Thirty years after the sudden death of someone I didn’t know terribly well, what remains? Not his name. Not quite his face, but something of his posture and physique. A strong impression of good-natured and thoughtful conviviality, based on possibly no more than half a dozen conversations, always on the periphery of punk shows. The shock and sadness of his death from a brain tumor. Someone who, on rare occasions when he pops into my head, still makes me smile, and shapes my memory of that whole period in my life. Good times. A good dude.
Wish I remembered his name.
fledgling cuckoo
flopping across the road
adoptive parents
nowhere to be found
poor little rain-crow
didn’t mean to be a parasite
A year into the pandemic, do I still remember how to kiss, or even to hug? Is it a muscle-memory thing, like riding a bicycle? I’ve forgotten whole languages, one lonely drink at a time. I barely remember what it’s like to be in a room full of strangers. Will we ever pretend that’s normal again?
last year’s pod
still holding on
to next year’s milkweed
ghostly dock leaves
pressed against the window
old chicken house
gone but for their grins
our childhood collection
of mummified rats
once my best
climbing teacher
broken-limbed maple
stone wall
all the times
I’ve rebuilt it
Clouds hide the top of Ice Mountain
and it looks like a real mountain again,
no turbines in sight.
Below, the ugly subdivision
where a black family once woke
to a burning cross.
I find a shed antler on the powerline,
a twisted Y like the bottom half
of a stick figure.
A small pin-striped bird alights
on the dead cherry tree next to the porch
& starts gleaning its breakfast
from crevasses in the decaying wood.
At length I remember its name,
black-and-white warbler—
& in so doing, forget the name of the author
whose Collected Shorter Poems I hold
in my lap. They’re orphaned for more
than a minute by my poor memory.
If I can just get the first letter…
something beginning with a G, perhaps?
That letter like a smile
warped into a grimace…
Or a T, that tall gallows.
The warbler stops to issue his usual
In dark December, sink
into the memory of childhood
like a bog man into the peat.
Drink too much & sing.
Gather all your small griefs,
your long-bearded regrets
& grotesque humiliations,
dress them in red & set
them to hammering. This is
the season of fresh starts
& the slaughter of innocents.
Remember to cut air holes
in the top crust & don’t stint
on butter. Wear sensible boots.
Go out into the long night
& learn the names of the stars.
Bits of white suspended in solution
swirled past the window after every upheaval.
I found a pencil with a blessing on the side
& decided to start a list
of everywhere I’d been.
I filled three notebooks just with the hiding places
in my parents’ house. At this rate, I realized,
the pencil would be gone
before I made it halfway to the street.
Under my hat my hair continued to grow.
The pilot light burned like an insomniac
in the back of the oven.
As I sit by the fireside,
I remember the times, the good and the bad.
Those many years ago,
When we meant something to each other.
I'm probably knitting a woollen sweater,
Or perhaps watching a mother cat lick her younglings.
And somehow, everything reminds me of you.
Because I just can't get over you,
Though I have moved on, it is not the same.
And now I have children,
Who have children.
And I can't help think of everything that we almost had.
Together.
Almost.
I take a left,
And another,
I head straight,
And then a right,
A dead end staring back at me,
I try to retrace my steps,
Uncertain of where I’m going,
Uncertain of where I am,
I turn around,
And see open space,
Trying to recall my previous steps,
But my memory seems distant,
Hesitation then tossed to the side,
As I march forth with reckless abandon,
A look of determination fills my eyes,
Uncertain of the beginning or end,
Strangely familiar,
Yet uncertain,
I’ve been here before,
Or so it seems,
Surreal in setting,
In feeling,
In this real?
Or am I dreaming?
Time appears frozen,
Stuck in the present,
All around me is still,
The past and future non-existent,
Impressionistic from a distance,
Realistic up close,
Rubbing my eyes,
To see more clearly,
You don’t know-
But I am still around.
Whirl around – but
You wouldn’t see me- yet.
Walk on, in blinding light
Or in comforting dark –
But – listen! My footfalls
Crushing the fallen leaves.
You don’t feel-
But smell – the breeze
The flowers carrying
My sweat pungent.
Sing on, gay, heart light
Let hair swirl over your face
But - listen! My voice
Rising over the winds.
Do not leave, my friend, do not
Leave me with just a glance.
Do not just caress me and leave
Do not just pick me up and smell
My fragrance and throw me back in the basket.
I have been plucked, tenderly
With care not to smudge or crush
My lovely petals even now damp with dew
I wait for thee to hold me to your chest
And take in deep all I have to offer
Look, look at my colour, my grace and beauty
Smell me deep, my sweet scent!
Let me adorn your beloved's head
Or soothe her eyes, still, in the pot.
Let me remind her of you, of your love
For all thats worth in the world is just love.