My Phlegmy Valentine

Kratzenstein_orpheus

By Christian Gottlieb Kratzenstein-Stub – Christian Gottlieb Kratzenstein-Stub, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15686494

My Phlegmy Valentine

February’s second week
you are unwell, feverish
difficult, intransigent
unwilling to yield control

I bring you medicine
heat your soup,
soothe your fever
confronting your fight head-on

You are grateful for my patience,
remorseful for making life
much harder than it has to be,
missing the point completely

Your ragged breathing
is my lullaby
your phlegmy cough,
my action prompt
your sudden silence,
my panic button

When I am caring for you
it’s not an act of compassion
but it is the most selfish act
I can muster under pressure

I’ll work on my possessive streak
as soon as you’re well again
for now, I lead Eurydice from Hades
looking back as often as I need.
***

 

My Terms

My Terms

My next funeral will be mine
ain’t strong enough to bear mankind
I saw my mama laid to rest
so you all can just bear the rest

Yup, skipped-out on dad’s last ride
both grandmas’ gone to great divide
losses felt within my breast
withdrew from the manifest

Not fearful of facing west and careening
into oblivion’s bosom
my trepidation of death’s breath, sans meaning
keeping me keen on what could come

I cannot insulate from weathered fate
as winter’s weight descends
so I capitulate with feathered gait
as I await what ends

But no more bitter-sour goodbyes.
***

Kate and Edith Too

1200px-david_-_the_death_of_socrates

The Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David

Kate and Edith Too

She was made mostly for me
harvested, fermented, distilled guarantee
she parts my lips and pickles me
bad is blinded, blended, bound as tamed

She was not made just for me
plucked, dried, rolled into opaque slips of a tree
weaponized vapor, she infuses me
heavenly scent, demonized flames

Together, will they be to me
what opium and hemlock were to Socrates?
I’d empty the goblet with boundless glee
no toxin could bind with sweeter degree

Together, we’ll be poetry
smoke and spirits consumed, transmuted, free
green dragon extract from our torrid sea
can a phoenix be drowned in poison? Let’s see
** *

Written for dVerse Poetics with poisonous plants, hosted by Bjorn. Others have contributed to this prompt here. I know I’m supposed to be taking a break from these prompts to work on my collection, but could pass on such an intriguing prompt as this? Is it still procrastination if I’m technically still writing? Probably, but I had fun so screw it!

Tuna Salad

barryterri

Momma and me, circa sometime in 1981-83, I think.

Tuna Salad

Wifey made tuna salad today and offered me some. I gratefully heaped a pile of it into a cereal bowl, but stopped short of eating. It was missing something. I diced up two hardboiled eggs and mixed them with the tuna salad. Much better, but it was still missing something. I sprinkled paprika onto the dish and tasted it. It was good, but one more thing was missing; Ritz crackers. Sadly, we were out of Ritz, so multigrain gourmet cracker nonsense had to do. I tasted, and was transplanted back to Chicago housing projects during the many times momma made this special snack for me.

grayer than most light
noon sky, counterfeit silver
I pocket the fee

Minus the Ritz, I had inadvertently made momma’s special way of making tuna salad, which on the surface, was probably unremarkable to most. But it was the one meal she made where I didn’t feel like a poor person while eating it. I could imagine all wage brackets having a tuna salad craving, and I imagined people from all walks of life savoring this delicacy in some fashion. It felt good to be on some kind of universal level with wealthy ones who enjoyed tuna salad occasionally.

clouds hide sky-scrapers
visibility is poor
to what lies beneath

I had always known I was poor, but it wasn’t a big deal because everyone I knew was also poor. We lived the same struggles, went to the same government check-cashing places, shopped at the same discount stores, ate the same public school free lunches, wore the same knockoff-brand clothing, and feared the same criminal element and/or corrupt, racist police shakedowns. I didn’t experience any stigma or shame for being poor until I began being bussed to the magnet school Beasley Academic Center. I have nothing against the school, as it was an expansive learning opportunity, but it was perfectly apparent to me that I was one of the poorer kids in attendance. Many kids were from stable, successful 80’s Cosby-sitcom-style homes. They wore Guess jeans, Genera button-ups, Nike, Adidas, Reebok, BK’s, you name it, and they always had the latest technological marvels like Walkmans, mini-synthesizers and etc…

rain bathed in streetlight
amber-hued menagerie
all will be covered

I recall being teased for many things; being shy (back then, nobody mentioned introverts as otherwise normal folks content to keep to themselves; we were “shy” kids who needed to be “fixed” so we would be more social like a “normal” kid), being a nerd (back at regular school, being a nerd just meant that I was smarter than the average sixth-grader or had greater intellectual curiosity than most; being a nerd at the magnet school – where I was rendered intellectually average due to all the other “gifted” kids being bussed in –  just meant that I was the funny-looking kid with the coke-bottle glasses), and being rather unfriendly and all too eager to throw hands for someone so tiny, shy, and nerdlike (if all you wanted was to be left alone, but others kept screwing with you, I suspect you would develop a chip on your shoulder as well).

But for all the random teasing, nothing left me as defenseless as being teased for bring poor. Being a shy nerd who fought a lot was in my DNA, and I owned all of that, but I had nothing to do with being born poor. I had no say in it. Those were cards I had been dealt.

sunshine reveals you
true colors rich, emboldened
the shade, deeper still

The hilarious part was that after three consecutive days of being teased, bullied, getting fed up and fighting back, and ultimately, losing said fights in overwhelmingly one-sided fashion, a teacher decided to counsel me. She wanted to “crack my shell” and find out why I was always so angry and depressed. She wanted to know what in my home life could possibly make me so enraged and isolated. It had to be something at home, right? Perhaps my mother was abusing me, or had boyfriends with boundary issues.

I never opened up, partially because at the time – though an undiagnosed schizophrenic initially losing her grip on reality – mom was the best thing going for me and I didn’t want any outsiders screwing that up by revealing her secret. Also, I never opened up, partially because I felt like asking for help was a sign of weakness, and I felt compelled to endure on my own. But mostly I remained silent because I couldn’t fathom why the teachers couldn’t see the bullying right in front of their faces and understand it for what it was. I was baffled at having to show them what was happening and having to explain why it hurt so much to have to endure it. So, I never did.

birdsongs vibrate moods
gathering for the ride home
we flock and migrate

I would bus home after a particularly rough day of being teased and bullied for wearing generic versions of Converse shoes and a Michael Jackson jacket only five years out-of-style. Sometimes mom would have tuna salad on Ritz crackers waiting for me. I don’t think she knew all that was going on with me, but I suspect she knew I was traversing a rough patch. She never asked about it, but she would talk with me, cracking corny jokes to get me to crack a smile and laugh a bit. She always succeeded. I don’t know if the tuna salad was her secret weapon, but it was often present while she was peppering me with corny jokes. I miss those jokes, as well as the sound of her laugh. But the tuna salad I accidentally made in her honor was pretty tasty.

bluest sky leans west
surrounding me with comfort
memories of you
** *

Written for Terri Ann Dawson, on the ninth anniversary of her death.

Vain Brown Mess

20170909_212737

Vain Brown Mess

I cannot recall
when mirrors became
the enemy.

They reflect a stranger;
I fail to maintain eye-contact.

Cursory glances reveal
sagging, ashen skin
concealing bashful blush.

Reddish,
buttery-brown skin
barely begins my story’s depths.

Hate my lips,
my nose, love
my sad eyes,
hate the sad lies
behind them.

They see a blurry,
russet, greying, messy mesh
unworthy of the love
it somehow netted.

Legs too long,
torso too short;
too much midriff girth,
not enough bicep mass

Shoulders broad, bearing
burdens of never was,
wishful nights, and
what was once a neck

A greying-brown mess.

** *

A doctor once told me
I was a small man in a
large man’s frame, but
that was a time before nachos.

A time after that,
a beautiful, fit
personal trainer told me,
accurately,
I was a mess.

Up-selling gym membership,
but I must confess
I believed him,
nevertheless.

But as I stop averting my own gaze
and look directly at the mess,

I see the insecure boy
within the sad old man
occupying this saggy
stretch-marked meat bag.

Imperfections carry
a certain undressed beauty
left unaddressed; now I see differently.

This body is worthy of love
and being loved, despite aberrations.

Despite poor choices,
heartbreaking shortcomings,
succumbing to immediate need

Perhaps living inside
this greying brown mess
isn’t as bad as I envisioned.

** *

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Poetry about the Body, posted by Sumana Roy.

I’ve been shying away from online poetry prompts recently, opting to work on a collection I hope to have published before the end of the year. But this prompt compelled me to revisit a vulnerability I’ve dealt with since I was a child.

I apologize for yet another naval-gazing (see what I did there?) confessional poem, but this one just fell out of my head. I may take it down in a few days. 

 

Longest Night Yields to Wolf Moon

earth and moon

Image source: https://science.nasa.gov/

Longest Night Yields to Wolf Moon

Knowledge,

for a time,

lagged behind us

on the longest night

when we would celebrate,

sacrifice animals,

indulge in wine, feast,

and flesh, ignorant of the science,

the moon’s tidal-shifting dance,

stabilizing the magical tilted trance

that allows for being,

for celebration, sacrifice,

indulgence, feasting, and

blissful ignorance.

 

Knowledge,

through exploration,

measurement, and study,

having long ago cast aside sheep skins and

rosy veils of ignorance,

reveal the illusion of

Sol’s seasonal retreats and returns,

our angles, no longer dangled,

steeped in superstition and myth,

but no less necessary for our

existence, and thus,

still worthy of celebration,

sacrifice, indulgence, feasting,

and heavenly knowledge.

 

And yet!

Knowledge continues

to reveal new truths,

unlocking doorways to cosmic realities;

the longest night, the redundant,

recurring, cyclical cycle of ending,

beginning, rendered trivial,

infinitesimal against infinite

intergalactic backdrops.

 

Knowledge stands before me

in this January doorway,

rendering me insignificant,

raising the curtain on liberation,

beckoning me to wonder at

what has yet to be unlocked.

I will feast upon her

in a drunken stupor,

all the while, a wizened man

howling at the new year’s Old Moon.

aaron-thomas-201016

Photo by Aaron Thomas on Unsplash

** *

(Mild nudity in video. Mildly NSFW.)

Written and shared for the prompt, Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Doorway(s), posted by Susan. Feel free to stop by and read other poet’s entry to this prompt

January is my birth month, which hasn’t held much significance in my life in quite some time. Susan shared some intriguing knowledge on January’s origin that compelled me to take another look at it. Per her entry:

“Door” is also the deepest root meaning of January:

 January (in Latin, Ianuarius) is named after the Latin word for door (ianua), since January is the door to the year and an opening to new beginnings. The month is conventionally thought of as being named after Janus, the god of beginnings and transitions in Roman mythology, but according to ancient Roman farmers’ almanacs Juno was the tutelary deity of the month.

Pretty neat stuff! How could I not break the seal on 2018 and scribble a few lines after that?

 

Monkey Pause

matthew-kane-205770

Photo by Matthew Kane on Unsplash

Monkey Pause

A troop of

young Japanese macaque

frantically chase

evening moon’s reflection

upon hot spring’s surface.

 

Moonbeams reflect,

refract, fragment, flitter,

fleeing tiny grasping fingers

scattering light

leaving callow plunderers only shivers

for their boundless efforts.

 

Matriarch and Alpha

observe the scene

sitting in silent stillness

warming, cooing,

grooming one another in the depths

content with the moon above

its countless illusions below

and the crisp air between.

 

Nothing is obtained

this moment is now

everything is as it is

what should be is trickery; just

moondust eluding monkey paws.

** *

Written for dVerse I Once Used an Earthquake–dVerse MTB: Symbolism, hosted by Victoria Slotto We were encouraged to write a symbolic poem. This one still feels a bit “on the nose”, but meh, I’ll take it.

 

Go here to read other poet’s contributions to this prompt.

Echo’s Lament

John_William_Waterhouse_Echo_And_Narcissus

Echo And Narcissus, John William Waterhouse (1903)

Echo’s Lament

I am not yet ready to live

and yield my love to another

 

I have not yet explored

the wonders of choice

having none to choose from

other than my unanswered desire

 

My waning heart cannot see

beyond the beauty by the pond

who will not see me

 

as I diminish with daylight

you won’t see even less

 

I will not waste time

embracing another

 

You are kind and fair

but reflection can never compare

 

So much the better;

had I caught your eye

 

Your gaze reflected

upon my echo

repeated back

into your flawless eyes

reflecting into the echo

chambered within my

unrequited heart

would echo my loss

onto your being

 

reflecting an infinite wound

 

and I adore you too much

to even risk destroying a world

where you can only find love

at the surface of you

 

I’d sooner die than crush

even the façade of you and

 

I’d sooner die than live

without my beloved

 

I’d sooner die and wither

like crystalized narcissus

in a December evening frost

 

I’d sooner die in a winter whisper

heard only by the lonely

and I’d sooner die

sooner still

 

I’d sooner die

and fall

into nothing

but sound

 

I’d sooner die

sooner…

die

** *

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Narcissus (Vanity/Narcissism), hosted by Susan. I chose to give voice to Echo, the mountain nymph, because of course I did.

Because of course I did.

I did.

 

Left Hand

Left Hand

Melody

she plays with me

in familiar keys of

The song

pulsating with a vibrancy

she glides with me

reliantly

she comes

spiraling from soprano

rafters like a raptor

 

I am captured flat and

sharply raptured back

 

into wry smiles

within her rhythm,

her movement

moves Miles

along

currents swelling

from fingertips,

compressing

 

flowing,

spilling vibrations

sensationally

sonically caressing,

 

undressing her expression,

tingling a taut spine,

into loosening,

expressing what

we want

which is to tap

our foot in time

with her universe

 

increasing rapidly

haphazardly

astoundingly

muttering a curse

 

as the floor is felt no more

as our rapport

goes on unrehearsed

awe is dispersed

and then

what comes

is the melody

she played for me

in invented keys, free

to romp

pulsating with a vibrancy

she glides for me

defiantly

we stomp

diving from soprano

alighting near the altos

capturing counter-tempos

we come

baring nimble fingertips

ruling our rhythmic hips

soaring above mundane grips

we jaunt

and then we thump

to her melodic

microscopic

atomic-smashing

powerplant

it pumps

and then it jumps

tracks,

exchanging tempo

in time with

refined lines

I skip it

with her,

slightly behind,

but shit,

nobody minds,

freely

we balter

her id

leading evocative

moonbeams to traverse,

as planned

 

I skid,

reading provocative

loony dreams,

unrehearsed, and

I miss it

we falter

she has me

right where she wants us

 

at her fingertips,

and her fingers slip-weave

constellations

 

she baits,

but will not wait

for me to map her

destination, so I

play catch up

while she plays

parlor games with my soul

using only her right hand

she kissed it

with her left.

** *

Inspired by dVerse’s Jazz poetry with Amaya, hosted by guest poet, Amaya Engleking. We were encouraged to write some jazz poetry, or jazz-inspired poetry. Go here to read other dVerse poets’ contributions to this prompt.

I guess my whole vibe is that I kind of accidentally already live in this jazzy poetic realm. Still, this challenge reminded me of a recent jazz session.

I had the privilege of taking Wifey out to Jazz Alley for her birthday earlier this month and catching Hiromi Duet featuring Edmar Castaneda. They were amazing together, and Hiromi was especially mesmerizing in her solo piano work. I found a clip of her performing a song that just knocked the stuffing out of me live. It’s called Sicilian Blue. Anyway, my poem isn’t exactly about her, but it is most certainly inspired by her music.

(Also, sorry I’ve been away for so long. I’ve been struggling with depression and some unexpected life-altering changes. No one is in danger or poor health, but there were changes that I’m still struggling to adapt to. I ask for your continued patience and kindness. We’ll survive this. If I don’t see you again by year’s end, I’ll see you on the other side of 2018.)

Ode to Good Senses

yoann-boyer-185507

Photo by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash

Ode to Good Senses

I have the greatest nose I know

I can detect strawberry,

Spiced cinnamon

And encapsulating earth-tones

Of her presence

 

My ears are tremendous acoustically

Bringing me songs of her laughter

Cocooning me in the

Comforting confines

Of her cooing voice,

Granting warm pathways to her

Innermost ideas

The percussive reassurance of her

Light snoring, like raindrops

Shushing the roof above us

 

These astonishing eyes of mine

Take in the angles of her smile

At angles where gods and goddess

Are perceived, but pale in comparison

To the sight of her in flannel pajamas

Doubled-over, compressed

Tickled, in-spite of herself

By our silly whimsy

 

My body is buoyed by

A buffet of sensation

Of touching and tenderness

Of her connection

We cuddle and exalt

Life with definition

We touch and connect

And flush as cells rush

We infuse and blend

Molecules, use, renew

Our fire, chemically tuned

To our new, sacred element

We touch and forge,

We kiss, and sparks tell

We embrace, and I face the folly

Of oneness within our absurd bliss

 

I taste supernovas

Of past lives

On her lips,

Elemental fire-quenched eclipse

Craving her flavor rewrites code and creed

I drink her in abundance; she is

More than I needed and never enough

 

But there is something more

Within her, beyond perception

Greater than inhaling her presence

More tremendous than her vibrations

Transcending her astonishing spectrum

More buoyant than her touch

Beyond infinity of her taste

 

I cannot smell, hear, see, feel, or taste it

But I know it to be the purest form of her

As great as my fine senses are

I am grateful to find

Something greater in her.

** *

Written for Wifey, on her birthday on November 12.

Shared at Poets United, Poetry Pantry #378.