The Cruelest Month

This poet says the shortest one’s
also the cruelest.
It surpasses December and January
for the coldest.
And probably unchallenged
in the monthly rankings as
the most-misspelled.
Like the word “misspelled.”
Some in the English-speaking world
never master including
that seemingly silent extra consonant.
I’m insufferable that way with my
deep pool of knowledge.
But I long ago learned
a most-valuable lesson in one of those
chilly little months.
During the short wolfish period
of my life, I did plot
to win the favors this cute girl.
She believed there were more than
those two worthy (and manly) holidays
in the second month of the year.
I forgot to recognize
THE most-important “holiday” in that month.
So, don’t be like Caesar and I,
forgetting The Ides of February,
or thereabouts. (Yes, I’m insufferably right.
You can look it up.)
By the Saints–or at least the one
whose name starts with “V”–
you’ll find she can make February
seem longer for you than merely by adding
that oft-forgotten “r.”
The cruelest month can grow colder,
and oh so crueller still.

This tortured bit of verse came about from my own tortured efforts to write ANYTHING, as I crawl my way back from my debilitating back issues and concomitant spasms of my emotional spine. So I took a list of words from an old short story prompt and tossed them against the virtual refrigerator door with some of my own. This first draft stuck. Here are the words: monthly, cute, shortest, wolfish, plot, master, world, valuable and December.

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Heaven, From Eleven to Seven

Finally asleep at 1:30,
awakening again around 4:00,
and here I’d hoped
I’d see this affliction no more.
The thoughts that prod me
and keep me from sleep
have changed over the years
yet still tend to seep
out from my heart
and into my mind,
even though I recognize
them now as all of a kind
of confusion, delusion
and hope I can’t reach
from this place on my back
where even experience didn’t teach
me to leaven with sensibility
the gut feelings of sense.
Which is why, after four hours,
I awaken, staggering but intense,
fighting my way through the fog
that comes with this deprivation.
And yet, once again by day’s end,
I’ll lie here in resignation
that I can’t control the world,
you, your future or the past.
Maybe that’s why I toss until
I drop into darkness at last.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give
to nod off by eleven,
awaken around seven,
and worry less about you,
and the sadness you live through.
I’d lay my head on the pillow,
where soon sweet dreams would billow.
In peace, eleven to seven,
knowing that you
are sleeping peacefully, too.
Yeah, that would be heaven.

Beyond My Reach

My life’s temple is collapsing,
the figurative version of it
shattered by forces both
within and without,
the actual one sick and weak
and ready to fail.
Life was so much easier,
when I kept it boarded up
like an old house,
its clapboards stripped,
gray, cracked and whistling
as the cold winds blew through.
Back then, you would walk past
and not notice it except
for the birds occasionally
bursting from the attic.
And now the birds are gone,
scattered like leaves in the wake
of the semi truck that just
ran me over, blowing past,
pulling at my chest,
tearing my eyes, these windows
of my decrepit soul that
she opened when first I held her.
And now is beyond my reach.

Maybe I’ll cry tomorrow. But for now, I’m just empty.

Sharp Pencils

The gale pushes its way
past doors locked and sealed
with hope and prayer.
But they will not
withstand the cloaked
forces of Nature between
dusk and dawn.
I know that darkness
cannot last longer than
a new sunrise, and storms
eventually give way
to a new bright promise.
If you believe your hopes
securely lock the entrance
to your sacred space,
or that prayers hold fast
the door of your sanctuary,
I can’t say you’re mistaken.
I only know another
dark storm has shattered
the door she opened
in me when first I saw her
open her blue eyes.

I started writing this down as just scribbles while I watched my granddaughter use the freshly sharpened #2s from the circular pencil box on my desk. I had written “Sharp Pencils” at the top of the page because that’s what we were using. Hence the title. She likes the pink gel pen, too. But, c’mon…

Frameless

I don’t wonder so much
about yesterday and tomorrow anymore.
The uncertainty of my margins,
of then and then, of here and there,
of that you and this you and
me and another me, have become
unnecessary fussiness in
my frameless life.
What is certainty in a world
built upon imperfection?
I can rhyme time with mine;
mine is what this time is.
I sometimes think of you
from those days and don’t worry
about a future that never could be.
You think you escaped
my gallery of conundrums,
but I’d ripped you free from those
confining frames years ago.

In serious need of writing something after two weeks-plus on the road helping with a new granddaughter, I dashed this off between drowses last night. What’s it mean? That’s your call, kind reader.

One of a Kind

A Collective Collection Poem

They call a group of lobsters
from Down East Maine a Risk,
even though soup on the menu
containing said Risk is a bisque.
Since collecting cats into a herd
is considered a feat beyond daring,
I suppose a Pounce of them
is as good as a Glaring.
A bunch of peacocks isn’t a flock.
In grand array, they’re an Ostentation.
Swans on the pond may float in a flotilla
dolefully christened a Lamentation,
When snails meet it’s an Escargotoire,
though they can also gather in a Rout.
Chasing each other is a Scurry of Squirrels,
while still waters hide a Hover of trout.
Even Humans, who made up these names,
don’t get off scot free without one.
Foresters fell trees in a Stalk,
a Superfluity counts as more than one nun.
Not sure why a tribe of boys is a Blush,
or how hermits as an Observance come a’meeting.
The Lord of the manor pours a Draught of butlers
while outside a Hurtle of sheep are a’bleating.
A pile of poets can be a School,
so I guess I’m just one of many.
Looked half my life for others like you,
but no bevy exists ‘cause there just aren’t any.

Step Nine

There’s this guy who penned a story
he’ll never share with you.
It’s a tale of two people who
should have, but ultimately never knew

their true feelings for each other
but should have sensed them coming.
Not roaring like a freight train, but
maybe a funeral parade’s muted drumming.

In it he tells her how he’s sorry
for the way he let her down,
though she’s so hurt she’ll forever view
him as a vain and heartless clown.

But he was compelled to tell her,
to again open his scarred wounds,
to make amends for damage he’d done
so he could listen to the old tunes

that always brought to his mind an Us
where only a He and She existed.
And though he fought like hell to forget her,
some of the obsessive feelings persisted.

So he comes clean with his long story,
all of the wherefores and the whys,
of how he one day just disappeared,
bringing her to forever despise

the guy who always lent a sympathetic ear
and a strong shoulder she could lean on.
How he followed some “expert’s” orders
to break away from the damage he was so keen on.

It ends with him saying a last goodbye,
after listening to her side of their tale.
But you’ll never read this story,
that’s always been his white whale.

It’s something he fought for years
to get out of his crippled system,
but now that he has, he feels no catharsis,
only realization of this hard wisdom:

You can follow all the steps prescribed
to cure your crippling addictions,
but until you confess your failings to yourself,
your true stories are nothing but true fictions.

Just so you understand, my poem is only a free-written, first-draft creative exercise in storytelling and rhyme. What is it they say at the beginning of Law & Order episodes? “The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.” However, feel free to run it on your mind’s big screen through whatever personal lens you wish. It’s yours now.