A Poem in Parts: Part 4

-
On the Fourth Day

He’s feeling like he should shave. It’s been
since that night and it is way past 5 o’clock.
His eyes are

red and crusted over, presumably from crying,
though he promised himself a long time ago
that he would

no longer allow his eyes to water. He thinks
a lot about his mother right now, her kind,
warm embrace

and comforting words had soothed him before.
They could do the same thing now. He needed to
hear he was

a good man with a good and patient heart so
that he could learn to live on when the one part
of him that

pines still will become just another part of him.
He wishes he could see her again. To remember her face.
He went back

to the bar the night before only to find the
same beefeater that found him first.
He didn’t

feel much like being reacquainted, so he
sat and watched as other couples camped
and flirted.

Helena. Helena, my love.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Creativity, and the Pursuit of Happiness

-
I don't know when the change happened. Seriously. It used to be that people would work, and they would do so without constant carping or waging war on their bosses. People would travel miles underground in soot and filth, emerge completely covered in charcoal, go home and sleep, and wake up the next day to do it all over again. Were they happy? Sure. But, was this happiness a result of comfortable complacency, or did people truly, honestly love their livelihood? It seems to me that people in those old, iconic photographs are smiling most often when they are engaged in their lives. They laugh when they have been completely and utterly submerged in the company of creativity. Sorry for the alliteration. Creativity is a sticky wicket. We have a tendency to look at solutions to major problems and say, "my that was a creative solution. Howsoever did you concoct such a unique answer?" We also will look at a painting and say to ourselves (because it's bad form to speak
Read more

A short poem dedicated to my daughter in the womb

-
TIDAL WAVE They say, in March, my life will be a tidal wave. But, I don’t know if they know how tidal waves behave. The water recedes from the shoreline, laying bare the ghost of its silence, showing us the upset coral of thousands of stranded souls who never quite made it. Then, off in the distance, the penitent potentiality rises up to the sky in prayer, and hurtles itself, with all abandon, against the rocks and muck and grime as if shouting will never work the same way it had in the past. Its hammer-fist renders the cliffs to melting metronomes, the beach becomes an avalanche. Floundering, staccato becomes the life, and the line between earth and salt and water is erased by the hands of an angry toddler, who, incidentally, is crying to be held only to be shushed by a spinning, lighted mobile (the one with the soothing sound effects that could never replace, nor should ever replace, the beauty in the lullaby). If there were people, there aren’t now,
Read more

Poetry, from the walls, and in time...

-
I haven't been on here in a while, and it feels a little awkward trying to get back in to it, like falling off a bike and swearing it off for a time. So, I thought I would ease back in with something I am more comfortable with, a poem. "Bespoke and speak" Our last communique tempestuous and writhing with the agony of a too short message. For within that spanse expectations hang nigh, floating and weaving, sputtering and spoiling; Words losing sight of themselves, drifting further and further into static. Dialogue, dear precious conversation, confined within that delicate prison. Pick up. My words would truer find your ears were your ears listening. Pick up. This unholy ringing in my ears leaves my breath baited. Pick up and speak to me.
Read more