Belated Words

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Tag: poem

  • 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.
    




    

    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
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    Nimbus
    
			
    

    




    Wind awakens in courteous puffs
    




    nudging drowsy trees to breathing, yet
    




    allowing lazy-child chime a sleep-in.
    




    Yawning sun flows over dew-sheen
    




    




    in soft sighs, sating my August heart.
    




    Yet, with the brimming, fear of the hollow
    




    following; the known ebbing of hope
    




    of this bliss someday returning.
    




    




    Grass laid down his jeweled-cloak
    




    to cast my steps in brief time, but
    




    ……my prints are fading fast behind;
    




    I’ve laid no cave line, the way is lost.
    




    




    One step passed bliss was taken:
    




    one, two, then more into this alien tangle;
    




    dew-bliss, now, only a suspect memory, 
    




    a dying nimbus, a heart’s quiver only.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    who knows?
    
			
    

    




    




    




    




    




    




    




    




    Goldfinch ravishing the sunflowers!  Too much yellow!
    




    Too loud; his song demanding…screeching:  Me! Me!
    




    Entertaining, but not subtle enough for beauty?  Maybe.
    




    Though there are truths he does parade; offering for a fee.
    




    Can beauty only be the delicate; truth only glaring?
    




    “The truth is ugly!” “You can’t handle the truth!”
    




    A curve of flesh, real, depicted or imagined can still
    




    Elicit bliss; the intuited joy of the incorruptible line.
    




    Gastrocnemius, Soleus, Iliotbial, Peroneus enfolded;
    




    The legs perfection of muscle, tendon, bone and skin.
    




    Middle-aged crisis guy entranced by a woman’s legs;
    




    Her elongated neck’s porcelain skin, shiver releasing.
    




    Does need dictate the beauty we see…becoming our truths?
    




    Truth might be beauty; perceived beauty our only truths.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Going out of Living Sale!
    
			
    

    I’ll stick that sign at the end of the drive
    

    Monitoring any respond…spying through
    

    Cracks at the sides of shades, now drawn,
    

    Which, unlike my neighbors’, were raised
    

    Night and day in defiance of hidden lives.
    

     
    

    Must I place items neatly on slackly shelves
    

    Or will the sign itself be enough to summon
    

    What I am seeking….and what am I craving;
    

    A grimace, a laugh, a Jehovah’s Witness tract;
    

    A splintered door jamb and feet rushing in?
    

     
    

    What would adorn a shelf, entice another,
    

    That they would not already have, though,
    

    Perhaps, deny?  My truths, though clean,
    

    Sparkling spirals to me are likely idiocy
    

    To them as theirs to me.  The sign is enough.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    The Visitation: For Fathers Day
    
			
    

    




    I held my father’s hand once more last night, but only in a dream.  
I did not see his face or hear his voice or recognize a nod, but his 
ever-gentleness stood to sooth my unease of muddled senses.
Almost thirty quick years have gone since I stood by his bed.
Did I, at first, hold his hand? A white cloth, folded in half, 
lay over his mouth for moisture; rare tears traced crow’s-feet
to his pillow and I, new to dying, wondered if he cried from fear.  
But through the muffling wetness, struggling not to sob,
“Your mother…”  And then I understood, “I will take care of her.” 
I promised; only then…I remember, now…did I take his hand.
The hand I held last night was not that of thirty years before;
his hands, in life, had the square bluntness of his days of labor.
Always, he carried a pocketknife to turn the grease and grit 
from beneath his nails into minute, curled strings of grime. 
The hand I held in my dream was only his because I just knew 
and not recognition by touch; the hand I held was feminine,
covered with the sheltered, thin skin of one needing protection.
I’ve pondered the paradox all day, wondering why the hand
was his, but not; time could not have altered to such extreme,
a touch etched in memory.  Believing only in our faulty minds,
I can only conclude that I, so desiring that my father
might know I have kept my promise, conjured a dream, 
a visitation; the hand I knew as his is my mother’s I hold today.

This is a re-post from years ago; a memory of the time my father was dying in 1982.
    




    




    




    




    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Stones
    
			
     
    

    Those we’ve left by the road still wander among us.
    

    We lean on their diminished bodies as we move;
    

    Talc-tasting air, burning of urine and hot stones,
    

    singes our skins, shriveling our memories of them.
    

     
    

    A whisper has passed: this road is closed to us.
    

    This ditch of stubble will be our home for an hour,
    

    a day, an eternity, until our fate again inhales,
    

    forcing us up to walk, to endure this endless road.
    

     
    

    Ahead, wavering green hills reject our pleas.
    

    Their distant canopies’ chattering falls away,
    

    falls to fear, as we gaze with one breath held.
    

    Another stone is thrown to bloody our hearts.
    

     
    

    My child on the sharp, hard rack of my hip
    

    stares…..eyes passive as shimmering stones.
    

    My child of bone in his withered flesh bag…..
    

    clenches the one ragged wall of his home.
    

     
    

    This was originally titled Refugees and was reproduced here with a few changes from a copy dated October, 2003
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    grackles swarm the trees
    
			
     
    

     
    

    20230223_155209
    

    Once again, delightful squeaking swarms the trees,
    celebrating en masse, here to there; chucked down
    by some suspect deity who, for whatever reason,
    laments or teases my petering out; my “it is what it is”
    

    Rescued, again, by one with a scratching voice;
    compelling a lifting of chin, a prying away of eyes
    from ground, from monitored, measured steps;
    I search the canopy for Joy: There! She lingers!
    


    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    greed
    
			
    

    Perhaps, I am too quick to call it Greed:
                        this yearning for an accumulation,
this lust of Mine! self-gratification,
                        a trophy case crammed with coin, 
heads (metaphorical and otherwise),
                        ivory trinkets carved of banned tusk,
Likes, notches on the bedpost 
                        (that shows my age!) Firepower!
The rich give, but not without accolades, 
                         plaques for display and….receipts.
Nature demands self-interest 
                         if we are to survive, but studies show:
the poor give more than the rich;
                          percentage wise, of course!
(that could be Fake News)
                         One thing to me, another thing to you.
What of a heart soothed by Riches lure
                          more than thanks of those in need?
Perhaps, I am too quick to call it greed;
                          one thing to me, another thing to you.


    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Witness
    
			
    

    The leaves are gone.  Wind rejoices in
Their leaving for their dance betrays;
Painting hints of body on his shame.

Shoulders cringe under iced breath
ravaging this frigid, emptying street.
Chimes to the right sing winds intent,

To flee this memory, falling behind,
To allow us to lie in a contrived bliss
Like those wreaths on those graves.
    

    

    



    The leaves are gone.  Wind rejoiced in
their leaving for their dance betrayed:
painting hints of body on his shame.

A witness of this carnage, he whirled
in helplessness, sharing horrid chaos
with us despite our hands over our ears.

Shoulders cringe beneath iced-breath
ravaging this frigid, manicured yard.
Chimes to the right sing winds intent

to flee this memory, fall far away,
to lie in a contrived complacency like
these plastic wreaths on these graves.	


    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Bobcat On The Cartercay
    
			
     
    

    Stock photo
    

    Wild_BobcatThis is an old poem, thought lost, but recently recovered.  A real memory.
    

     
    

     
    

    Haibun: Bobcat On The Cartercay
    

     
    

    Drifting on a jade current slow as this August day; the erratic clunk of oar-gunnel collide complements mosquito’s whine and only a raucous call of  Dryocopus pileatus startles me back from my innocuous memory glide.  My fingers, trailing through the cool water, paint splendid, ephemeral works of art. Verdant spillings of laurel, fern, jeweled weeds and clinging vines tumbling from tracked banks, glossy with malodorous mud, narrow and crook my creek canvas.  Around a turn so slight and he is there; we both, mid-creek, suddenly aware and he, swinging around, retraces his eddying path.  Reaching the right bank, he emerges with a rippling shake and his stare follows me ….me, staring with wonder, drifting by, while his eyes, softly intent, expressed no surprise, no reproach I can discern.  None at all.  Now turning, unhurriedly….one step….two….into the dappled green tangle and he is gone…..like a thought lost; his image in my mind instantly vague, generic… swirling by.
    

     
    

    obliviously
    

    intended prey   a drake bobs
    

    summer’s shallow shade
    

     
    

     
    

    Bobcat
    

    Drifting on a jade current slow
    
as the August day..…. the erratic
    
clunk of oar/gunnel collide
    
complemented mosquito whine
    
and only the raucous call of
    
Dryocopus pileatus startled me
    
from an innocuous memory glide.
    

    Verdant spillings of laurel, fern,
    
jeweled weeds and clinging vines
    
narrowed the creek from tracked banks
    
glossy with malodorous mud.
    

    Around a turn so slight and he was there;
    
we both, mid-creek, suddenly aware….and
    
swinging around, he reached the right bank
    
emerging with a shake; his stare, void
    
of any emotion I could discern,
    
followed me ….me staring with wonder.
    
His eyes, softly intent, expressed no reproach.
    
Then turning, unhurriedly….one step
    
….two….into the dappled tangle,
    
he was gone…..like a thought lost;
    
his image instantly vague and generic.
    

    A drake, his intended prey,
    
bobbed the left shallows obliviously.