poem #2

Nostalgia does not enter here

 

they throw rocks at the plate glass windows

which shatter, a sibilant rain of golden shards

and birds, roosting in the shadows, take to their wings

dark feathery darts shooting into a golden dusk

of striated crimson clouds brushed against the amber sunset

 

the doors are posted, Do Not Enter. A chain puddled

amidst scattered beer cans and an old tattered mattress

silent sentries of abandonment behind a chain linked fence

the links cut and bent away for a forced entry

up the steps, three at a time, into the dark maw

the black windows staring sightless into the night

 

footsteps echo with their laughter, borne to the dark corners

and white beams bleach away the night inside

where chalkboards hang haphazardly, pried from the wall

and spiders have taken lofty seats for a hushed education

of the written rattle and shhhh of spray cans

 

they have sex here, as she sometimes balk at such a notion

of another used mattress, her bare thighs against the abrasive fabric

those dreams of the romantic, just that. And their sighs and shudders

 are finished in the midst of cheap wine and cigarettes

 

and good night is under the white halogen street light

outside her father’s house, sitting in the car, the engine running

the radio doing all their talking, as she plays her fingers down his arm

searching in his eyes for her meaning, for her truth, hoping

for a blank white stare of internal denial

instead of that hapless hopeless patented smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry: On The Edge

On The Edge

 

 

The kettle whistled every morning

right before the rooster’s crow

and fresh bottled milk perched itself upon the third step

of the front porch, cream rising to the top

and my mother wrestled with the bread dough

beating it down, kneading it not so gently

 

And quickly the sun would crack

the horizon where it had rested

somewhere beyond the fields

far beyond the growing green hay

where I nestled with the dogs

and avoided chores and adulthood

 

Father had answered the call

the posters in red white and blue

pointing at him,  “wanting you” and beckoning

and the radio crackled every night

its news, my mother’s only conversation, consolation

she sat upright, her self perched

 

Edward R Murrow gave hour-by-hour reports

London under the Blitz and This is London

and Trafalgar Square lit with search lights

and raid sirens accompanied him

but on Saturdays it was the Grand Ole Opry

and she would let me sit with her and she would

sing, her arms over my chest as I sat

on the floor in front of her chair, she perched forward

on the edge of her seat, leaning towards the radio

 

when the army came to visit Ms Rita

this man in green, medals gleaming

Miss Rita, next door, turned off her radio

and sent Johnny to fetch my mother

and after, Johnny and I played army in the field

Marching all day, then Johnny went marching home again

 

And from the dark hallway, the amber doorframe

cold against my cheek

I watched that night, my mother cry with coffee

And she gripped a pillow, kneading it not so gently

listening, rocking back and forth

her cheeks gleaming in the night glow of the radio