April is National Poetry Month

            I love poetry. I think of poems as finely crafted short stories. Poetry makes me marvel at our ability to create a descriptive phrase in order to convey the beauty of the cosmos or the simplest flutter of a leaf on a tree branch in a breeze.  It is one of the greatest gifts human beings possess. Great poetry can make you cry or smile or take you back to a time in your memory when the world was fresh.

            I know a lot of people, grown people, have a hard time with poetry. They find it dull or difficult to understand. That makes me sad. There’s beauty in words and it’s disappointing to know that some people think poetry is something they have to deal with in school but once they graduate they never have to see it again. That’s so unfortunate. I think intelligent people, feeling people, should always be in love with words. Not every emotion can be expressed with a bouquet of roses on Valentine’s Day or a playful slap on the butt. Sometimes telling a woman that the beating of her loving heart is the metronome by which the music of passion is measured; or something of the like, can carry more weight than a vase of flowers on her desk at her job.

            As much as I love words and poetry, I find that I’m not a big fan of other poets. I’ve had a few moments in my life where I’ve gone to poetry slams and readings and performances of poetry. These poets seem to turn their poems into performance pieces or some kind of performance art thing that gets away from the words and the meat of what I consider good poetry. I want the words of a poem to lift me out of my chair as I imagine the dizzying heights I can be carried to. I don’t want to see a poet take her shirt off and point to what she’s written on her exposed breasts. (I think it was Tomato and Whore). And then just walk off the stage amid the un-phased beatniks to the sounds of snapping fingers.

            That’s a different kind of Art to me. It is self expression and I have no qualms with it. I just don’t think it necessarily should be called, “Poetry”. I think simply hearing a poet read the words they have written, in the cadence in which they imagined the rhythm, the flow, of the poem suggests has the ability to transport the imaginer to someplace wonderful or terrifying.

            I remember my early exposure to poetry. I believe it was the simple rhyming of Mother Goose and Fairy Tales. Shel Silverstein was a favorite of mine as a youth. His use of the pause and of the true power a word could carry was very forming. I still have a few memorized to this day. When I was a teenager I liked Edgar Allen Poe for his dark and melancholy fascinations but I could always tell there was some kind of love lying under his bleakness. I got into Kerouac and Bukowski and the Beats and wandered into a world that strayed from the formed and regimented poems of textbooks and into a new and captivating use of the written word. I discovered that a great book of poems, a bottle of red wine (or two) could lead to great literary insight. And a hell of a hang over.

            A great poem is one that can tease your memory and make you remember that once, you felt that way too. Prose or a fictional story has a way of guiding your imagination through the various corridors of imagination. But with poetry, the words are merely sign markers, which your imagination can choose to follow or not as you weave your way around. How you arrive at the end is up to where your mind took you. Unlike prose which usually has things wrapped in a bow followed by the words in heavy black ink, “THE END”.  A poem can go on without end in your imagination and can stick to the ribs of your mind long after you read or heard it.

            It happens to me quite often. I may not quote some famous poet in my mind, but I can recognize the inherent beauty a piece of paper wafting in the breeze may hold, and I want to express what I saw to others in a way they can feel what I felt. Not just visualize it, but feel it. As if they were standing right next to me as that moment the wind started to twirl the paper about the sidewalk and our breath was taken away.

            I want the woman of my affection to feel the depths of my passion for them, I want the world to know that I see it smile, I heard the joke, I felt the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the mud on my feet, the blood in my veins, the lust of a hot kiss, the electric tingling of nerves; I want to express it all.

            Poetry is that vehicle. I can't wait for the next one.  

Hangnail

            “I’ve sworn off women,” said Albert.

Albert put his beer down and looked at me. I looked away from the TV hockey

game and blinked at him.

            “I’m sick of it man. I mean it. I do everything I can to be a pretty wonderful guy and yet here I am sitting at the bar with you on a Friday night instead of being with a girlfriend. No offense,” added Albert.

I nodded and took another sip from my beer. It was going to be on of those nights.

I had been waiting for it since Albert walked into the bar and sat next to me. We hadn’t planned to meet up. I was only there to have a few drinks before heading home and having some dinner. We worked in the same building and saw each other every once in a while in the lobby or the elevators, but we weren’t much more than acquaintances. Whenever we did run into each other at happy hour he would dive into his problems with the fairer sex. It wasn’t really his fault and I didn’t blame him. He did seem a like a nice guy. He was just terribly unlucky with women.

            “Can’t be that bad this time,” I said.

            “Oh, man, you wouldn’t believe it. I was seeing this woman, I really liked her too, but I was seeing her for a while and ‘BAM’, she just suddenly started not wanting to be around me. I didn’t even do anything. In fact, I was overly nice to this one,” said Albert.

            “That’s unfortunate,” I said.

            “You’re telling me. I just don’t get it man. So, I’m done. No more internet dating. No more trying to meet women at bars or weddings or funerals. I’m done,” said Albert.

            I looked at my beer on the bar and wished it had less in it than it did. It was still quite full and I felt bad about walking away from a nearly full beer. If there was only a little left in it I wouldn’t feel too awful about patting Albert on the back and just walking away. But I felt trapped and obligated to drink more of my beer and listen to Albert.

            “I tell you man. Women? I haven’t any idea what they want anyway. Do they want to be treated like crap? Do they want sensitive and strong? Do they want funny and emotional? Do they want a bad boy or a good guy? I’ve been all those things and none seem to work,” said Albert.

            I nodded knowing there really was no easy answer. I wasn’t all that hot in the woman department either at the moment. I’d been where Albert is. I was still there too. Suffering as a single man in a coupled world.

            “If I knew what women wanted I’d tell you Albert. Frankly, I don’t know either,” I said.

            “It’s irritating. Like a hangnail,” said Albert.

            “A hangnail?”

            “Yeah. Trying to meet a woman to have a relationship with is like having a hangnail,” said Albert.

            “I don’t think I get your meaning,” I said.

            Albert leaned toward me as if this was some great philosophy he’d worked out. He was nearly whispering as he explained.

            “Meeting women is like that hangnail that you just can’t seem to reach, right on the edge of your fingernail. You don’t really know how it got there, but there it is. You try and pick at it a little bit but you just can’t seem to get it. Even when you use your teeth to try and bite at it, but you just can’t seem to get it. So you keep working at it. No matter what else is going on around you. Could be driving in your car, could be in an important business meeting. You keep trying to get that little tiny bit of skin. It becomes sort of a momentary obsession, this little annoying flap of skin and if you don’t pull it off it’ll just drive you absolutely batshit crazy. Then you do get it. You finally pull it off and you know what happens,” said Albert.

            “What happens,” I asked.

            “You pulled too hard and now you’re bleeding. I mean, you got what you wanted, you got that flap of skin, but now it hurts and you’re bleeding,” said Albert.

            Albert took a sip from his drink and looked around the bar. I contemplated his theory and thought there might be something to it. I looked at my own fingernails.

            “Look at her. Now she’s a fox,” said Albert as he nudged me on the arm.

            I looked over to where Albert was gesturing toward a beautiful woman in her after work finery. Tights and tall boots, shape and bearing, she was sexy and confident. I looked away and knew that I’d never have a shot with her.

            “I’m going to talk to her,” said Albert, “have a good weekend man”.

            He got up from the bar stool and started heading her way. I looked back at my fingernails and decided that I was off women too. For a little while. 

Sometimes it is Magic

            Mortimer dropped his balls. He didn’t mean to do it. There were just so many balls and he only had two hands so the balls went spilling out towards the audience and off the edge of the stage. There were red balls and blue balls and polka-dotted balls; all kinds of balls rolling and hitting the audience in the face. Mortimer was scrambling to recapture his balls but it was futile. His balls were everywhere.

            It was strange that the audience laughed when his balls dropped. He had meant to simply juggle the balls and then perform some other magic tricks for this 8^th grade talent show but now something new presented itself, comedy. He found that the laughter was intoxicating and he wanted more of it. So, as he attempted to recapture his balls; he threw in an exaggerated pratfall or two. His bumbling made the audience laugh harder and he was hooked. His dreams of becoming a magician were dashed in that instant and he now wanted to be a clown.

            He wouldn’t be just a regular red nose, fright-wig clown though. He couldn’t stand the smell of grease paint. He was once at a children’s Halloween party and there was a kid dressed like the Incredible Hulk, covered in green grease paint and the smell made Mortimer want to vomit. He’d be better than a clown, he’d be a comedian.

            Mortimer managed to collect his balls and stood stock still in the center of the stage in the bright spot light, breathing heavy, and a bunch of balls in his arms. The audience had grown quiet.

            “Tah-Dah,” said Mortimer softly.

            The crowd erupted again into riotous laughter and Mortimer felt himself start drifting up toward the ceiling with a new sort of elation. It was his first taste of some subtle power or control in his life and he really liked it. Mortimer moved to the small table to his left and started carefully depositing his balls in a cardboard box. He didn’t want to loose them again. As he was placing the balls in the box he looked back out toward the audience and made a nervous face, like he didn’t want his balls to go rolling all over again. Amazingly the audience got the gag and they laughed again.

            Mortimer dusted his hands off theatrically once the balls were put away and then did a quick double take toward the box as if to make sure none of the balls were trying to escape. He then turned his attention to the top hat. There was supposed to be a trick involving a rabbit in a hat. Not a real rabbit of course, just some foam bunny thing from a magic kit Mortimer received for Christmas. The top hat wasn’t real either, just a plastic hat from New Years. The hat had a hole in the bottom of it covered with black construction paper. The idea was Mortimer could place the hat on his little table, reach through the hat to a box under the table and pull up the foam rabbit. Mortimer suddenly had a different idea.

            He went through the same magical progressions that he’d practiced. He showed the hat to the audience, he put the hat on, he rolled up his sleeves and then took the hat off and placed it on the center of the table. He then delivered the lines he’d practiced in the kitchen with his mother.

            “And now, for your enjoyment I will pull a rabbit from this hat,” he announced.

            Mortimer waved his hands over the said the magic words.

            “Aruba. Jamaica. Oooh, I want to take you. Key Largo, Montego, Presto,” he said.

            Mortimer reached down into the hat but instead of pulling out the rabbit he pretended his arm was stuck in the hat. He feigned pulling and pulling and used his other arm to try and pull his arm out. He played to the crowd as if he could use their help and seemed able to mime his frustration without breaking character. He paused and looked out into the crowd with some exasperation.

            “Balls,” he said.

            The audience burst into laughter and Mortimer’s addiction was set. He took his bows at the end of his three minutes amid wild applause. He saw his father’s face filled with pride and his mother’s loving eyes in the audience. Laughter would be his drug and he’d spend the rest of his life searching for the next hilarious fix.

The Triumvirate

            I hurried through the banquet hoping she wouldn’t see me. Or maybe I was hoping she’d see me. I wasn’t quite sure. All I knew was I had to get to the doorway and that required walking past the banquet table, where she was standing. I got to the doors and saw the other as she was talking with some other people.

            “Tell me when she’s looking,” I said to my ex-girlfriend as I tried to pull her from the banquet room doorway onto the dance floor.

            “When who is looking,” she asked me.

            “My ex-girlfriend,” I said to her.

            She resisted my insistence that we dance and stayed in the doorway. She was dressed in a blue and frilly dress, classy but somehow youthful.  I started dancing with her half in and half out of the doorway. She stayed in one place between the banquet hall and the lobby. I weaved back and forth around her and toward her. I looked over toward the banquet table where my other ex was filling a small plate with food. She was wearing a purple dress and caught me looking.

            “It’s how I keep my legs so nice,” shouted the ex near the banquet table and she toasted me with her plate of food.

            I looked away from the former girlfriend at the banquet table and at my well dressed ex-girlfriend in the doorway. I shrugged like a child and bolted past her and went up some stairs. I hurried up and arrived at a cozy yet unfamiliar bar and I quickly found myself a seat, which was odd because I almost never sit down at bars. It was crowded with familiar yet blurry regular faces. I felt slightly relieved to be in the safety of a bar and away from the women in my life that have caused me so much heartache and trouble. Not to mention the trouble and heartache I caused them. I felt the panic in my chest at the thought of two ex-girlfriends meeting each other start to subside. I also felt the tearing in half feeling start to pass.

            I sighed with relief and I ordered a drink. I started looking around this bar that felt like a place I’d been to but it was someplace new. I looked in the large mirror that hung behind the bar and sitting at a table behind me was the third ex-girlfriend. I cringed and felt my stomach tighten. She was a little hard to see. She was wearing black and it was rather dark in this strange barroom. I knew it was her though and I resisted saying anything to her. I hoped that she didn’t see me but I kept looking at her in the mirror.

            As I was watching in the mirror she suddenly took her top off and exposed her breasts to the bar. Her soft white skin seemed bright against the darkness of the bar. She didn’t jump up and down or anything, she calmly took her top off and sat back in the bar stool at her table. No one in the bar seemed to notice that she’d taken her top off but me or if they did, no one was making a big deal out of it. I turned around from the bar and confronted her.

            “What are you doing,” I asked.

            “Nothing,” she giggled.

            “You should put your top back on,” I said.

            “All right,” she said.

            She picked her shirt up from the table and started putting it back on. I looked at her breasts and I felt myself missing and marveling at them.

            “They are great breasts. I always liked them,” I said.

            She put her shirt back on and smiled at me.

            “Of course you did,” she replied.

            The dream changed then. I don’t know into what or what happened next. That’s what dreams do. They tease and taunt you with filtered images of the past and mix them in the blender of your subconscious for a jumbled and emotionally draining display.  The purpose of these three woman, all whom I loved deeply and passionately, is not clear to me. I don’t know why I reacted to them as I did. All of them though have affected me to the essence of my being. Part of me was glad to see them. Part of me worried about it. All in all, it was just a dream and there’s no real consequence. So I’m writing about it now, wondering about the consequence of reality.

Political Arena

            The crowds gathered outside the Coliseum in anticipation of the games. This was to be one of the largest Gladiatorial contests of the year and most Romans wouldn’t miss it. There were banners and signs poking from the masses, supporting or decrying their particular cause. The crowds were chanting for their hero and each side was trying to drown the other out. The wine started to flow and sometimes the words got a little heated and there was some minor shoving between the factions of fans, but all in all it started orderly. The Roman Guards were able to maintain control with only a few deaths. 

            The heroes of each side arrived in splendor and all the pomp the Romans could deliver. Each hero had been carefully selected to fight for their cause in front of the Emperor and the members of the Senate. On the one side was the hero, Atonio Gaius, there to ensure the Roman government stayed out of the lives of regular Romans and let them continue to choose their own paths. The other side was the hero, Marcus Plius, of those who wanted to define what would be recognized as a legitimate lifestyle by the Roman government.

            The stage for a long and bloody contest was set. The crowds filed into the Coliseum and tried to take their seats but the excitement and the anticipation was simply too much for most. The Emperor entered and was both cheered and booed. The Senators took their seats amid a similar reception. The tone of the people was hot and their blood lust was at a high point. The people were on edge and they were eager to see which champion would reign supreme.

            The Emperor stepped from his private box to address the people.

            “Citizens of the Republic! Today we embark on a new chapter in the evolution of Rome”.

            He returned to his throne and the people looked at each other quizzically. They applauded his speech gently. The Emperor signaled the emcee to begin. The emcee bowed and turned toward the crowds and beckoned for their silence. The crowd slowly died to a murmur.

            “To honor you, the people, the Emperor has decreed this day of games to determine once and for all what kind of Republic we shall be. Your champions are ready!”

            The crowd erupted into cheers as the gates to the arena opened below and two magnificent men entered riding the finest chariots of the day. They waved and motioned to the crowds and the horses pulled them in large circles. They were dressed in similar fashion and there was little way to tell the two hulking men apart. The only difference was what they represented to their fans. They dismounted their chariots and approached the center of the arena on foot. The crowds shouted for them with full throated vigor as they walked.

            “Those who are about to die, salute you,” they both shouted up toward the Emperor’s box and to the people in the stands. The crowd went wild and all the building up was finally at a head. The two gladiators turned from the Emperor and faced each other. They drew their short swords and adjusted their shields. They slowly began circling each other. The sun beat down on their hardened bodies and the dust from the arena floor was getting stirred up with their movement.

            “It is the people’s right to choose the life that makes them happy and not be subject to the government’s definitions of happiness,” said Atonio Gaius as he lunged forward with his sword.

           

            Marcus Plious blocked this first jab with his shield and replied, “The people need the government to tell them what is moral and just, otherwise there would be anarchy”.

            Atonio lunged backwards and swung his sword to evade the fast and sharp blade of Marcus. The crowed roared and cheered the action.

            “A government of the people and for the people shall not be defined by their government, but the will of the people,” said Atonio as he countered Marcus’ lunge and deftly spun around him.

            “The people want a legitimate lifestyle defined by the court and I am to bring them that,” said Marcus.

            “Not enough of the people want that, and that is why I am their champion,” said Atonio as he swung for Marcus’ head.

“You’re a fool,” said Marcus as he ducked, “the people are not ready to handle this issue themselves, that is why I must fight”.

            Their swords met and clashed and their shields slammed together for hours in the blistering heat of the day. They would not give up however and they continued to spar and thrust at each other.

            “It is about equality,” shouted Atonio as he swung his sword.

            “It is about the safety of the children,” countered Marcus.

            “The children are fine. It is your fear that holds you back,” said Atonio.

            “It is your perversions that make you pariahs,” yelled Marcus.

            “My cause is about equality for all,” said Atonio.

            “Your cause goes too far,” said Marcus as he pushed Atonio backwards toward the Coliseum walls.

            The great crowds continued to cheer, yet the Emperor yawned and the Senators started filing out of the stadium.

            “My cause is just,” said Atonio as he rose from the dirt and swung again at Marcus’ head. He ducked again and countered, striking Atonio’s shield.

            The Emperor rose from his throne, almost unnoticed by the masses as they continued to cheer their champions on. His aides and confidants followed him closely out through the concourse and his waiting chariot. The head of his guards and long time friend, Michael Desimus, walked along side the Emperor.

            “My lord, does the game displease you,” asked Michael.

            “No. But I have a feeling it will go on for a very long time and no matter the end no single group will be happy with the result,” said the Emperor.

            “Then why do it my lord? Why have the games at all,” asked Michael.

            “To show the people that their concerns are my concerns,” said the Emperor.

            The Emperor placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. He nodded and moved toward his chariot and rode off toward the palace.

The Duel

            It was numbing. A revelation. It was so unexpected, shock set in faster than expected. The air was silent for a long while as John and Marie realized how much they’d hurt each other. They dropped their swords and stood in awe of the bloody carnage they had caused. Marie held her hand on her chest over a long slash from John’s blade. John clutched his left side where Marie had pierced him and nearly run him through.

            “Why didn’t you tell me,” asked John as he staggered and wavered on his feet.

            “I didn’t want you to know,” said Marie.

            Marie fell backwards into a lounge chair in the study where their pitched battle had left the room in ruins. Books they bought together were strewn about and the globe they picked out on vacation to India was shattered on the floor. The large wooden desk was flipped on its side and had crashed into the glass case of the items collected from Egypt.  Blood was ebbing down the front of Marie’s night dress through her hands. John tried to walk toward her but stumbled on the Ottoman Marie had thrown at him early on in their heated duel. He fell to a knee in front of Marie.

            “Now, you get on your knee,” said Marie as she tried to straighten herself in the chair.

            “Very funny,” said John.

            John slid along the floor closer to Marie and pulled himself by the arm of the lounge chair so he could look at her beautiful face.

            “Why did it have to come to this,” he asked, “we are so in love. Why this then?”

            “Because you’re a fool. And I’m a fool,” said Marie.

            She placed a hand on the top of John’s head and gently smoothed his sweat matted hair from his forehead. John closed his eyes and let himself feel the softness of her hand. He let her hand slide down his face and he kissed it gently as it passed by his lips. He reached up and took her hand in his.

            “We are fools aren’t we? No two bigger fools ever walked this Earth,” said John.

            “Well, you’re a bigger fool than me,” smiled Marie.

           

            John rested his head on Marie’s knee and tried to catch his breath. He felt it getting more labored but still felt the urge to laugh. It was something he and Marie could always do together no matter what. They laughed together at most things.

            “Remember how you threw the candelabra at me and shouted ‘How about a little fire scarecrow’. Where did that come from,” asked John.

            “I knew you’d laugh at that. It was to my advantage,” said Marie.

            “I did laugh, but you laughed too. The advantage was sort of lost then,” said John.

            Marie smiled down at John as he looked up at her. Their blood was now mixing on the floor about the lounge chair, staining the open books at their feet.

            “I wish we’d worked on our relationship as hard as we did our fencing skills,” said Marie.

            “Me too darling, me too. I’m afraid we’ve cut each other too deep this time to recover,” said John.

            A painted portrait of the two hung over the mantle over the large roaring fire in the fire place. The wood crackled and popped as the flames licked the wood. The portrait of Marie and John was bathed in the alternating shadow and light of the flickering flames. Their portrait still expressed the optimism in their young eyes but also seemed to now judge them as they clutched each other in their nearing death.  

            “My love,” asked John.

            “Yes my love,” said Marie.

            John struggled up to his feet and tried not to groan. He straightened his suit jacket and fixed his collar. Marie looked up at him.

            “Will you dance with me,” asked John as he stretched out his hand.

            Marie smiled and reached up to John’s waiting hand.

            “I’d love too,” said Marie.

            John pulled her up from the chair and they fell into each others arms and stood in the middle of the study. Marie rested her head on John’s shoulder and he started to hum to her in her ear. They swayed in each other arms in the firelight as dusk turned to night outside. 

Phonics of Love

What is it about the voice

of someone you love?

It’s intangible.

Especially over the phone.

It’s broken down digitally

and beamed through the

air, sent hundreds of miles

up into the atmosphere and then

bounced back down to a waiting

ear.

It’s like describing a cool

breeze scented of lilies

on a hot summer night to

someone that’s never

known anything but

dust and desert.

The voice of your love

fills your mind with thoughts

of their sweet and beautiful lips

carefully forming each syllable and

sound. Each new word makes your

heart beat fast and blood flow. That voice

fanning the flames of lust, driving

one into a frenzy of erotic longing

and passionate desire for their touch.

You feel that one more gently

whispered word will make you burst

and all you want is to explode all the more.

Imagining your lover’s tongue

carefully arching and rolling

to bend the sugary words that

we long to hear. A sigh. A pause.

A deep breath.

It’s the tenor and the tone

of our lover’s words, the voice,

that nourishes through times when

all can feel lost. A lover’s voice

can make knees weak and stomachs

churn with delightful

anticipation.

A chirp, a tsk, a giggle, a slight moan,

can send one over the moon

and back to Earth with dreams

of touch and visions of

tender embraces.

The voice of a lover is

as powerful as the sun

and often just as warm.

It’s just how we imagine it

and wish we could wear it

like armor against all the

terrible things in the world.

And that’s what it is about

the voice of who you love.