For My Critics — When They Find Me

‘here’s the thing — and there is really no way of getting around this –”
from A Few Good Men

There are

many things — sun rise,
wind, biting words from my pen —
that are not for you.

At least, not for you alone,
living at the mercy of your phone,
enthralled by talk shows, sitcoms and fake sensuality,
boxed illusions of love, sex and forced versions of reality.

(I saw the strangest thing just today — children reading.
books even, with pages, nothing from a screen)

Drivel
is what these meanderings of thought
I dare label (tag) poetry would
be considered by those schooled
in the craft (I did throw in a
haiku and two rhyming couplets — did
you notice? — just to prove I could).

The reality, thankfully, is that I do not write
for them or you (I do for her, some, but not nearly
as often as I should), though I do appreciate
a comment now and then.

Surely it is not for the dollars (have to publish
to get a few of those), but I would dearly love
for you to buy my book (whenever it might
come out), just for validation you know,
not because the money is important to me.

Except…that it really is important to me,
I am right-wing, conservative, capitalist
through and through, which is pretty much
against the rules; poets (which I do not claim
to be) and poetry (which this is surely not)
are supposed to be above such things.

Paradoxically, I wonder if we that write,
of both left and right, will end up equally
persecuted when current events finally
play out. Already, THEY (sadly, not metaphorical)
are coming for our freedoms –health, speech,
protection, religion — and rights.

Surely, they will come for our words next (again).

The ‘power of the pen’ is somewhat
outdated — much like listening to albums
(black, flat, disc looking things — had music
on them) — now it is the power of blogs
and social media. We feel powerful
in our ability to speak our mind.

When THEY have control of the rest
of our lives, do you really think THEY
will allow freedom of expression to live on?

What happens then? When we that write
become the one percent? Ostracised and
persecuted for speaking our mind
in verse and rhyme.

Am I ranting? Possibly,
Somewhat sarcastic? Probably.

Just getting ready for my critics
when they should find me.

Book burning (Photo credit: pcorreia)

For the Wednesday Wake Up at the New World Creative Union where they asked us to silence our critics.Also shared at the dVerse Poets open link night.

Loose Change

Loose Change (Photo credit: nicholasjon)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Granddad always had
change to jingle in his
pocket,
small coins he doled
out to us like an
offering.
After he left
dad would say
he was trying to make
up for the errors
of his youth,
trying to vindicate
a life with the
bought love of
grandchildren.

Written for Three Word Wednesday: error, jingle, vindicate.

The Front Room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The front room was always
the domain of my father.

The rules were clear
when we were children,
if the door was closed
he was working, you
had best be quiet.

I would sit and watch
him through the glass
panes, wondering what
he did behind that big desk.

After retirement, it became
his TV room — no sports
were allowed on the living
room screen — complete
with recliner and mini-fridge.

Devoid of furniture, scars
of time and memory were
clearly evident; scuff marks
from the desk, sun-faded outlines
of table and chair, cigar burns
and smoke-yellow walls.

It was the only room she cried in
when we moved her out.

Written for the Tuesday Tryouts with Margo Roby.

Love Realized

(Photo credit: Matthias Rhomberg)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have walked the long and winding road,
destination an afterthought,
led others, followed a few,
not aware of yearning
or the life not lived,
until I learned —
all for naught
without
you.

Life Without…and Again

It is but a string of letters
without the key

cries left
to pool in the lungs

grand designs
rotting in the soul

quizzes with no answers,
silver painted over black

Take refuge in a piano —
magic sound of keys —

thrust a bolt to the heavens
defy indifferent omniscience

release weary nerves from
their burdens and

burdened spirits from
their weariness

revisit where it all collapsed
and build anew

Piano Keys (Photo credit: Chris Campbell)

Written from Shawna’s Monday Melting word list. Morally opposed to punctuation in this one for some reason.

Posted to dVerse Poets Open Link Night

Dark Places

Dark Places 8 (Photo credit: Mark Ramsay)

Great pleasure was found
in studying the braid of her
hair as it flowed over the nape
of her neck, skin the color
of a peach yet to ripen,
soft as the fuzz.

Another memory hewn
from the aching knots
of a brief moment of
sobriety, held together
with a mortar of self-
loathing, pity and release.

No good can come from
having tarried too long
at this shrine to lost love,
strung with banners of
neglect and abuse.

Remote corners of torment
have yet to be explored,
the extent of wretchedness
to which can be sunk
not fully fathomed.

Memorial Day

defined: noun, a day on which those who died in active military service are remembered.

Yesterday, we drove through
small town north Georgia.
Lining the streets were white
crosses, each one with an
American flag and a name
and war written on it.
Each one is remembered.

The veteran stands –the only
one –for the flag when it
passes in the parade, the
names of fallen comrades
in his head outnumber the
tears he can cry.
He remembers.

We fire up the grills, make sure
there are beer and brats,
celebrate summer’s start
and a day off.
Do we remember?

The politicians expect sacrifice
without understanding the concept,
then cut veteran’s benefits, demeaning
their service, belittling their importance,
forgetting freedom must be fought for.
They, surely, do not remember.

Aftertaste

For The Sunday Whirl:

It is a morning to stay
in the cocoon,
avoid the flinty realities
of life and love
and loss.

But the sheets are drenched
and the barnacles of
aftertaste and bad
decisions must be scraped
from tongue,

and the blur of brittle memories
must be pieced together —
brief visions of austere
men with burnished
badges,

rough chalk marks
on pavement —
as tears dried on cheeks
are covered by new ones
as dreams solidify.

The Neighbors at The Book Times

My flash fiction piece, The Neighbors, is featured on The Book Times today. A short and not-so-sweet story of a marriage falling apart. (You may have seen it posted here previously)

It’s raining today (Photo credit: rutlo)

Empty

The pen is drained,
out of words,
empty.
Exhausted, perhaps,
from a night
before
spewing an excess
of words,
still not finishing
the thought.

I don’t get the vampire
movies my wife watches,
the attraction to those
empty of soul and
indifferent to death.
Maybe it is a comparison
she makes.

It is quiet in the still
shadows of the house
when everyone else is
asleep.
The wine bottle is empty
and the pen refuses
to go into the dark
corners of the night
to pull out a poem.

Wine Bottles (Photo credit: Bayhaus)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written for the dVerse Poets Stream of Consciousness prompt.