poetrysheet

Inquisitions begin the moment

the head hits the pillow.

Night breeds thoughtfulness

that flow day obscured

with distractions,

eddies and ripples

in the stream of life.

 

The judges take their places

around the perimeter,

gavels and briefs in hand

questioning the mind

with words spoken, left unsaid

omissions and things left undone.

Sleep, a distant dream.

 

The tossing, pillow adjusting

signs of bad conscience,

Promises to do better,

plans for the future

abstractions for a new day

made, contemplated, shuffled.

Night grows in secrets.

 

The cacophony at the edge of dreaming

starts when the judges clatter

into their chambers

to determine the sentence.

Decisions roughing the limn,

the descent quickens,

the bottom nearing.

 

Inquest over the body

moves into slumber;

a moment of peace

before guilt rushes in

and insomnia pounces.

Revenant, the patient gasps

turns over, winces.

 

Interrogations end at dawn.

Lessons unlearned

The day lurches forward.

The judges, silent,

maintain watch.

 

Spring came early this year.

It is not my best season. Something

About the light, the length of the day increasing

Irritates rough edges of nerves.

 

Sunlight, unrelenting.

I shield my eyes and join

Throngs of travelers

Reveling in balmy breezes.

 

Better, winter dark,

The close blanket of cloud

That hangs on the buildings downtown.

The rain and snow and wet.

 

A time of thoughtfulness,

Twilight reminds me of love

And the end we all come to,

Melancholy that moves inward.

 

Primordial this urge, visceral.

A caveman seeking

Warmth in the cave

Where light filters in dim through the opening.

 

I hope the rains come soon,

The sky grows dark,

The fog and blurred dawn

The thunderstorm making early night

 

Redbuds flower and soon the lilacs will erupt

In fragrant bouquets of bloom

I treasure them, even as they remind me

Winter’s still a long way away.

 

Walter Bell, fights fires

and is fighting one down the street.

A cameraman stands out front.

A few neighbors, in what will be

their only TV appearance,

say an old couple just bought it

and were fixing it up.

 

Behind them, stop-action in flashing light,

Walter and the other men

fight fire, spray water, and rake

the smoke from cinders.

 

Down the sidewalk, I mill around with others,

wondering about lives lived there,

about who lived in our houses

and where their memories have gone.

 

I remember it is spring, time again

to clean generations out of the corners.

But you never get it. You never get all

the flakes of skin, old food,

all the wool turned to moth dust.

 

The only time it all goes is when it burns,

winds up in the wind or smeared on the face

of a guy you went to high school with.

 

that summer, the park ached

with the screams and yips

of kids and dogs loosed

upon it

 

it was green then,

pool full, moms with sunglasses

kids with flippers and sea monster floats

 

people burned weenies, took in a breeze,

smiled at each other

with beer foam moustaches

 

in the houses, mamas sang in kitchens.

bread steam, meat-and-potato sear

floated over the baseball diamond

crawling with those spidery little guys

on St. Helena’s B-Team

flooring St. John Francis Regis again

 

porches creaked, smoldered with cigars

a hundred dogs on every block

raised the living and the dead

at each out-of-sync clock chime

 

anyone who had any money

bought grape pop in a bottle

a pack of luckies, or a snort of whiskey

 

and life was as good

as it was ever going to get

that summer, in the park,

in the pool, we watched

young mamas and older sisters

cross and uncross their legs,

snap their swimsuit tops

and pull the elastic out from behind

with index fingers

 

it was before life became knotty,

before the girls got pregnant,

and things went bad with cops

parents, brothers and sisters

 

and we all got the hell out

 

that summer was as good

as it was ever going to get

but we couldn’t trace the lines

through the waves in the water,

or see our reflections in the sunglasses

 

the new yard, gravel and rock

bare ground muddied in recent rain

lies fertile on the mind

 

for dogwood, pink and white,

a pair of redbuds, either side of the drive,

a couple of brooding lilacs next to the house

 

out back, on the hill, where the water has run

into the basement already, the mind has placed two apples,

a peach, and a fish pond

 

all this gardening, digging, hoeing,

mulching around roots, smacking dust and soil

from knees of jeans and crimps of skin

presupposes the pinoak, now a sapling,

draping its green curtain over it all

 

shade an old man

might remember he wanted to see

as he sits on a porch swing under a broken gutter

before a house long in need of paint

in the shade of that tree

 

settled into cushions in the solarium

cat tinkling around bare feet

 

we read, evening falls on orchid-skirted palms

sprays of lemon blooms swathe cherubs

 

pages turn, breaths echo at babes’ ankles

 

we skim the water,

surface dimpled with your breath

 

your skin cool

dry

 

 

His face hung in wrinkled folds

even when we were seventeen,

and crows’ feet danced at his eye

when he squinted to smile.

 

In the park at night, over pilfered whiskey,

he said he could see where things wind up,

how young men turn old,

and memories smoke up with wishes.

 

One day you’re young, he said,

the next you talk in raspy whispers,

your body turns into a map

back to the beginning.

 

In a car in a ditch, he became as old

the oldest man in the world:

Son of somebody, brother of whomever,

no wife, no offspring, no chance to vote.

 

Not even remembered, really, but by people like me,

who hear him all along here—yelps and howls.

Steps—leather on concrete in the rain—

stumble up alleys, play along the curb.

 

 

bandy-legged, newspaper under arm,

skinny little paul—neighbor, friend, critic—

walks and walks and walks

 

he was in the cemetery

when we buried my grandmother—

grayed beard and bushy eyebrows

flittering in the wind

he remembered her fondly

as neighbor, friend, critic

 

he didn’t want a ride (he never does)

but said he wanted to visit

someone earthed long ago

in a distant row of stones

 

his mother, whom I never heard of,

his father, who disappeared,

or a sister, brother, or cousin?

he never said

 

he turned to the hill

that rolled down to a wooded creek

happy to see us, he said,

happy one more day

to walk

 

 

His cohorts, once and former,

drank wine and smoked cigars,

in robes, bleary eyed, like Romans,

orgified, just in from debauch.

 

And inside, the Senate sent up a cheer,

a wail of laughter that busted

along the street, where we warmed our hands

under the haunches of dogs

with hardly any breath left in them.

 

At the door of the chapel, meanwhile,

a whole line of mouths opened

on cue of everlasting life.

At the altar, Caesar wrapped laurels

around the heads of orphans who’d done him favors.

 

And there was our man, the one who stood for us,

making one last try—after we had given up—

to reinstate the republic, to make us believe

in something other than flesh

and empty prayers and false gods.

 

Last time we saw him, he was blowing the base

of the fire, sending sparks into Cleopatra’s veils

stars to signal gods the experiment wasn’t over,

the patient’s heart hadn’t stopped—not yet.

 

 

between thumb and forefinger

balanced on a knuckle on the nose,

a man, a tree, the sun

bob in a bead of sweat

 

squeezed between fingertips

the man disappears in memory,

sunset into night