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Entries tagged with “Poem”.


 

The Ether Scented Table

When I first taught “Prufrock”
In my early thirties,
Childless,
Wifeless,
Grand ambitions,
I still could feel the foggy cat
Curling ‘round my feet,
Smell the ether,
See the sawdust,
Perceive the pin poised
To fix me wriggling to the wall.

But now a son is three.
And though I see myself
Still fight the against the
Mermaids’ whispers,
Songs that pull me to the depths of age,
To some drowning despair of lost potential,
There is hope for him.

He knows the Jabberwock
That old men fear,
That young men wish to tame.
I taught him that from crib to now,
No longer fear his younger years,
The early tests or trials.

I fear the years I will not see,
When his minutes become hours,
When nostalgia fights regret
And I’m not here to hold him fast
And smooth his hair
And rub his back
And tell him it will pass.

My father’s burden
Now is mine.
Perhaps my son’s ahead.
I do not fear he will not feel
The young man’s joy
Or live life full and long.

But a time will come
When I shall sing the song
Of love and loss.
A lesson that I hope he hears,
Embraces, inhales like shaman smoke,
To do what’s right,
To eat the peach,
To leave the pants unrolled.
To be the artist spoken of
And stroke the downy arms
And gaze into the eyes
And kiss the open lips
And sing the ocean songs
That mermaids hear
And pull them to the shore.

So dare, my son.
Dare to do the things you’ll do.
Dare to leave regrets behind.
Dare to love and dare to lose.
Dare to fall and rise again.
And rise again.
And rise again.

It’s Prufrock’s broken spirit
That I dread.

 

Felt your hand last night,
fingers soft as air.
We held hands as we walked along the beach.
You and me,
happy and free,
as we walked along the beach.
Touched your face last night,
Moonlight in your hair.
The warm wind blew as we danced by the sea.
You and me,
happy and free,
as we danced down by the sea.

You and me on that long deserted beach,
holding hands in the night,
listening to the waves rolling in and rolling out,
falling in love under the moonlight.

Kissed your lips last night,
senses rolling ’round.
Looked deep in your eyes and you kissed me again.
You and me,
happy and free,
as we made love in the sand.

You and me on that long deserted beach,
holding hands in the night,
listening to the waves rolling in and rolling out,
falling in love under the moonlight.

Woke up in my room,
my dog right by my side.
He looked at me with his sad, sleepy glare.
Him and me,
alone as we could be.
Baby, you weren’t anywhere.
Dreamt of you last night.
Shook to clear my head.
I took your picture from inside my pillowcase.
You and me,
never to be.
I sat there staring at your face.

I cut your picture from a Cosmo that I bought:
A low-cut neckline, velvet, red.
You don’t even know that I just might exist,
So I put you back and went to bed.

Felt your hand last night,
fingers soft as air . . . .

Only one of three alive
in stillness lay
broken,
burnt,
ripped from the short ride home
on her crisp orange autumn day
at the corner
where my high school stands,
and the powder green pines grow—
at the corner
where the flag whips the air
from the platinum pole,
bright contrasts to pools of red
and metal wrung like wet rags
against the asphalt gray
they were.

All blood and blond,
their beauty stripped
by a quick-ran red,
an auto-ram impacted sides
with screams and squeals
and sweet-burnt rubber
and shimmering glass like
a giant’s shaken salt
on the gray road-plate—
their flesh offered
raw
for his consuming.

Lieutenant Ruytenburgh’s Glance

on Rembrandt’s The Shooting Company of Captain
Frans Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Ruytenburgh

aka. The Night Watch

You bombastic lout.

You ignorant peacock,
with your “Let me tell you this”
and “I think”s and “To the contrary”s.

You think you’re beloved
as you pontificate,
leading the mob
along the Amstel
shooting.

But they are simply jackals
like your own dog hoping for the fox,
jumping at the scraps you drop.

They love you not.

You will say the wrong thing
someday,
or give the wrong glance
or use the wrong whore,
and the next day
court will silence when you enter,
and you will finally know
what a little man you are.

I shall,
at your fall,
become the captain.

But I?
I
shall shoot
alone.

__________________

This painting has always fascinated me. There is so much odd in it.

For example: did you notice the blazingly bright dwarf lady — I know, little person, sorry — who looks like Banana Grandma? She is just to the left of Cocq. Where is that light coming from? She’s got to be important, right?

Anyway, I’ve been fascinated with this painting for a while. But recently I say this documentary (with acting) called Rembrandt’s J’Acusse. If you like art or mystery or intellectual documentaries, this movie is toto boffo. I highly recommend it. Plus, you can Netflix it.