The (a-long-time-ago) Mother

and, even though she didn't realize it,

she asked us all to put our lives on hold

--our hopes and our dreams…discov'ring ourselves--

and, I suspect she'd hoped we'd all be there

(just where she'd left us)

when she reconciled whatever demons

tormented her in the quiet spaces.

I suspect she went to bed each night with

hopes of waking up happy and transformed,

but time carried on disappointingly--

she waits to be saved (long suffering fate)

from the specters of the ghost towns she'd built

for herself, and, incident’ly, for us,--

and we couldn't wait for her happiness

to arrive (though we did our best to try).

 Our soft-toed half-steps grew more bold with age

 And, cruelly, toward our destinies we stomped,

 some of us a bit harder than others--

 and the days grew shorter, and the nights, too--

 as we each settled down with a vengeance

 wondering if she, that woman who was

 once our mother, would ever find her way

 (back into our lives).

Sanguine

Her words were,

at first, indecipherable,

as the low pressure of the pleasant day

gave her voice a clear path up to my window.

Initially, I was convinced

it was happiness felicity joy

that swept over her. I smiled

and went to the window.

I was able to make out a few words then:

"I feel so taken advantage of..."

she shouted--red-faced and in tears--

and I learned that I'm an optimist.

there's melacholy in his smile
as he stops just outside the door,
his hand, still, on the ornate pull--
polished where the world reaches out;
dull, diminished, forgotten, soil'd
in the spots we tend to avoid
because it's inconvenient or
because it is not as attractive--
as appealing or alluring
as the wear that makes us normal.
--we adore each other's polish,
ignoring the filth that makes us

unique.

there's melancholy in his smile.

Untitled and unfinished

For i have hidden
so long
behind the comfort of you,
safe from the judgement
of the others
(even when only i, alone,
am watching--
concerned with appearances
and decorum--),

but i never considered your perhaps feelings for me;
i cared only that you felt,
and that i believed in it,
(and that they all had a chance to see--
so that all seemed well enough--
that the tragedy of my indecision,
and the vulnerability of my cowardice,
was no reason for concern).

Hiding behind you,
I was strong.

This is a poem,

but it isn’t very good.

It doesn’t even rhyme that often,

and I fucked up the meter…

...a lot.

The Imagined Son

You carry my picture

the way a bad catholic

carries a crucifix:

as proof

that, once, you believed

and, now, to remind you

to keep up the charade.

Our bond became,

a long time ago, more

imagined, less

remembered, and now,

it seems, only I know

the honest truth. Because I am

that boy, no longer, whose

smile shone brightly only

for you and, regrettably, whose

happiness was contingent only

upon your happiness

as I imagine it is still

for the imagined me

who, because he must,

endures the misery

of your imagined life

as he dreams of being—

me.

Natural Things

Our picnic near the grove is set,

but you have not arrived here yet.

The ants will carry it all away,

and I will dine on my regret.

It’s been another lonely day,

for, as I had to make my way

to our park (where song birds sing),

you weren’t there to hear me say,

“I am glad for all these natural things,

and for the pleasure your company brings,

and—oh, to think that someday hence

we will exchange our weddings rings.”

...And still, I sit, alone, incensed

for you will never recompense

in wasting all the natural things

that you said, “made the difference.”

Thus, here and now, I will—you tell, 

it is my soul you did dispel.

So take this ring—it means nothing,

(or leave it for the ants, as well).

Day Jobs of the Poets

It wasn't until quite recently that I realized so very few writers make (made) their living as writers--that they, instead, toil(ed) daily amid the muck and filth of the world--and that they use(d) their writing to express themes and ideas that they encounter(ed) out in the world where everyone else resides.

I guess I had this impression that writers were somehow separated from the world, and I guess I thought that the good writer found his or her story entirely in the imagination (I read a lot of fantasy), but I've begun to recognize that good writing, the kind of writing that affords a reader the opportunity to say, "hey, that happened to me," or, "I thought I was the only one who saw things that way," is born, not strictly from the imagination, but from our experiences; the characters we put into our works are representations of those whom we encounter every day; the places where these works are set, even if it's too subtle for the reader to notice, are places that we have all been.

I am trying to say, perhaps, that we each have our lives--readers and writers, alike--and those lives, the choices we make that ultimately produce our perceptions of the world around us, become the very essences of our creativity in both the creation and consumption of art.

Whether we choose to feel tortured or favored, we shouldn't forget to recognize that there is a poem, or a story, or a play, or a picture in there somewhere.

A man nobody knows or misses

…and she laughs her

(what now passes for a)

school-girl laugh,

“—it would shatter,

Oh

My

God…”

“That’d be blunt force trauma to the head,”

another among the group adds,

as they sit around

the skeletonized remains

of a man nobody knows

or misses,

passing his skull all over the place.

Upon closer examination

of the rearticulated specimen,

an inexact, yet detailed history

is constructed;

his bones show severe trauma

as well as crude—

quite crude—

medical intervention.

“The limp of a twice-shattered leg,

dental hygiene commensurate with the lowest levels of poverty,

fused cervical vertebrae allowing no rotation of the head,

and an irregular opening (antemortem) on the right temporal plate of the skull showing signs of bone growth…”

the professor recites, well-practiced, almost worn out.

“His remains were discovered fully skeletonized in Memphis in1985.”
“He had been dead approximately one year.”

“We have estimated him to have been in about his late-fifties at time-of-death.”

“He was born in the early- to mid-twenties.”

“This man has seen war…”

A too-brief silence falls over the group.

“But that’s so sad,” she whines—

“Do you think it was Vietnam?” the other one chimes in,

begging to be made into a spectacle,

as they sit around

the skeletonized remains

of a man nobody knows

or misses,

passing his skull all over the place.

The beginnings of a happening

It loved to happen...

Marcus Aurelius and several others are quoted as having said that, and I propose not many truer words have been spoken (I'm hesitant to make any statement with a firm resolve as you'll come to, perhaps, learn, dear reader).

But, it does love to happen, and so, inspired by my friend over at isitbluish, I have decided to create a blog to feature some of my poems and short works of fiction. I'm not trying to impress anyone (unless, of course, you are impressed, in which case--that is my intention--I'm a big, fat (but not hairy) liar).

As I'm working from my iPad, which is a delightful contraption for watching Netflix in bed or for browsing tumblr, I will end this, my debut post, here as I have yet to get the hang of the touchscreen keyboard (and I suspect that, perhaps, I never will).

I'm not sure what poem will show up first. The world will just have to wait, hushed, with bated breath.

Ta.

- H