Laughingstock

T’is a cold-hearted addiction I have,
a laughable wild-goose chase
to trade this reclusive life of
the honey-tongued mimic, to attempt elbowing
my way into the company of the published.
But who am I kidding? I’m the uneducated go-between
of hot-blooded youth and cruel hearted
old age, without a hint about joining
the ranks of the bold-faced names,
the ones that are read trippingly
on the tongue there beneath the title,
perhaps earning their publishers’
money’s worth from what small advertising they
might grant them. But I a publisher will never
secure.

I am the noiseless one, eschewing
the foul-mouthed pageantry of the readings,
staying home and puking out more verse
on this new-fangled whirligig of a QWERTY
quill, stringing half-assed, well-behaved
ruminations dexterously down this alleged page
that really isn’t. How can I be disheartened
if I do not choose to champion myself out in the
infinite space, if I remain faint-hearted it is
but a foregone conclusion that the game is up?
I’m not some bloody Shakespeare, you know.

Poem #26 in my poem-a-day quest for NaPoWriMo 2015. This piece was in answer to a prompt to use a word coined by William Shakespeare as the basis of the poem. You know me, dear readers…in for a penny, in for a pound. There are at least 30 words or phrases reportedly coined by the Bard of Avon in this ponderous piece of ever-to-be-unpublished fappery–including the title. This would probably be a funnier bit of business if it wasn’t true. I haven’t submitted anything to a journal in almost a year. And you can’t win if you don’t play.

Advertisements

In Audience with The Queen

Eubalaena_glacialis_with_calf

A female North Atlantic right whale with her calf in the ocean.

On the mid-afternoon boat out of Boston,
we headed southeast past lobster traps
and gliding slicks of motor fuel,
all there to run the engine that transported
tourists from flush to a good deal poorer
in the time it took to eat one meal
at Ostra or The Capital Grille.
We were still digesting Quincy Market pizza,
feeling the breeze on our bare legs
poking out from the deck above’s
meager shade, as the hot sun sprayed jewels
off our bow. Above us, a radio squawked
that another boat had spotted her due east and
we canted to port, a vee-shaped churn
of golden foam trailing behind us as we
became smaller and smaller on the
blinding mirror of sea. She soon appeared
off the starboard bow, birds circling her
like a conscious island, the gray queen
sinuously weaving her barnacled weft over
and under the Atlantic’s green warp waves.
And then it was pretty much over.
The boat powered up and sped us back to the
dock in Boston, as we winced with sunburnt legs
and bleary eyes into a sun that was setting
over the city, which bloomed bigger with
each rumble and bump, each passing trawler’s
casting of wakes our way. I remember the image
of the dimming eastern distance, where I
left behind my feeling of human superiority
and all my other images of that day,
having dropped my camera over the side
when I bowed in my audience with the queen.

Poem #25 of Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo 2015. A sea-faring tale of a past brush with royalty.

April 26, 1865 (Do They Remember?)

628x471

The Lincoln funeral procession passes through downtown Albany on April 26, 1865

I wonder how many of them
here on this dark day remembered
the President’s last visit to the city?
Do they know the actor was in town
that day, too? Do they know
that each performed that night?
The President, to grumbles and chides,
in the Capitol and Governor’s house,
and the Actor, to bouquets and accolades,
on the boards of the Gayety on Green Street.

Do they recall the weapons flashing
through their tears on this second visit?
How that first crowd, raucous and angry,
had to be clubbed back by the butts
of soldiers’ muskets that soon would
spit fire in the gleam of southern battle?
Do they remember the actor, handsome
and passionate, appearing in The Apostate,
had fallen upon the Albany stage and
pierced his own chest with a dagger?
Do they wonder what if?

The crowd now weeps as the casket
rolls by on this street where men both
slept that night and one now sleeps
for all time. A moan follows the casket
along Broadway and up State as if riding
the swags of black crepe where once
stripes and stars directed a course
from this city on the Hudson to a nation on fire,
where two lives crossed paths once,
then again on the way back to Springfield.

Poem #23 of NaPoWriMo. Writers Digest was looking for a history poem and I recalled what happened in my home town almost exactly 150 years ago today…President Abraham Lincoln’s casket came through town on its way back to Springfield, Illinois. Being a bit of a history buff, I recalled some coincidences of the President’s first visit to Albany on February 18, 1861. I wondered if any of the people lining the street as the casket passed wondered the same things I did. This long piece poses those questions for which we have no answers.

The Inconstant Wellspring

Old_Faithfull-pdPhoto
Old Faithful, Yellowstone National Park, by Jon Sullivan
via Wikipedia

I’m sure I might have tried you on once,
whoever you are, or whatever.
I combed my hair that way,
wore those silly bell bottoms,
talked like a Virginian,
walked like I wore cowboy boots.
I tried writing like Papa, like Clemens,
Stafford and a little Whitman, too.
But they all proved too much work
for less than a little warmth and worth.
So I stopped trying and just Did,
or at least what I Could.
I discovered a Me in Me, felt
sometimes sweatpants comfy in this
baggy or too-tight skin, resigned
to this shiny sand-trap tonsure
under my hat, content with
this stringing of words that rain
happy enough even if only unhappy I read them.
I’m their inconstant wellspring,
their old unfaithful geyser.
They’re my jolly, tall, young and
once-hunky self. Even these lies.
Stand too closely to us, you might
fall in love, or indifference or maybe
just feel what might be tears.

Poem #21 in NaPoWriMo 2015’s Poem-a-Day effort. And this was an effort! That’s why I decided to write who I am and am not.

Just Like Deputy

IMG_0015

We each sit in our respective spots
just out of the rain, little Deputy Dawg and I,
waiting for unknown prey to pop its head above the mud,
come slithering out from under a little bit
of landscape. There he goes, tearing ass
along his zip run, the cable sizzling
like a griddle until he reaches the end of the line,
where he tips up on his hind legs
and chews the air with yips, yaps and
a little guy’s idea of a fearsome bark.

On his way back under the porch, he dives
into a mole hole. Pushing and digging his way
into the lair of the unseeing though quite knowing,
he comes up with something indeterminate
from this poetic promontory, something
small and dark that he shakes until he’s satisfied
he’s drained the wild out of it.
Now he’s nibbling on its innards, sometimes
tossing a bit to the ground and ignoring it,
others giving it a sniff and a lick,
then putting it back with the body.

I understand this great hunt, the running headlong
into the darkness, ending up covered
in a kind of mud and blood, tipping back,
chewing the air with sounds little guys of each
our species make when we’ve spied our prey
and go in for the coup de grace. I know the feeling
of pulling something small and icky
from the muck and then tossing its best bits
into a pile for the unseen though quite knowing…
just like this…just like Deputy.

Poem #20 of Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo 2015. This one coming on a rainy day here, watching the little Jack Russell next door do his thing (which has from time to time included nipping the poet’s writing hand). Now I’ve nipped little Deputy, myself. That’s the little devil up there in a nine-fingered photo by yours truly.

My Changes, the Reason I’m Still the Same

mentoringChangesLives

“You’ve changed,” she said, and not in a sing-song “Oh, Sugar, look at you!” southern lady kind of “You’ve changed,” as the reunion well-wishers filtered away from the bar to the circular dining tables.

“Yeah, well since the last time you saw me I came out, lost thirty pounds and I’ve written two books, all pretty heavy things to carry around for twenty-five years,” I said, sort of smiling my new sort of smile.

“Well, doesn’t that make you the special one,” she said in the same tone she’d use when I was one of the peripheral satellites, a confused speck of space dust really, in the high school galaxy she centered, a black hole for attention and adulation.

“No, I just grew up and found something in me, a truth I guess, that made me feel good about myself, not relying on everyone’s acquiescence to my capricious whims for validation,” I said, grinning with each Latinate rocket I fired over her head.

She shook her head, waved at the table of once-upon-a-time teen Sun gods and goddesses in the middle of the banquet hall and brushed past me, muttering, “You’re still a jerk…you’ll never change.”

A combo platter of prompts in this piece, which incorporates Writers Digest’s “My ___, The ____” Poem-a-Day prompt, as well as Lillie McFerrin’s five sentence fiction prompt, Changes. Still need poem #20 for the day, I think, but glad I squeezed out this free write.

The Straw Monsters

Strawman

They sit in authority of the weaker ones,
these bullies, stirring up their daily measure
of chaos they tuck away with a grin when
they’re alone. That is where they rule,
in their lonely caves, those empty husks
of echoing superiority. It is the echo
of their own voices. They’re sustained
by these grating noises, assailing all
but their own senses, dissolving the resolve
of those too weak to strike back alone
against these straw monsters. But straw
will change to smoking ash when we magnify
a heavenly light upon these stupid demons
who don’t realize they’re tinder for hell.

Poem #19 in Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo 2015. I can’t abide a bully and, if I could, I’d see them all burn a bit for the sins they commit on those not strong enough to defend against them. This poor free write is what came to mind when another instance of bullying crossed my beam. Wish I could do more.