightful. It is a major adrenaline rush. Let it happen. Know it is happening. Soak up the exterior feelings. Those are the ones you will remember.
And…
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Aremyfeetofftheground 