Not As Easy As It Looks

How can I say,

what I want to say,

without really knowing,

what it is I want to say,

and be coherent and relatable

to those that matter?

The flowery language

I keep using is making me

nauseous. I don’t want to

write another poem slathered

in pretension and soaked in

profundity.

I’m not even sure that I want

it to matter, considering the

transitory nature of things,

the state of flux and change

so constant all the time; would

it matter?

A poem carved into a stone

will eventually fade with the

passage of time, even granite

will give up the etched words

to the stalking ravages of

progress.

The superfluous words,

crowding the edges of my brain,

want to fit and fill this page,

but they are meaningless and

trite, signifying absolutely

nothing.

The meaning I mean to

mean is without meaning.

I suppose I should have known

what I wanted to say before I got

this far along, before I ever even

got to the end.

Poetry is hard.

Storm Watching

                Gray green clouds rolled through the summer sky. Clouds heavy with a storm. The thunder already echoing through the air. The wind picked up. The leaves on the trees shuddered in unison. Litter and other debris tumbled down our neighborhood street on the edge of the breeze. A flash of lightening followed by thunder rippling across the sky.

                “If you count between the flash of lightening and the clap of thunder, you can figure out how many miles away the storm is,” said my father.

                He unfolded a metal lawn chair on our concrete front porch. The chair was typical for the early 1980’s, late 1970’s. It was a rounded metal frame with a weaved seat and back. The pattern was a sort of plastic flannel, light green and dark green, outlined with white. It’s the sort of chair you see in all the Polaroid pictures of the era; ubiquitous at summer parties, strewn about some long driveway or at a park.  There was usually some overweight Uncle or Aunt sitting in them, a brown liquor in one hand, perhaps a long cigarette in the other hand. That lawn chair was utilitarian and everywhere.

                “How do I count, like, just the seconds or do I count like, one Mississippi, two Mississippi…,” I asked.

                “You can use the Mississippi’s. That a full second. It’ll reveal exactly how far and how fast the storm is moving,” said my father.

                “Cool,” I said.

                I sat on the concrete step of the front porch and waited for the next thunder clap. My father opened an Old Style and sat in the lawn chair. The sky darkened. The azure summer sky was fading into black. Cars driving down our busy one-way city street were turning their headlights on as the afternoon seemed to turn to night. I felt the static in the air on the hairs of my arms. The wind was whipping around and bending the grass in sweeping swirls as if brushed by an invisible hand. I could smell the dampness of the rain in the swirling air.

                “I do love a good thunderstorm,” said my father.

                He sipped from his can of beer loudly and sighed heavily; as if the effort of drinking from the can had somehow exhausted him. I didn’t say anything. It was probably his sixth can of beer that day. He’d be asleep by nine.

                The sky cracked and a flash as bright as day illuminated the gathering darkness.

                “Start counting,” said my father.

                I began my Mississippi’s. I got to three when the boom of thunder rattled across the sky. I looked over my shoulder at my father.

                “Three miles away,” he said.

                “Neat,” I said.

                The storm rolled in. It was eating up the warmth that had so filled the morning. The breeze had cooled everything as it rushed forward at the front of the storm.  I started to hear the fat raindrops ping against the aluminum gutters. I could hear them splat against the sidewalk in front of the porch.

                “Here it comes,” said my father. He was excited. It was normally hard to tell.

                The clouds opened and sheets of rain began to fall. The rain seemed biblical. The rain was the wrath of God pouring down on the guilty and innocent alike. I had to step back from the top step of the stoop. I moved to the side of my father’s folding chair under the awning. He was laughing. The noise of the storm, the thunder and lightning, the pounding rain smacking against the ground, wasn’t enough to drown out my father’s cackle. He did love a good thunderstorm.

                The wind started to blow the heavy rain towards us and we started getting wet. The rain was coming in thick waves of water. It reminded me of going through a car wash. The streets quickly filled and the bare dirt spot by the maple tree in front of the house was flooding. We were getting splashed by the heavy rain.

                “We’d better go in,” said my father.

                He stood from the lawn chair and folded it quickly. He pulled open the aluminum front door and I sneaked into the house under his arm. He followed me in quickly just as the rain began to pummel the front door. The storm window was still in. I stood looking at the rain hit the glass, churning like a washing machine.

                My father put the lawn chair up against the bookcase in the foyer and went into the living room. He turned on the TV. I stood at the door.  Lightening flashed. Thunder followed immediately.

                “It’s right over us,” I said.

                I looked into the living room as my father clicked his way through the remote control, looking for something to watch on TV.  I stayed at the screen door seeing my own young reflection in the glass of the storm window mixed with the streaks of rain on the outside.

                The storm moved down our street as quickly as it had arrived. The black sky, the green gray clouds drifting East, opening up to the sun, still shining over it all.

The Best Air to Breathe

A minute to breathe,

the hot air of laughter

swirling around my head,

pleasing my lungs in

chuckles, guffaws, and

giggles.

A bellowing howl,

a peel of thunderous

laughter, echoing

through the night

as we revel in each other’s

mirth.  

The best medicine,

laughing tears streaming over

apple cheeks, braying and

clasping hands over our mouths

as to slow the escape of announced

joys.

The silly sounds of hilarity,

bouncing off the walls,

louder and louder we laugh,

each of us nearly deafened from

the squeals of unbridled and

spontaneous eruptions of amusement.

Each next breath, mixed with a smile,

mixed again with a new hilarious

embarrassing story, the next anecdote,

to be followed again with belly bouncing

cackles and musical chortles. A group of

non-stop cries of delight and joyful noises.

It is hysterical nonsense,

played up to its finest levels,

unrepentant and unequivocal;

satire, joshing, tangents of pure

lunacy, performed for one another

to illicit even larger bursts of laughter.  

The best air to breathe.

Here Comes the Ouch

Here comes the ouch.

Here comes the pain.

Here comes the fear.

Here it comes again.

Here we go.

Another minor, regular,

surgery, on my mouth tomorrow.

Cyst removal, abscess correction,

maybe lose a tooth or two.

Yup, just another day of getting

older, being human and pervious

to the ravages of time, genetics,

and general crap that comes with

the human body.

I’m not so much afraid of the

surgery. Even if it is an hour and

a half long ordeal. I’m not scared

about that at all. It’s the after that

I hate. The subservience I must accept.

The subservience to the whims of

my body, keeping me alive but

simultaneously trying to murder me.

It makes me irritated and out of

patience.

Just work body.

Do your damn thing without being

a complete and utter inconvenience

for me and others.  No. It’s time for

pain, irritation and annoyance.

It’s no wonder I’d be an old man

200 years ago, ancient even.

To live this long seems to be a struggle

even for modernity. The ailments of aging,

a reminder of mortality.

And how irritating dying must be.

I’m not dying though. I don’t think

my body will let that happen. It’ll keep

me alive longer to continue

the torments it has planned

for the future.

And yet,

Here comes the ouch.

Here comes the pain.

Here comes the fear.

Here it comes again.

My Cup

The watercolor dreams I had

told me that if I drink of the

cup, I’d find a sense of euphoria.

And yet, in the swirling color of

a sleeping mind, I still was skeptical

of any elixir making me happy.

It didn’t seem right at all, it was

too easy to slough off the trappings

of anxiety and pent up frustrations,

jumbled and juggling on a unicycle

made of butter across the hot frying

pan of my brain.

There was no dream way that a dream

drink was going to cure me of my pains,

my insecurities, my fears, or unrequited

desires. The dream version of myself, awash

in intensity and vim, was a doubter and

pushed the drink away.

The hands so forcefully encouraging me

to sip of the cup were aggressive in response

to my denial of their offering. They were

incensed to a degree and seemed to float

above me to avenge this slight from on

high.

I wasn’t scared though. I seemed to grasp

onto the threads of reality and pull myself

up from the churning violence of my own mind.

I didn’t look back at the shifting scenes of my

dreams. I could feel the pull towards the

real world.

I woke up on my left side. Head buried so

hard into my pillow that my left ear hurt.

I turned and looked at the digital clock on

the dresser and the red numbers on the clock face,

1:00 AM. The evil 1:00 AM assaulting me with

some surprise, “Oh, you’re up”, it seemed to mock.

I turned to my right side and closed my eyes again.

I don’t seem to have such crazy dreams when I sleep

on my right side. It’s far less exciting.

As I returned to sleep, I remembered,

the phrase, “My cup run-eth over.”  

I drifted to calmer dreamy shores.

The Day I Caught a Leprechaun

This is the story of how,  

a long time past from now,

I caught myself a Leprechaun

which I happened to chance on.

The Leprechaun was named Pete,

and he was fast on his feet,

fleet and light and sly,

it took all my effort to be just as spry.

I was in a dank pub, eight drinks in,

when Pete entered, hoisted a pint to his chin,

He challenged us all to his hidden prize,

“My gold is yours if you catch me, ya drunken guys!”

I stood from my barstool,

having always been a fool,

“I’ll get you, ya wee bastard,” said I.

Clearing the dullness from my eye.

Pete said, “Oh, ya tink so, ya drunken sot.”

I replied, “I do, indeed, you don’t know what I got.”

“Then have at me, you blathering, stumble bum.”

“That’s mean, Mr. Leprechaun. I won’t succumb.”

Pete drank another giant pint and looked me in the face.

He said, “I’ll wipe the floor with ye, all over this place.”

I said, “Now there’s no need for that sort of talk.”

Pete rolled up his green sleeves, to end my squawk.

I said, “It’s just my poor mother, bless her heart,

didn’t go for me fighting or to arguing start.”

Pete replied, “Your mother, oh my, I’ve no wish to offend.”

I replied, “It’s alright my friend, how could you comprehend.”

I said, “It’s just that on this day is when she died.”

Pete dropped his arms to his side.

A serene look came upon Pete’s eyes,

It was then that I had him, who can resist an Irishman’s lies.

I made a toast and raised my glass,

“To a fine Irish woman, a fine Irish Lass.”

Pete closed his eyes and raised the pint to his lips.

I had him then, no more lucky slips.

Pete with his eyes closed, drinking deep.

I lunged at him with a mighty leap.

Before he knew it I was upon him, holding tight,

“Ah, ya idjit,” said Pete, “you made me spill my pint.”

It was then that I knew I had done two wrongs,

I didn’t listen to all the poems and warning songs,

Lied about my mother, and spilled a man’s drink.

I’d broken the rules and it made me think.

I let the Leprechaun out of my hand,

I said, “I’m sorry. I’m ashamed. Please understand.”

Pete replied, “It’s alright lad. At least you tried.”

But I felt bad because I lied.

I said, “Because of the spill let me get you a beer.”

Pete said, “Sure and we’ll get back to being men of cheer.”

The others joined in, we toasted and sang.

Up on the bar, Pete sprang.

He jigged and danced and did his thing,

into the wee morning hours, two AM did ring.

Pete said, “It’s late boy-ohs, and I’ve got to flee,

the wife expects me home at a quarter to three.”

The night had worn on in joy and comradery,

Pete tipped his hat and said, “To tink how bad ya wanted me!”

We shook hands and he grabbed his shillelagh,

out the door he went and so ends story of Leprechaun Pete and me.  

     

A Growling

There’s a growling from my

insides, no mere grumbling

of hunger, but an audible growl;

it has seeped up and out from

my throat more and more.

An irritation; a pebble in

my shoe, a ringing in the ear,

listening to an idiot telling a joke,

it’s all making this growl louder,

and I’m not sure what to do.

Is it appropriate to growl?

Do we growl?

Did we growl in human history?

What made us growlers?

Is it akin to howling?

This growl, a frustrated noise,

more than a grunt, or a bellow,

more than a chortle or annoyed

sigh. A growl, a roar, rumbling in

something I think is like my soul.

Is a growl just a swallowed scream?

A back up of frustration over love,

life, sex, humor, anger, disappointments,

time, expressed in bared teeth and

a rumble of noise in the throat.

This growl noise is also annoying since

I am a human being and not some feral

creature trying to scare away some

approaching predator. I’m rational,

logical, pragmatic, and resist flights of rage.

It is still there though, beckoning to be

released in some comical human groan,

a noise that would be unidentifiable in the

animal kingdom as a “growl”. The other mammals

would laugh at me. Point their opposable thumb less

paws at me and snicker.

A frustrated human noise, ringing like

church bells through my guts,

clanging and tolling for relief,

for quiet and peace, some time

when the growl is quiet.

A drink, a smoke, a laugh or

two, a kiss, a sensual touch,

a loving wink, a quiet between

two minds; I think that

might quiet this growl.

Until the next time I wonder

what that god-awful noise I

am making is.