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30 Poems in 30 Days (Redux)

1- 2

Noire

A hint of familiar perfume
tells him
she was just there,
the air still turbulent
from her hasty retreat.

Enthralled,
her company was all
he’d hoped for
from opposite sides
of the law
they collided in her
criminality.

Now,
in the gloom
of the empty hotel room
he hears the icy raindrops
hit the window
and listens for her steps
on the cobblestones below.

The neon seeping in
highlights the twitch
of his jaw.
You didn’t have to be
a dick to deduce
she got away again,
next time,
even if he did love her,
he wouldn’t warn her.
 
1 - 3

Winter stream

In the night crisp lace
has formed among the freeze-dried reeds
then spreads from bank to bank
across the stream.

Wind whispers of snow
on its way.
It’s too cold for the slow downward dance
of filigree flakes,
instead ice pellets will sting the skin
sifting into ever shifting drifts.

Beneath its translucent shawl
the stream swirls on
impatient for Spring,
brimming banks and new life.​
 
7 - 11 Chaos (a septolet)

Finely dressed
party
people

Quiet type,
watching and waiting
for the mayhem
to start.


:cool:
 
1-11

Anticipation builds
as the room begins to fill
buzz of the crowd grows
louder, the white noise of
waiting

Lights begin to dim
and the din drops
for the merest of moments
a collective inhale
that exhales electricity

Spotlights blaze
drums and bass
replace heartbeats
and the organism
of audience breathes
in music and melody
 
7 - 12 Grief

The mist grew to droplets, then a downpour--a roaring cascade...a flood.
 
1 - 4

Britain 1945 – 1950

Mothers warned daughters,
distrustful of the flashy cars,
the chewing gum and chocolate bars,
still rationed, so seductive.

Dubious of those lace-less loafers
and cigarette packs stashed in
sleeves of blinding white T-shirts
like angular muscles. “They’re probably
perfectly nice boys at home
but over here…..” left un-ended.

Their exotic looks promised short-cuts
to a Techni-coloured life better
than post-war drab, the crew cuts,
the manicured hands glamorous
beyond belief.

Made to feel safe from disgrace
a few, drawn in by the
promise of presumed protection,
fell in love and were bereft
when their lovers left.
no transatlantic flight,
no wide screen life.

The lucky ones took on
the role of the exotic.
Trophy wives in Texas,
Los Angeles or New York
where accents drew stares
and their complexions envied.
 
1-12

Your loneliness is there
in every text message
saying hello and
asking about the weather

Asking me to care
beyond the bits
and bytes of civility
that I can spare for you
 
1-1

Goodbye Porkpie Hat

Prez creeps in crepe-soled shoes and
touches walls to make sure he's there

inside his oxford grey striped suit
and not lost in another dream some

where else instead: a room, a nurse,
four blueberries in a fruit cup, time

on his hands. Where are his people?
Thunder cracks. The midnight sky above

52nd Street zigzags in a yellow flash,
parts the night beyond the neon buzz.

He swallows his corruption. Hennessey
and milk (a little satin, a little silk).

The walls rise too high: brick, steel,
glass, the city's ever changing eye.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bSuCOcL39U
 
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1 - 5

Fruit

On these long, grey days when sun is a rare treat my mind is on the sensual, the unobtainable. The sinking of teeth into plumpness that is cherry, peach, berry. Unbridled rivers of juice, saliva, lips stained as if bruised by indulgence. Unashamed gluttony savours the all-too short harvest. Seeking colour hidden in leafy veils. Handfuls of plump, sun-warmed flesh.

Inside the snowed-in Supa Store irresistible banks of temptation beckon from the produce aisle.

Cherries from China,
peaches from Panama,
Mexican mangoes

all shadows of what they once were.

Travel worn, miles from home, they aim to please, no fault is theirs that their juice has dried, their skin coarsened, their taste graceless, all left on some freight plane over the ocean.

And so I return to my dreams of heat and sweetness, of U-pic and farmers’ markets fragrant with the summer morning’s labour and wait for the sun’s return.
 
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1-13

Some days I look around
the message seems clear
fuck inner beauty
I'm just not wanted here

It's on the cover of magazines
television
movie screens
side-eye glances
just walking down the street

Too tall, too wide
my hair is too wild
a complete lack of subtlety
in my physicality
leaves nowhere to hide
no corner to fade into
though I've futilely tried

As I get older
perhaps wiser too
the messages have less power
than in days of my youth

Repetition is reinforcement
until it dulls responsiveness

Still, I care; I'm quite aware
when the message says
I'm not welcome everywhere
Bless the proudly conspicuous
who prove it all ridiculous
shining a light for those of us
who grew up
and are growing up
trying to make sense of
being too much
and not good enough
 
1 - 6

Cutting Questions

Asked to explain the map
and pattern of damage
on her bare arms
she bravely tells them
that to feel the pain was better
than to feel nothing,
no joy, no sadness, no future,
just stifling, purple void.

She sits on the stage,
slightly raised
above the sympathetic eyes,
examining a specimen
ready to dissect her psyche
while she is pinned
before them.

Her corrugated sleeves
itch angrily in the hot lights
but her hands remain at rest
resisting a satisfying scratch.

When their questions are
exhausted she visibly subsides,
the future doctors politely applaud
and she cries on the bus home.
 
7 - 14 Love Me

I cannot continue to keep score,
Of whether or not she loves me,
The petals are scattered on the floor.

I plucked so many, my fingers are sore,
but the future retains its mystery;
I cannot continue to keep score,

Or count on ever managing to soar
Above it all when less than happy,
The petals are scattered on the floor;

Avoiding her, I try once more
To complete counting each entire daisy,
But I cannot continue to keep score,

Flowers fall, I am lost and poor,
Was it my fault? Not entirely,
The petals are scattered on the floor

My fears are right; I’m such the whore
to trade my soul for such as she;
I cannot continue to keep score,
The petals are scattered on the floor.
~~~~~
:cool:
 
1-14 (The have-no-time-today edition)

Time ticks away: I savor and mourn these moments with you as they pass.
 
1-2

Daydream For Jeep

Maybe it's that ringing tone
that drops a vat of silk on me
so I can't turn myself away

when you dip down into blue,
casual like you're glancing up
on any careless summer day.

I mean you slur your bell
in a caress so light almost
like you were never there,

and all the while your face
inscrutable as if you came
only to play and didn't care.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yB0wU_fo8u8
 
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1-3

Terry's Tune

That last day in Old Orchard Beach
the sky was steel, the Atlantic gray.

Wind carried a flap and call of gulls,
pines shivered and the air was salted.

We sat with our private goodbyes,
knees touching, hands finding hands

again. We listened to REM echo
the Boston-Portland local whistling

its southbound return and I thought
of old Honey Fitz, the day tripper, glad

handing passengers at every stop.
So much history there, so much

history in us: curiously light baggage
we carried with, following the train.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFExtPvpOGA
 
1 - 7

The Shortest Day

Huddled, hungry in the dark,
birds wait for morning light
when loaded feeders, seed and suet,
berries and bacon rind, wait.

We rise to dark as well, mindful of
things yet unaccomplished, weary
of the twisted meaning of Nativity
turned on its head.

Last cards to write,
the once-a-year-hail-fellow
and the paper boy who still awaits his box,
perhaps it should be his ears
for all the deliveries into the holly bush.

Night comes too soon
and I’m mindful of
the uncelebrated lives,
the cardboard condos full of
lonely hopelessness, the nightshift
that seems endless and I give
thanks for all I have,
this blessed night,
​
 
1-15 (Sedoka)

Birthday

Another year passed
a haze of days unnoticed
punctuated by a cake

Celebrating life
offerings of affection
mark the turning of a year
 
8 - 1 Corner Joint Lunch

"Ya wanna slice?"

I must have took too long
to process an answer. 'cause
the bald man with a golden hoop
in each ear repeated himself,

"Ya wanna slice, or what?"

I swallowed nervously and
nodded rapidly, told him to
give me one with black olives
and pepperoni.
"Make it two...and a beer."

He gave me an eye like he
was going to ask for my ID,
and I sighed at not bringing
my wallet, just money, and
for shaving that morning.

There's a hint of grey
on one temple, but mostly
just in my beard...esp in
my three o'clock shadow
(why wait until five?)

But he just called the pizza over
his shoulder and stepped to
draw me a draft of whatever they had
handed me the mug and took my money.



:cool:
 
1-4

C Jam Blues

Duke has a smile big as his hat.
Sidemen and chorines fill the room
and blues get jumping just like that.
Duke has a smile big as his hat
and he don't 'low no playin flat,
sock hop at six then jam till noon.
Duke has a smile big as his hat.
Sidemen and chorines fill the room.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOlpcJhNyDI
 
1 - 8

Summer Reverie

Long shadows of a summer morning
dew-moist still before the heat.
Surrounding me without a warning,
quail come running round my feet.

Dew-moist, still before the heat
the grass is daisy-dappled here.
Quail come running round my feet
So tame are they, they show no fear.

The grass is daisy-dappled here,
soft air of summer, birdsong filled,
so tame are they, they show no fear,
alone I stand still, silent, thrilled.

Soft air of summer, birdsong filled,
surrounding me without a warning.
Alone I stand still, silent, thrilled
among long shadows of a the morning​
 
1-16 Quinzaine

Confronted by a blank page.
When will the words come?
Could sleep help?
 
8 - 2 Quinzaine

I need me a new poem.
Is this new enough?
Poetic?


:cool:
 
1 - 9

Ice Storm

Gentle innocuous rain
not stinging cold
yet miraculous,
encasing the world in ice.

Air rattles through trees,
jangling aching boughs
in percussive pain,
branches rain down like
fallen birds.

Trees, burdened beyond endurance,
crack and split.
There'll be no Spring for them.
Familiar objects made strange
in their chilly mantle.

Alien world of beauty,
anguish, and amazement,
lasting as long as a dream.
 
1-5

Kyrielle for February 9, 1964

I'm thinking of a simpler time.
Snow is falling; it's pretty cold,
but I'm lost in a far-off rhyme
now: Sergeant Pepper's growing old

Our TV screen was black and white.
I sat up close which made Dad scold
that I would likely wreck my sight.
Now Sergeant Pepper's growing old.

My sight *is* wrecked but I don't care.
Those four guys really got a hold
on me: the sounds, the songs, the hair!
Now Sergeant Pepper's growing old.

And Ed, the great stone face, is gone.
"Just settle down now girls," he told
us. "One of them is married." (John)
Now Sergeant Pepper's growing old.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1_zdt_FNmM
 
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