They used to call me Tamarind.
Now they holler “Turmeric!”
And ever since, the taste of t’s
Only serves to make me sick.
I miss those days of cloudless skies
When we lived upon the moon.
Where we’d jump and linger for a while,
Where no sounds echoed, neither sheep’s nor loon’s.
My love, where you are not
All else is dark and cold
All is toward an ice-ringed end
My love, I hide my eyes and cheeks
Behind a borrowed shawl
Behind your borrowed name
My love, I never told another
Because it was an interupted dream
Because I could never prove a thing
My love, did we really exist
Side by side, the lonely ocean
Side by side, the empty sky
My love, all
My love, behind
My love, because
My love, my love, my love
You tasted of the bluest salt
Your every word a floral form
We were so lucky to bear witness
To one another’s tears
They rehearse the wedding details
In the middle of the arts fair.
Someone’s selling handmade pipes
While the groomsmen stand in line.
The wedding planner wrings and wrangles
And a jewelry-maker works a deal.
Many random people block the bride
Unsure of where and if they fit.
I’m watching all this with my poem.
A half-full beer within arm’s reach.
Random people weave around me.
No one’s sure if this is it.
I told my son
About your dirt road
And how we’d drive too fast
Just to kick up dust behind us
Like a demon’s sandy sneeze.
I told him about the graveyard
Across the rocky road
And the long-abandoned church
With its broken stained-glass windows.
I told him about the dull lights
And the squalling caterwauls
Late nights on your back porch.
I told him what we found there
Among the crooked, sun-sprayed tombstones.
I told him all these little things and more.
He responded with a shiver, “Oh, Daddy! Daddy, why?”
Few Neighbors
Few Neighbors
— Read on kawsmouth.com/2018/08/01/few-neighbors/
Come up, come up
Let us show you the attic
Easy now, mind the dust
Mind the dust everywhere
Stand up, stand up
Tall now, look around now
There’s a box of old books
Too fragile to read through
Those cobwebs in the corner
The prior owner’s condition
Gaps in the insulation
A real character builder
Now step over here
There’s something to see
Look down, look down
Yes, that hole at your feet
You see? Sleeping soundly?
Not knowing you’re up here
And oh! how you’ve wondered
And held your suspicions
How easy we’ve made it
For you to never stop watching
Never stop, never stop
Who’s she dreaming of now?
Old man on sidewalk
Jogs past Yoder sign, grabs it,
Rips it, runs, smiles
We were all so arrogant, yes,
to think it wouldn’t happen to one of us
though all of us are dying a little every day.
A maudlin fog grips the city
that you’ll never see again.
A million icy particles suspended
right in front of our noses,
too tiny, too gray to make out as individuals.
Your son and wife are in Florida.
Only they know why.
In Florida, waves of melancholy
lick the dirt-sand shores.
In Florida, seagulls gripe about their diets
so the children feed them Alka-Seltzer
and watch them fly away.
The children hope to pop the birds
like balloons past their prime.
In California, children also hope to pop the seagulls.
The children have turned toward a cruel science.
Where will we be when the fog and the cold lift
and all homes but one are warm and lively;
when the ladybugs think they’ve found holes in the windows
then spend the rest of their lives
in a pane-centered community;
when the rainwaters drop and the rivers brim with water poisoned
by our desire for more life and our desire to grow,
grow as fast as we can?
Where will we be when the woods
call us back to make love in the forest,
to make masks of shed bark
and clothes from fallen logs?
Where will we be when you won’t;
when you won’t ever again?
We were all so arrogant, yes,
and arrogant still.
Our children are ignorant and growing.
The trees promise a wild, quiet fog.
Ice hangs from the leaking gutters.
https://www.facebook.com/events/1019515224872771/
Join Fountainverse: KC Small Press Poetry Fest organizers Jason Preu, Samantha Slupski, and Brandon Whitehead as they welcome Nathanael William Stolte of Buffalo, NY and Cringe-Worthy Poets Collective Press. Special guests, Chigger Matthews aka Matthew Haines and the one and only #bathtubpoet, New Jersey’s own Damian Rucci!
The return of BDUB 4000, the original robot poet will be the star of the show! Don’t miss this funny and piquant event, which brings some lightheartedness and humor to poetry.
No cover, but LOTS of amazing books will be available! Bring cash for poetry to stir the soul and tickle the heart!
Invisible hands
Cannot be accused, are not
Held accountable
