Snow Underfoot

 

The crunch of the snow under

my boots, the familiar sound,

as I walk. Reminding me of all

the Winters I’ve spent,

walking through it.

The sound of it sending me

through time.

 

Walking to Grammar school

in the deep snow piles of the

1980’s, the trudging through

the snow to high school in the

1990’s. The late nights, leaving

a high school sweetheart’s house,

hoping to get home by curfew.

 

The late nights leaving bars,

the late nights knocking on the

wintry door of a lover, snow piled

high in front of her door, hoping

to be quiet. Of nights of knocks

unanswered, stupidly standing

knee deep in snow, shivering.

 

The snow, a deep part of my

memories; growing up along

urban sidewalks, some shoveled,

some not, cautiously stepping, so

not to slip and slide and fall into a

pile of broken bones. Walking like

a penguin, a waddle for safety sake.

 

Wading through the snow pack,

to get to her bed, to get to her arms,

to get through the night and hope the

snow will be melted, or shoveled or salted

when the morning arrives.

Pants and shoes dried by the heat vent.

 

The snowy Winters of discontent,

the snowy Winters of appreciative warmth,

the Winters of solitude and of company,

the snow bound nights of late drinks till

the scraping plows echo through the

early morning.

Hmmm....

 She makes me so mad,

When she knows that I

Don’t know about all

Her love.

So used,  she says,

And I can’t

Argue, I’m

Terrible.

But I’m never mean.

I only do what I think

I believe, and beliefs

Are questionable.

She makes me jealous,

Her talent, her wit,

Her presence in a room

While I stand goofily,

With a drink in my hand wondering

Why I’m there at all.

She’s funnier,

She’s smarter,

She’s aware,

She’s emotional but right,

How the hell did she do that?

I’m only mad because

I can’t figure it out.

Some secret that I’m not

In on. Some special

Message in the soup,

A message in the tea.

Did that guy just look at her,

God damint, fuck that 

Mother fucker,

Mother fucker. 

Damn it.

Where she going?

Oh. 

In There Somewhere

 

There’s a poem in there somewhere,

some story to write, I just can’t

seem to figure it out.

It’s as if I have become numb to

all the waves crashing over me.

 

With the occasional rarity of

monumental tragedy it was sort

of easy to spew out some thoughtful

and heartfelt poem about the nature of

humanity and the genuine belief in

the power of love to conquer all.

 

But that’s boring. So boring.

It doesn’t seem in keeping pace

with the rolling tragedies and

heartbreaking troubles we’ve had

to bear witness to. Over and over

again. Like lessons un-learned.

 

My fingers are too tired to wipe

away any more tears, or tap at

this keyboard, or point at the

monsters in the mirror and scream,

demanding to be let out of this fun house.

 

Fingers tired of rapping on the table,

the desk, the arm rest, the sides of our

own heads. Shoulders so tense, necks

so stiff from shaking our heads,

arms always flexed, hoping to fend off

the next assault to our senses.

 

An exhaustion of the right words,

jumbled and mixed in the ovens of thought,

half-baked in the glow of TV News and the

nightly prayer of, “what now?”

And going to a bed still nervous for the

morning.

 

I know there’s a poem in there though,

a story, a verse or two. I know it’ll come out

eventually, when my fingers want to work,

my shoulders relax, and my mind isn’t goo.

 

  

The Man With the Granite Hat

 

The man with the granite hat,

so stubborn in his ways,

no interest in anything and

unwilling to change.

 

So encased is he,

that even the Sun he will

not see. In his obstinance

he’ll miss even the slightest glee.

 

His face is curled in a stiff, muted

smirk, like he knows better about

life and stuff. And yet there’s nothing

that he has to say, nothing new anyway.

 

No words can penetrate the hard

case shell, no sound can escape

his self-managed hell.  Arms folded

across his chest, never mind the rest.

 

His ears, unable to hear, from

under the heavy hat he wears,

not a whisper or shout will he

ever let out.

 

Stone stiff he lies, unresponsive

to anyone’s cries. No plea heard,

no wish granted, no desire to heal,

no genial politeness ever mentioned.

 

There he is, the man in the granite hat,

up on the hill, past the gates, near the

weeping willow and the old stone bench,

the path overgrown with weeds and debris.

 

That old Son of a Bitch, wicked and rotten,

no semblance of a soul, no redemption planned,

he’ll fade into the Earth as he fades into

history; not as he wanted, but how he’ll be.