i really like this one - until the end. "why until the end?," you ask. well, the end forces an interpretation, while the first stanza lets my mind do it's own thinking about this guy. if you want to set it up the way it ends then incorporate that stuff into the stanza...or two stanzas...but, let that idea flirt about throughout the piece, instead of hanging it on the end.
After pacing his house for sixty years,
his body became those hardwood floors,
that groan under the pressure of footsteps.
He paced for fifteen of those years
before bending into the slope of his cane,
slowly falling into the black vinyl
of his wheelchair.
The months between visits whittle his bones
like the oak crossbeams,
blessed by the appetite of termites.
His joints hollowed into
an instrument of complaint.
The lives within his dusty rolodex
continued to gather speed
when the music of liver pills and calcium drinks,
was silenced by a wind
over the floorboards.
A couple from Connecticut came two weeks later
to buy his house. The years pass quietly
as a divorced man loses touch with his children
and paces his own path,
into the dark, warped wood.
I'm aiming for about 60 poems I think, I'm hoping when I move to Japan and sever the ties so to speak I can really focus on getting it done, it's drips and drabs right now, I'm too comfortable at home, it's a kind of opiate for aspiration.
you're right man
comfort is not usually a good means of inspiration.
i really like this one - until the end. "why until the end?," you ask. well, the end forces an interpretation, while the first stanza lets my mind do it's own thinking about this guy. if you want to set it up the way it ends then incorporate that stuff into the stanza...or two stanzas...but, let that idea flirt about throughout the piece, instead of hanging it on the end.
I have to really figure out exactly which line in this poem is the misleading one. Because people keep saying the last stanza doesn't fit with the main character. However, it's not supposed to, because it's a different person. The old man in the beginning of the poem dies. Then a new family moves in, to begin the whole cycle again. Which is why I like the title, it's about the house, not the man. This has no bearing on you, because you did exactly what a reader is supposed to do, interpret for themselves. But people keep interpreting something that's not supposed to be there, so I'm going to have to change something around. Thanks for the comments.
how everyone can sustain a level of creativity is beyond me
your awesome
well you are the worst critic ever...
but thankyou for the kind words. I'm glad you enjoyed them. I hope you enjoyed them enough to pay whatever ungodly amount they market it for if it ever gets published.
The snow shakes its way out of the sky
when hard time with this word without punctuation
it reaches the swathes of light
cast by the tall lamps
above an empty parking lot
snow covered bats race between flakes
the blind doves of winter
squeeze the wind from the air like water drawn
from a fist of snow
by knuckles that glow red from the cold
and breath that escapes from the mouth
like smoky dreams from the opium den I see the transtion of images without punctuation, but since this image isn't in the outside it's forced
and boot prints range why this word?
across the white fields
like breasts appear spontaneously
from the white noise I read of images to see, and I read of images to feel, but I don't read of images to hear of adult channels If I may be bold - I don't sense you in this poem, as I sense you in your other poems. I sense you trying out someone else's style.
White Noise and Caricatures are kind of like poetic blue prints right now, I probably cranked them out in ten minutes and looked at them once or twice afterwords, it's kind of an audience test, the reason they seem so different is because I haven't neurotically tweaked the strings of images together a dozen different ways.
So these actually two, which you very accurately and correctly blew apart, and thankyou - they needed it - act like a kind of litmus to how I write my poetry. It almost always starts as a semi-vacant series of metaphors, and images that are very visual, colors, shapes, etc... and later the layers begin to pile on, so I suppose we can see that my eyes are the backbone of my poetry. Thanks for the comments again, these will re-appear in a different form later on I assure you.
When a drunk turns his key
and the engine doesn’t turn over,
I wonder if souls traveling back
always land in a body. Or are they
pulled like asteroids to the earth?
Are they round? Would they skip
across the ponds to the old willow,
that drinks a fat baron’s share of
the water, and shivers
with the secrets of the fallen.
Would they compress flat onto the
arteries of highways, varicose
across Nevada deserts, stick
like road kill to the tires of passing
trucks? Again doomed to the
same endless circles.
Do they land in the vast fields of tobacco
and hops? Do we take them in;
write off those imaginative leaps to the buzz?
Are those drunken revelries our memories,
or have we taken something in,
imagining it was our own all along?
They light the fires of lust under our bellies
or the sense of injustice from a life
tragically snuffed, a rock that flares,
hurls itself toward the blue waters
and breaks against the atmosphere.
Like the electric sweat of the sparkplug,
as a drunk drifts harmlessly into sleep.
An asthmatic faucet spits gouts of tarnished water
into a rusted sink,
below a cracked mirror.
When I exit the bathroom,
the line of blank stares,
inches closer.
Beneath the lights of the bar,
we toast our shots of Southern Comfort
under the auspices of Jimmy Hendrix.
We shout to each other because we want to laugh,
because whispers are for churches and classrooms.
We paid two dollars to rent this hour,
and fill this vacant lot of memory.
We exit our local bars at last call and walk home
screaming nicknames down the dark alleys
through tin cans attached by strings of memory.
We drink shots at our children’s weddings,
and the open bars of our high school reunions
leaving pools of urine in the white porcelain
of funeral homes.
What is an American life, if not a collection?
An album of revelry, of drinks and conversations
whose exact words float in cigarette smoke
around the warped lips of aging loves.
When I summon help,
the roads fill with drunken ambulance drivers,
sipping Jack Daniels between chest compressions.
Though I broke my arm—
my wrist—
my pen—
my head swims
in rivers of narcotics,
that flow like sewage through my bloodstream.
I drink tequila to navigate
and urinate for ballast.
When the stars burn like boiling polaroids,
guitars drop their hooks into the water.
I buoy my thoughts there,
to think my way back to myself.
From the cockpit of a rusting sedan
dashboard needles wade through blood,
to push me faster through empty miles.
Confident as a full boat of jacks and kings
against the fourth ten on the river,
I am all in.
The painted lines and stop signs disappear,
While miles of highway laminate
under the glow of street lights.
My face distorts in the tinted windows
of a stretched limo,
which stops at the next intersection
and opens its doors.
Clowns pour out to direct traffic
with tambourines and trumpets.
The traffic is not amused.
Brake lights glare,
horns scream and search the air like snake tongues,
as I slither onto a sidewalk stained with gum and
cigarette butts.
I follow discarded trails of modern art.
The wind blows cold ant-hills onto my arms.
I breath to warm myself,
I weave invisible tapestries into the air as I walk.
I make all the right left turns
and discard the yoke of cities,
traveling to the white suburbs.
In a moment I make a life for myself, and in three more
it is gone.
Stale pictures fill the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it.
I drive through the rain picking through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories,
a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity.
And in that static one song plays,
booming down the rails on a genetic train
straight from childhood wonder
through the still quiet of fatherhood.
She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smile,
a cobblestone path to my little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and I follow her.
I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum,
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as she fades into the distant mountains.
I love reading all of yours. Your descriptions are amazing, but the one below, without a doubt, is breathtaking in my opinion. Just beautifully written.
Stale pictures fill the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it.
I drive through the rain picking through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories,
a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity.
And in that static one song plays,
booming down the rails on a genetic train
straight from childhood wonder
through the still quiet of fatherhood.
She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smile,
a cobblestone path to my little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and I follow her.
I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum,
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as she fades into the distant mountains.
I love reading all of yours. Your descriptions are amazing, but the one below, without a doubt, is breathtaking in my opinion. Just beautifully written.
This is one of my favorites too, my choice for the first poem in the manuscript. Thanks for reading.
scours the leaves from frosted branches.
The wrinkled fingers of oaks and spruce
cling a month too long to Autumn
like aging grandmothers
and remain outside until the sky
is bleached winter gray.
The rain in Binghamton
scatters the clusters of stray cats
and the faded fur mixes with dirt
almost black and almost orange.
The rain in Binghamton
breaks through the spotted holes of rooftops
and fills the dents in curling linoleum
like an army encampment
fills slim valleys before battle.
BTW, your thread is delightful! I haven't commented in it because, as you know, I'm not much of a critic but I do love your poems and think it's awesome that you're going to publish!!! Please let us know when and where we can get a copy once you've been printed.
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
Stale pictures fill are these the best words?
the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant
I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action
through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived.
a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?
And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?
booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
straight from childhood wonder good
through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite?
of fatherhood.
She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
,
a cobblestone path to my our?
little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and do you need this word?
I follow her.
I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum, need the comma?
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as and?
she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant
Is this redundant? What if I was sitting in my driveway, or on the side of the highway, the only movement mentioned previous is the wipers
I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action
I'm not sure what this means
through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived. That's a good point, but I think the rest of the poem reinforces her importance
a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
I think it's better than the other way around. A silent movie is more like a memory.
,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?
And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?
Well what we have so far is a father driving in the middle of a storm, seeing pictures from his past in the windshield, listening to the radio shifting between all these different kinds of sounds, and then fixating, with all of his power on this one thought, his daughter. So she doesn't have to be mentioned in that fighting for clarity line, because she wins clarity. In the static, and the rain, and the darkness, it's just her.
booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
straight from childhood wonder good
through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite? I'm not quite sure opposites are needed, opposites are predictable.
of fatherhood.
She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
,
a cobblestone path to my our? Well, the poem is about him, he's inside his own head, I think it's ok to be a little selfish.
little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and do you need this word?
I follow her.
This is an element I wanted to repeat from the part you didn't like in the first stanza. "and I drive through it. I drive. / and I follow her. I follow"
I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum, need the comma? that comma could move down to dawn probably
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as and?
she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.
It's the first time in the poem it's been light enough to see them. but yeah, they're just kind of mega-happy ending (a la Wayne's World) thrown in there
Once again thankyou so much for digesting this. I'm probably coming off hyper defensive but you've definately brought up things I have to look at, specifically the opening line. Have a pleasant weekend.
I live in a dirty town,
gray as the ethereal hair
of the widows who live in
the burned out peaks of Johnson City.
I wipe grime from a thin window,
which clouds like a snow globe,
left to dust and mothballs in a shoe box
filled with pictures of old vacations, sun burned
and smiling in the Keys.
I live in a town
where far more water bursts from pipes
than inspiration from empty factories,
and baby boomers cause more
fender benders than teenagers.
Blenders and microwaves rattle
the jaundice yellow of peeling paint,
not replaced since the sun set on JFK,
that top down day in Texas.
I live in a town
where ambitious work begins at midnight,
prying through garbage for beer bottles,
seeking redemption one nickel at a time.
Where shoulders brush overweight whores,
who prowl bare assed down Mather Street,
looking for a trick with a light.
I live in a town,
that is lifetime holder of the title,
“Carousel Capital of the USA,”
because even going in circles is movement.
Parents and siblings spin between three jobs,
to cling to the milky meniscus of the poverty line.
They pour into the cracks of state budgets
and a Welfare to Work program,
under the quiet snow.
The fifth shot
on a par five,
follows the last three
into the trees.
I find the first ball,
and I notice a small building
tucked between saplings.
Two stone pillars hold
the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks.
They guard
a rusted candelabra;
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles.
I stumble through forgotten shrines
bypassed arteries
to the heart beat of suburbia.
These religious relics
fade in the woods,
with waterlogged
Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers
for birdies and a good lie
were never answered.
The processions of nuns
from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers
and weeds pressed flat
by the grass
of the seventh fairway.
The crunch of footsteps
become the hum
of passing golf carts.
Though the hail Mary’s remain,
uttered silently on the back swing.
If I had hit my drive
fifty yards farther
my search would take me
to a clearing,
filled with moss and tall grass.
In that overgrowth stands
a rotting podium,
two feet above the plants,
where the litany's
and incantations of mass,
were conducted to those
who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds,
remembering that religion
consisted of more than words
in books and ceremony.
I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
many for every dimple of the shot
that I had found,
and I offer up my own,
in the hope
that stoking the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.
The fifth shot
on a par five,
follows the last three
into the trees.
I find the first ball,
and I notice a small building
tucked between saplings.
Two stone pillars hold
the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks.
They guard
a rusted candelabra;
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles.
I stumble through forgotten shrines
bypassed arteries
to the heart beat of suburbia.
These religious relics
fade in the woods,
with waterlogged
Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers
for birdies and a good lie
were never answered.
The processions of nuns
from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers
and weeds pressed flat
by the grass
of the seventh fairway.
The crunch of footsteps
become the hum
of passing golf carts.
Though the hail Mary’s remain,
uttered silently on the back swing.
If I had hit my drive
fifty yards farther
my search would take me
to a clearing,
filled with moss and tall grass.
In that overgrowth stands
a rotting podium,
two feet above the plants,
where the litany's
and incantations of mass,
were conducted to those
who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds,
remembering that religion
consisted of more than words
in books and ceremony.
I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
many for every dimple of the shot
that I had found,
and I offer up my own,
in the hope
that stoking the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.
Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.
Our love must not be just words, but True Love, which shows itself in action,
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
i definitly like what you do, each one is a picture of a moment in life, thanks for sharing,
T
Thanks for reading, this little threat is actually beginning to show me some patterns I haven't fully realized yet. I seem to fixate on two things, people and places. Although that may seem like a pretty broad generalizations, this isn't what's really in vogue right now. Most poets even authors are writing memoir and introspection.
Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.
Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments
Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments
See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!
Our love must not be just words, but True Love, which shows itself in action,
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!
Well it's like those children's sport's coaches say, it's not practice that makes perfect, it's perfect practice. The best way to learn and evolve as a writer is to keep reading poetry - since it's pretty expensive if you're taking a shot in the dark - hit up the library
as dusk enfolds the trail.
She climbs until starlight melds
with the canopy, and severs
flashlight spectrums into silver coils
that bathe bare oak limbs.
Her foggy breath became memories
of skinny suburban kids
camping in backyard sing a’ longs
chanting guns and roses to an audience
behind sliding glass doors,
where smiling parents swell with lemonade
waiting for children’s dreams to reach murky fruition
in college dorm rooms, energized with hormones,
slaves to unknown thoughts that cling
like beer stains to white shirts.
Before professional entropy grips
that cubicle of the mind,
she sings in the shower to sold out crowds.
Imagined audiences scream her name
in voices that rise and fall to the stage,
rolling like quiet waves at a vacation getaway,
dancing in the air, like
the five pointed oak leaves that glide,
playfully to the grass,
outside her window.
they stand on their pedals
hovering above the seat
the seat they never sit on
it does no good to get comfortable
they ride a few feet ahead
and turn
they measure themselves by hours per mile
and dollars per hour
by customers per night
the rusty fords stop
on the one corner without a street light
the window rises as fast as it falls
and as cars speed away the bikes
continue to wade circles into the sidewalk
they ride their bikes in the same patterns
as smoke rising from a joint
dissipating in the wind of police sirens
they ride like a bike was never built
that could outpace a lumbering junkie
never built to fly down a hill
with painless water in your eyes
they ride their bikes with unlaced boots
and wear undershirts
from the big and tall
with weapons smoldering in their eyes
potentially lethal
like blank checks and empty pages
they ride their bikes like urban hawks
driving over fields of drifting addicts
.
real estate on the wrong side of main street
can be gauged in the aluminum spokes
that slowly cleave the moonlight
in a place where the prestige of selling
sex and dope is survival
I know that Binghamton, the drug nexus
of the southern tier will always be measured
by the way they ride their bikes
A man walks along a pier
following his own shadow,
considering the state of his marriage
he does not notice when his shadow
swallows a dog, or a squirrel.
or two old ladies eating lunch on a bench.
He walks with the sun on his neck
and the world on his mind,
led by a human cloud,
which tilts its head
lets its arms absently fall to the side
and crushes a half dozen pigeons.
A shadow plays in the waves
while he looks out over the water.
He stares farther and farther away
as if he could only peer into himself
by following his gaze along the
curve of the Earth’s circumference.
He turns to go back to his office
and his shadow follows him like
a cape, an echo that keeps pace
with its source.
When he arrives at his building
the shadow of that tower consumes his own.
He is left a man in the dark.
When he reaches the window
of his corner office, his shadow
returns silently to his desk and
across the carpet.
The shadow of his left hand
cast darkness over his signatures,
and the surrounding legal texts.
When he folds the documents back together
and leans back in his chair,
the curve of his head is cast
onto the entirety of his divorce.
His wife arrives under the streetlights,
her shadow is bloated with an unborn
child.
The pregnant darkness sheds no water
from its two dimensions.
Soon that shadow will split in two
and will live under the black
worrying veil of its father.
Comments
i really like this one - until the end. "why until the end?," you ask. well, the end forces an interpretation, while the first stanza lets my mind do it's own thinking about this guy. if you want to set it up the way it ends then incorporate that stuff into the stanza...or two stanzas...but, let that idea flirt about throughout the piece, instead of hanging it on the end.
from my window to yours
comfort is not usually a good means of inspiration.
good luck to you i really like your stuff
http://www.wishlistfoundation.org
Oh my, they dropped the leash.
Morgan Freeman/Clint Eastwood 08' for President!
"Make our day"
I have to really figure out exactly which line in this poem is the misleading one. Because people keep saying the last stanza doesn't fit with the main character. However, it's not supposed to, because it's a different person. The old man in the beginning of the poem dies. Then a new family moves in, to begin the whole cycle again. Which is why I like the title, it's about the house, not the man. This has no bearing on you, because you did exactly what a reader is supposed to do, interpret for themselves. But people keep interpreting something that's not supposed to be there, so I'm going to have to change something around. Thanks for the comments.
well you are the worst critic ever...
but thankyou for the kind words. I'm glad you enjoyed them. I hope you enjoyed them enough to pay whatever ungodly amount they market it for if it ever gets published.
White Noise and Caricatures are kind of like poetic blue prints right now, I probably cranked them out in ten minutes and looked at them once or twice afterwords, it's kind of an audience test, the reason they seem so different is because I haven't neurotically tweaked the strings of images together a dozen different ways.
So these actually two, which you very accurately and correctly blew apart, and thankyou - they needed it - act like a kind of litmus to how I write my poetry. It almost always starts as a semi-vacant series of metaphors, and images that are very visual, colors, shapes, etc... and later the layers begin to pile on, so I suppose we can see that my eyes are the backbone of my poetry. Thanks for the comments again, these will re-appear in a different form later on I assure you.
When a drunk turns his key
and the engine doesn’t turn over,
I wonder if souls traveling back
always land in a body. Or are they
pulled like asteroids to the earth?
Are they round? Would they skip
across the ponds to the old willow,
that drinks a fat baron’s share of
the water, and shivers
with the secrets of the fallen.
Would they compress flat onto the
arteries of highways, varicose
across Nevada deserts, stick
like road kill to the tires of passing
trucks? Again doomed to the
same endless circles.
Do they land in the vast fields of tobacco
and hops? Do we take them in;
write off those imaginative leaps to the buzz?
Are those drunken revelries our memories,
or have we taken something in,
imagining it was our own all along?
They light the fires of lust under our bellies
or the sense of injustice from a life
tragically snuffed, a rock that flares,
hurls itself toward the blue waters
and breaks against the atmosphere.
Like the electric sweat of the sparkplug,
as a drunk drifts harmlessly into sleep.
An asthmatic faucet spits gouts of tarnished water
into a rusted sink,
below a cracked mirror.
When I exit the bathroom,
the line of blank stares,
inches closer.
Beneath the lights of the bar,
we toast our shots of Southern Comfort
under the auspices of Jimmy Hendrix.
We shout to each other because we want to laugh,
because whispers are for churches and classrooms.
We paid two dollars to rent this hour,
and fill this vacant lot of memory.
We exit our local bars at last call and walk home
screaming nicknames down the dark alleys
through tin cans attached by strings of memory.
We drink shots at our children’s weddings,
and the open bars of our high school reunions
leaving pools of urine in the white porcelain
of funeral homes.
What is an American life, if not a collection?
An album of revelry, of drinks and conversations
whose exact words float in cigarette smoke
around the warped lips of aging loves.
When I summon help,
the roads fill with drunken ambulance drivers,
sipping Jack Daniels between chest compressions.
Though I broke my arm—
my wrist—
my pen—
my head swims
in rivers of narcotics,
that flow like sewage through my bloodstream.
I drink tequila to navigate
and urinate for ballast.
When the stars burn like boiling polaroids,
guitars drop their hooks into the water.
I buoy my thoughts there,
to think my way back to myself.
From the cockpit of a rusting sedan
dashboard needles wade through blood,
to push me faster through empty miles.
Confident as a full boat of jacks and kings
against the fourth ten on the river,
I am all in.
The painted lines and stop signs disappear,
While miles of highway laminate
under the glow of street lights.
My face distorts in the tinted windows
of a stretched limo,
which stops at the next intersection
and opens its doors.
Clowns pour out to direct traffic
with tambourines and trumpets.
The traffic is not amused.
Brake lights glare,
horns scream and search the air like snake tongues,
as I slither onto a sidewalk stained with gum and
cigarette butts.
I follow discarded trails of modern art.
The wind blows cold ant-hills onto my arms.
I breath to warm myself,
I weave invisible tapestries into the air as I walk.
I make all the right left turns
and discard the yoke of cities,
traveling to the white suburbs.
In a moment I make a life for myself, and in three more
it is gone.
Stale pictures fill the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it.
I drive through the rain picking through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories,
a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity.
And in that static one song plays,
booming down the rails on a genetic train
straight from childhood wonder
through the still quiet of fatherhood.
She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smile,
a cobblestone path to my little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and I follow her.
I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum,
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as she fades into the distant mountains.
This is one of my favorites too, my choice for the first poem in the manuscript. Thanks for reading.
You are welcome. Good choice for first.
scours the leaves from frosted branches.
The wrinkled fingers of oaks and spruce
cling a month too long to Autumn
like aging grandmothers
and remain outside until the sky
is bleached winter gray.
The rain in Binghamton
scatters the clusters of stray cats
and the faded fur mixes with dirt
almost black and almost orange.
The rain in Binghamton
breaks through the spotted holes of rooftops
and fills the dents in curling linoleum
like an army encampment
fills slim valleys before battle.
Stale pictures fill are these the best words?
the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant
I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action
through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived.
a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?
And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?
booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
straight from childhood wonder good
through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite?
of fatherhood.
She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
,
a cobblestone path to my our?
little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and do you need this word?
I follow her.
I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum, need the comma?
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as and?
she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Once again thankyou so much for digesting this. I'm probably coming off hyper defensive but you've definately brought up things I have to look at, specifically the opening line. Have a pleasant weekend.
ETE
I live in a dirty town,
gray as the ethereal hair
of the widows who live in
the burned out peaks of Johnson City.
I wipe grime from a thin window,
which clouds like a snow globe,
left to dust and mothballs in a shoe box
filled with pictures of old vacations, sun burned
and smiling in the Keys.
I live in a town
where far more water bursts from pipes
than inspiration from empty factories,
and baby boomers cause more
fender benders than teenagers.
Blenders and microwaves rattle
the jaundice yellow of peeling paint,
not replaced since the sun set on JFK,
that top down day in Texas.
I live in a town
where ambitious work begins at midnight,
prying through garbage for beer bottles,
seeking redemption one nickel at a time.
Where shoulders brush overweight whores,
who prowl bare assed down Mather Street,
looking for a trick with a light.
I live in a town,
that is lifetime holder of the title,
“Carousel Capital of the USA,”
because even going in circles is movement.
Parents and siblings spin between three jobs,
to cling to the milky meniscus of the poverty line.
They pour into the cracks of state budgets
and a Welfare to Work program,
under the quiet snow.
You guys will know as soon as I do.
The fifth shot
on a par five,
follows the last three
into the trees.
I find the first ball,
and I notice a small building
tucked between saplings.
Two stone pillars hold
the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks.
They guard
a rusted candelabra;
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles.
I stumble through forgotten shrines
bypassed arteries
to the heart beat of suburbia.
These religious relics
fade in the woods,
with waterlogged
Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers
for birdies and a good lie
were never answered.
The processions of nuns
from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers
and weeds pressed flat
by the grass
of the seventh fairway.
The crunch of footsteps
become the hum
of passing golf carts.
Though the hail Mary’s remain,
uttered silently on the back swing.
If I had hit my drive
fifty yards farther
my search would take me
to a clearing,
filled with moss and tall grass.
In that overgrowth stands
a rotting podium,
two feet above the plants,
where the litany's
and incantations of mass,
were conducted to those
who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds,
remembering that religion
consisted of more than words
in books and ceremony.
I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
many for every dimple of the shot
that I had found,
and I offer up my own,
in the hope
that stoking the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.
Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
Thanks for reading, this little threat is actually beginning to show me some patterns I haven't fully realized yet. I seem to fixate on two things, people and places. Although that may seem like a pretty broad generalizations, this isn't what's really in vogue right now. Most poets even authors are writing memoir and introspection.
Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments
See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
Well it's like those children's sport's coaches say, it's not practice that makes perfect, it's perfect practice. The best way to learn and evolve as a writer is to keep reading poetry - since it's pretty expensive if you're taking a shot in the dark - hit up the library
as dusk enfolds the trail.
She climbs until starlight melds
with the canopy, and severs
flashlight spectrums into silver coils
that bathe bare oak limbs.
Her foggy breath became memories
of skinny suburban kids
camping in backyard sing a’ longs
chanting guns and roses to an audience
behind sliding glass doors,
where smiling parents swell with lemonade
waiting for children’s dreams to reach murky fruition
in college dorm rooms, energized with hormones,
slaves to unknown thoughts that cling
like beer stains to white shirts.
Before professional entropy grips
that cubicle of the mind,
she sings in the shower to sold out crowds.
Imagined audiences scream her name
in voices that rise and fall to the stage,
rolling like quiet waves at a vacation getaway,
dancing in the air, like
the five pointed oak leaves that glide,
playfully to the grass,
outside her window.
they stand on their pedals
hovering above the seat
the seat they never sit on
it does no good to get comfortable
they ride a few feet ahead
and turn
they measure themselves by hours per mile
and dollars per hour
by customers per night
the rusty fords stop
on the one corner without a street light
the window rises as fast as it falls
and as cars speed away the bikes
continue to wade circles into the sidewalk
they ride their bikes in the same patterns
as smoke rising from a joint
dissipating in the wind of police sirens
they ride like a bike was never built
that could outpace a lumbering junkie
never built to fly down a hill
with painless water in your eyes
they ride their bikes with unlaced boots
and wear undershirts
from the big and tall
with weapons smoldering in their eyes
potentially lethal
like blank checks and empty pages
they ride their bikes like urban hawks
driving over fields of drifting addicts
.
real estate on the wrong side of main street
can be gauged in the aluminum spokes
that slowly cleave the moonlight
in a place where the prestige of selling
sex and dope is survival
I know that Binghamton, the drug nexus
of the southern tier will always be measured
by the way they ride their bikes
A man walks along a pier
following his own shadow,
considering the state of his marriage
he does not notice when his shadow
swallows a dog, or a squirrel.
or two old ladies eating lunch on a bench.
He walks with the sun on his neck
and the world on his mind,
led by a human cloud,
which tilts its head
lets its arms absently fall to the side
and crushes a half dozen pigeons.
A shadow plays in the waves
while he looks out over the water.
He stares farther and farther away
as if he could only peer into himself
by following his gaze along the
curve of the Earth’s circumference.
He turns to go back to his office
and his shadow follows him like
a cape, an echo that keeps pace
with its source.
When he arrives at his building
the shadow of that tower consumes his own.
He is left a man in the dark.
When he reaches the window
of his corner office, his shadow
returns silently to his desk and
across the carpet.
The shadow of his left hand
cast darkness over his signatures,
and the surrounding legal texts.
When he folds the documents back together
and leans back in his chair,
the curve of his head is cast
onto the entirety of his divorce.
His wife arrives under the streetlights,
her shadow is bloated with an unborn
child.
The pregnant darkness sheds no water
from its two dimensions.
Soon that shadow will split in two
and will live under the black
worrying veil of its father.