Three More Poems: AHJ, Paradelle for James, Terrible, Dec 20 2013

AHJ

Alto voice
ample brain, sincere
desire to do well
plus a face
that can’t wait a long

time to get what it needs to
smile: comfortable
friends,quiet
satisfying life,
a chance to love what you love.

What do you
want, where is your time
going to be spent?
Silver ring
shows more than you think

about your independent
path, your eyes search, your
lips speak but
do not say a word,
able to tell the story

of passions
vertically, wide open, like
the man at
the terminal, wet
drops flowing in joy,

waving to
the one he will always love,
unable
to see a lot, but
wanting to be with.

Paradelle for James H. Stuber at Age Eight

Routine runs to laugh behind the flake-barked tree.
Routine runs to laugh behind the flake-barked tree.
Whitey, my son’s dog, darts to freedom, breaks his heart.
Whitey, my son’s dog, darts to freedom, breaks his heart.
Whitey barked “freedom,” breaks routine, the darts flake.
My son’s laugh, his heart behind, runs to the dog tree.

Thick lips expect extra attention when cold weather arrives.
Thick lips expect extra attention when cold weather arrives.
He is so pure he gets awards that proclaim “angelic.”
He is so pure he gets awards that proclaim “angelic.”
Angelic lips proclaim extra weather. He arrives, gets attention.
That cold, so thick: expect awards when he is pure.

He always asks questions that stimulate even this old mind.
He always asks questions that stimulate even this old mind.
When spring arrives we throw balls, talk sports, eat strawberries.
When spring arrives we throw balls, talk sports, eat strawberries.
Always stimulate balls that mind strawberries. This spring, when
He asks, throw old questions, mind sports, talk, even eat.

He runs, asks routine questions, gets extra freedom, balls behind
Strawberries’ pure lips. Expect to laugh, Whitey to stimulate
Spring to sports. The flake always arrives. This old dog barked.
Cold weather breaks his heart, thick mind darts, my
Son’s always angelic. Proclaim when tree awards attention.
When we throw, talk, eat, he is so that, he even that.
Terrible

You’d have to be a fan of David Lynch, or
Kim Ki Duk, or the neurotic side of Woody Allen
with none of the gags in order to follow
along with this life, now so dichotomous
a Han-wide fissure divides two sides
both ridden with psychological tributaries. Some
nights it’s a Fellini romp, some days, through
Bergman, darkly. Please grit your teeth and
read on, because this reality is one
you’ll want to avoid, and it’s easy to do.
Match hearts. Don’t let sex or money control
you, be old fashion. That way when you wake
up in the middle of Nordic angst or
Faulknerian psychosis maybe the person
next to you will be willing to nurse
you back to Coen-Brothers oddballity
or even your own morbid elation,
strange mix of joy, sadness, public seclusion,
spitting hard truths no one wants to
hear until you lose your job (again).

Advertisements