Belated Words

Write On!

Author: Leo

  • Sonnet: writing

    
It was a fear of failing, forced to face
the truth so blithely drown by hiding dreams
in days and tossing nights that held my place
in time, banality, or so, it seemed.
Always the thought was there: to write, release
the only thing I owned uniquely mine;
my take, but excuses would never cease
to take their toll; depleting pride and time.
But age at last with fingers raised to take
a pulse along my neck with icy tips
on wrinkled skin did startle me awake;
so now, alone for hours with moving lips,
I sit composing verse and smile and fret
and curse, but never do I feel regret.

  • never be a LT candidat e

    never 
    a strange belittled concept usually
    kicked aside ignored as if never uttered
    a misunderstanding a muttered hasty response
    oh yes I know but things have changed 
    we must reassess our priorities change gears
    a typo inserted hurriedly as he stood reciting
    brusquely dismissing from behind his mask
    attempted input the numbers the meld score
    will tell us more in two weeks typing inserting  
    you in the forever known never to be removed
     at his squeaky mobile lectern he pushed
    to his next tiny room off his tiny hallway
    bumping clunking denting cheap door facings
    his blue plaid stefano ricci shirt unimpeded  
    by lab coat the brightest thing in the building
    on the street in the city in the tri-state area
    I will never read that line to you as written
    from patient education and instructions section
    of pages pushed to us as I pushed your chair
    bumping tiny room walls off the tiny hallway
    he too hurried a coward to say never to our faces
    never be a LT candidat e
     the e left to dangl e ther e
    never to be corrected
    alon
    e


  • Brush And Comb

    




    

    When the first thing she said was,
    




    They have stolen my brush and comb!
    




    I knew our conversation was doomed.
    




    Take some of my money and buy me
    




    a brush and comb! Bring them to me!
    




    




    




    Tell a nurse. She’ll find them, I advise,
    




    still smiling passed suppressed dread. 
    




    They won’t! She retorted without doubt.
    




    Let me talk to a nurse; they will help you.  
    




    No! Nurse! Nurse! Hang up this phone!
    




    




    That was my first rejection by mom
    




    in seventy-odd remembered years.
    




    We have fought but never forsaken,
    




    never slammed doors or walked away.
    




    It stung; another prick in a sad day.
    




    




    You can’t reason with schizophrenia.
    




    Lord knows, I use to try and always
    




    suffered defeat; not defeat, suffered
    




    nasty instances of realization, knowing
    




    that I, too, was one of her Satanic Liars!
    




    




    Was I too fast to dismiss her claim?
    




    Perhaps, I’m the one without knowing.
    




    I’ve worn my twenty year old Corona
    




    cap for three days, even in the house!
    




    I need to wash, brush and comb my hair.
    




    

    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Don’t Blame Me, Blame Bug!
    
			
    

    Hercules beetle
    




    Every guy has to have his Eve; gal too, her Adam.
If not an actual mortal, a blemish to blame; given, 
no, inserted undetectably and inoperably by God!
"God made me do it: I had a really, really bad day!" 
    




    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Green Time
    
			
    

    

    

    




    To this day, some 40-odd years past, 
still I can recall that instant of offense: 
a negative taken to a shop for enlargement 
and some clueless dudes’ snide comment,
“There’s a lots of green in that shot man!”
I probably blushed offering no defense. 

The photo; my son hop-splashing across
shallow, cold rock gurgling Holly Creek
in glee, startled water and he, frozen blurs
of joyous motion deemed forever known.
Suspended trees' and banks' radiant greens
swaddling him in infinite hues of caring.

Is there such a thing as too much green;
over-abundant life? Are there cravings for
hard-gray walls, rarefied and songless air, 
worlds existing in a mirrored box of self?
Slap! “Little  mosquito shit!” I wince as he
takes a sip of me into eternal green time. 


    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    memorial
    
			
    

    




    

    Separation is the state of final
acknowledgement of the absolute.
Existing in relation to all, you cannot
complete yourself but we will be here,
remembering your name, speaking humbly,
offering colorful ribbons and tears.

Sacrifice is the act, the act that ends.
Who made the choice is not the point to argue;
you were chosen or made the choice yourself.
Whether the cause was just or not or moot,
something was required and you were loss.
Now, you  have that knowing that eludes us.

Placated, soothed by ritualistic words,
we read hollow text and embarrassed by
uncouth grief and the shriek of loss we pray,
speaking of the Ultimate Sacrifice;
we whisper the name of that demigod.
Here….we will never have that knowing.

Guilt is the word, the word that tells;
leaving no room for elaboration.
We wrap your bones with no dreams in
The Cave of the Devoured Prolifics.
On occasion, we hear their soft clacking;
lighting candles, we appease with chants.


This is a reblog of an old poem which I am sadly reminded of every year.


    




    

    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    The Gifts
    
			
    

    




    Ligustrum japonicum shivers outside my window; not
from cold, but an attack of bees: Honey and Bumble.
They, enticed and tethered by its hypnotic sweet scent,
ravage and drink, humming hosannas in perfect key.

White corollas falling flurries present sacred offerings
for the soil bound; bounty from their nurturing deities.
Bombus with so short a time to live, a mere few days,
gifted their time now, at my window, to drink and sing!

    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
    dear virus
    
			
    dear virus
    
			
    

    




    




    




    




    




    




    




    As you crawl away, you can take our pain
    




    you used to douse sparkling instants of bliss,
    




    but you can not take the sufferers for they
    




    are ours to grasp in softly clenched hands.
    




    As you crawl away, you can take our fear
    




    you used to smother our days and dreams,
    




    but you can not take our memories; they
    




    are ours to place in view or to secret away.
    




    As you crawl away, you can take absences
    




    you used to dishearten, to foster our doubts,
    




    but you can not take our joys in reunion for 
    




    they are our final admissions of our needs.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    acorn
    
			
    

    




    one by one I pull
    




    them out and toss them away
    




    a hundred year life
    




    




    to die in the sun
    




    yanked hard from their acorn roots
    




    just for space for blooms
    




    




    my Mora clock chimes
    




    encased in striated oak
    




    a gift left to breathe
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    My Book of Secrets
    
			
    

    



    This book, this Book of Secrets, just revealed to me, 
    lay with the others; hidden, dust stifled, antiquated,
    irrelevant, too long, too…piled in the “not now” bin.
    Thumbing through; “Crap! I knew all this!” I smirked,
    

    but read another line, then more. Was I to truly believe
    that bracing you against a fall at the bathroom mirror
    as you wiped matter from your eyes, lamenting, what
    you perceive, as the taint of time upon your face, and
    

    your burst of anger at your confused thoughts, and 
    making one of my silly, hopefully calming, jokes
    and kissing your matted-hair head, eliciting a smile,
    a purr, almost, was my purpose, my nirvana? Maybe.