senses (Photo credit: joaoloureiro)
The air moves past my skin just as I move
through its birdsong-bounded reality.
I sensed neither its touch nor its whisper
for so long. Deep inside, listening, hearing
the voices of so many mimicked by mine
and their message consistent…
No, you can’t… You’ll never… Why do you?…
If you’d only…
If I’d only known how to break out
of that self-imposed imprisonment,
the isolation from truth, reality,
as simply real as air, the distant whirring
chirping and cheeping wall of noise
that scratches like fine sandpaper on my senses,
the raw smell of dirt just before the rain
walks fully into the room.
And the comfort of love—of self, of others,
from you. And now, yes, I can…
I stop moving, it felt so like a plunge
to those depths again and I’m not
going there anymore. No, I can’t…
I stand still, close my eyes and deeply
steep myself in memory, savoring
this feeling of Us from sole to soul.
Linked to the August 21, 2012 Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub
According to most of your rules manuals,
I’m a poor excuse for a writer.
I’ve read six books in the past year
and two of them were The Sun Also Rises.
I can’t write every day and
I don’t want to hear how you do.
Some say I’m a poet, though I believe I’m
a reborn storyteller who spins tales on paper
in busted up lines. Papa Hemingway,
Robert Parker and Ron Carlson taught me
how to fib like this. See, it’s a guy thing…
and the only way I can get away with lying
in this world full of women
who read between my broken parts.
The poetry I learned from no one, except
maybe a big lesson from old Bill Stafford
who said I didn’t have to be perfect, just lower
my phony idea of your standards and write.
It’s kind of like drinking beer, I guess.
So as a poet, I’ve become a minor league beer snob
who dislikes major league beer snobs.
Oh, and while I’m at it,
I believe canned cheese product
is both fine dining and a swell serving device.
I sing fairly well, but never in front of people,
so maybe I don’t. My dog Mollie ain’t saying.
She doesn’t care if she lies perfectly, either.
© 2012 Joseph Hesch
By Joseph Hesch
The judging began at birth.
He was a good baby,
a good boy,
a good student,
a good son,
a good brother,
a good teammate,
a good listener,
a good lover,
a good worker,
a good husband,
a good provider,
a good father,
a good man.
And because he was so good,
he always wanted to be better.
It was never enough, though.
Ultimately, all that mattered was,
in so many not-so-good lives,
he was not much more than
a good excuse.
My friend, Hedgewitch, AKA Joy Ann Jones, is pouring the Poetics poetry prompts at dVerse Poets Pub today. She’s asking for poems that show some type of repetition. While regular readers might say, “Joe, don’t you always write about growing old or about lonely, longing losers all the time?” Uh, no. I hope not.
Nevertheless, here’s a repetition poem about…uh…a lonely…longing…loser.
Last night the snow laid its ghostly hands
upon all the horizontals outside.
Some of the verticals and in-betweens
felt its curative touch, too.
Fresh-fallen, softly whitening the dark,
smoothing the points and edges,
beautifying the uglies too conspicuous
before the fall after Fall.
But, come windy morning, that which was covered,
and those sojourners not long passed
have carved their marks on the once-immaculate.
And with dawn’s rising light they reveal
Winter’s cold truth.