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  1. #121
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Mole's Avatar
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    Found in a waste paper basket as we were -

    Wandering Around

    In from the airport, heading back into the sprawl,
    I'm scrunched down in the leatherette
    backseat of my ex-wife's new Accord,
    my head filled with soft cheese.

    I'm ready for a pillow,
    still testing the sadness, like a new word I haven't
    learned to use, or a pair of shoes not broken in,
    unyielding as the notion that we are raw,
    passing facts, pummeled by air,
    shivering back on earth as we do
    in thin, summer clothes.

    I don't want to be the man blowing the leaves
    as the dry heat heaves into October.
    I don't want to be head of the family,
    to squint at numbers intractable
    on stock reports or read silvery tables
    of fine print buried in the business pages.

    I don't want to plan for death like a person
    remembering the future. I don't want to lie in bed
    three brittle hours each day, fretting about
    a bologna sandwich, and worrying
    if I can get a banana before dinner.

    I don't want endless finales on the telephone,
    to bequeath a legacy so charily concocted
    it can't be decoded, except by those
    licensed to piece together pages misfiled
    in the blue cabinet of the wind.

    After landing, I waited a half hour for my baggage.
    The carousel going 'round seemed interminable
    but in retrospect was momentary, brief as a splash of water.
    I waited with my briefcase slung over my shoulder,
    holding in its padded recesses all my memory.

    How long ago was it I learned to drive the '55 Fiat,
    orange carpet tiles on the ceiling to absorb the shaking?
    Or hitched a camper to the back of the Galaxy,
    caught in a thunderstorm, brilliant,
    in the folds of the Boston Mountains?

    Who knew that life would stretch a lifetime?
    Or what my franchise would be
    after I rolled the canoe in the White River, clawing
    the rocky bottom, my father yelling,
    "Put your head up," as the sky lurched at my panic?

    Or on the all-night drive across the Mojave,
    who woke me up to see the dipper
    slide over the flayed outskirts of San Bernardino?
    I don't want to be the man who pulls over
    to drink tea from a thermos, checking the map
    for the precise exit. I don't want to forget things
    I imagined happened before I'd seen
    a freeway or uttered a complex sentence.

    I don't want to be like the man
    who scorned the first person, who made me
    me. Who shaved off my facial fuzz
    with my mother's Norelco. Afterward
    he'd sit at his desk with a snifter of brandy,
    one ear plugged into Haydn or Mozart
    playing through a transistor radio,
    and grade papers.

    He hit me once because I had called him Hitler.
    He used to send me away to practice
    the piano. Once he rifled through my drawers
    finding Gauloises and Salems. How my room must
    have stank, but that's not what bothered him.
    It was that he couldn't perfect my imperfections.

    I don't want to be the man who converts
    to buying gemstones. Who enjoys
    numbers for their rational biographies.
    My head is swimming. I see we're getting close
    to home, where a light mist curls beneath the sodium-
    vapor lamps. I know I'll need help
    to get the bags out of the trunk.

    In almost sixty years on the planet,
    I've never been without him. I need to take
    my vitamins, to start a low-fat diet.
    I need to walk more, wander around the neighborhood.
    According to him few of our men have strong hearts.

    - Alan Soldofsky.

  2. #122
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    If you like, "Wandering Around", you might like to see and hear the poet, Alan Soldofsky, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vu6dQO_5HWw

  3. #123
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    Filtched last night and today -

    Without Compare

    These leavened bees,

    this world
    hung in concert between, from stem
    to hive, each hum touched

    with sibling sadness,

    tethered
    to a diminishing life, bid

    to and from.

    Worn, the shantung
    of them: breathless forms
    shuttling through sunlight,

    glistening
    between bud and home.

    How loyally they hold their
    vigil, speechless as heirs

    pacing a marbled hall,
    weighing the falling

    pulse of the monarch.

    - Paula Bohince.

  4. #124
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    If you like the poem,"Without Compare", you might like to see the poet, Paula Bohince, by clicking on - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/paula-bohince

  5. #125
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Mole's Avatar
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    Found in the library -

    Irrational Fear

    walking
    along
    the
    lower
    level
    of the
    Smith
    College
    library
    where
    retired
    card
    catalogs
    stand
    ready
    to serve
    in case of
    emergency
    (possibly)
    or
    to be
    recycled
    as
    fixtures
    for
    Beaders'
    Paradise
    (probably)
    I
    keep
    my
    distance
    lest
    Verm-Verr slide out and trip me
    or
    Bruss-Buber whack me in the jaw.

    - Floyd Cheung.

  6. #126
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    If you liked the poem, "Irrational Fear", or even if you didn't, you can see the poet, Floyd Cheung, by clicking on - http://www.smith.edu/english/faculty_cheung.php

  7. #127
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    From prison, we have -

    Recent Findings
    After the cells of Louise Bourgeois

    I

    Studies show the difference between legs and arms is in what tends to come after them: hands or feet. As the difference between teaching in a prison and the Ivy League is a question of attendance and if you can tell the weather from the wall.


    II

    This tiny spiral staircase in the corner appears to be moving. Some experts say it is not. They say getting a degree in prison is like this.


    III

    It's not uncommon, doctors concur, that gnawing on a stone while speaking of clauses to a mother and daughter incarcerated in the same prison may lead to the gnawing of that stone to stone.


    IV

    Recent polls note a breakdown in language when people say incarceration over generations, a hesitation and.


    V

    Too many enclosures make people cold, new data shows, and when it's cold it's going to be cold. As for the spider, she's feeling for an open seam between the walls.

    - Idra Novey.

  8. #128
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    If you liked the poem, "Recent Findings", you may like to see and hear the poet, Indra Novey, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzlueYw6ffs

  9. #129
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    Sent by Segue -

    Cradle-Song

    When I signed for her ashes

    I received her, as once
    she received me
    into her lyric hold
    and let me ride anchor there,
    smaller than the letter alif.

    They gave her into my hands,
    seven pounds, two ounces,
    as once they had given
    me into her hands.

    I set her on the hearth shrine,
    as she set me once a place at her table,
    among her other needy charities.

    After nine months I scattered her
    back to that cold, delphine Atlantic of hers,
    to tidal squalls that rip
    and sigh their salt across the rocks,

    as once she let me fall

    unready
    onto this world's
    gasping, shouting, love-stained shore.

    - Patrick Donnelly.

  10. #130
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Mole's Avatar
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    If you liked the poem, "Cradle Song", you might like to see and hear the poet, Patrick Donnelly, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRPzmzkURSw

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