Friday, July 30

Poem for 2010's Father's Day

I awake with the idea of a new future:
the tea in cups with sticky finger-handles,
you & I are at the table of existence
while daylight within sparse clouds
all hover at the small window of my stained-glass kitchen.
There is the tang of lemons in the air-space
a fly and I are your curly-queue companions at the desk of eternity.

What is this thing you have given me,
considered at first an odd thing--
the pain of breathing & the bright, very bright lights.

At first it was just "Scrabble" or "Clue"
never very often a game on the lawn unless it was
Badminton or Croquet
as those were the acceptible & would appear from afar
as a family symbol that would never be misconstrued.
The best of events are the banquet or buffet--
& if chosen fairly,
always banquet for the music
and there are never waiters at the buffet.

It is time for a warm-up as I am weary of the cold,
more tea or coffee,
the fly lands upon my knee--
you & I have always been so distant the reality of this is old.
It all lies in grayness and murk
death and mouths shut at each & every turn.
The chaos of what is
the disaster of what was
the bungle of the future becomes just what will be.
My mess is your mess;
you have always told me to create from what I earn
but the reality of blindness
is that neither of us see--
when sureness is confusion
my feet will never learn to agree.

The mornings so early, another trip to the South:
in the dark
in the quiet
the hideous & unatural pre-hour of pre-sunrise
has now become my credit--
the fashion of my swervings as my life spins towards its final edit.

You ask me about my few friends,
are they happy
are they living
have they finally swept their porches wearing sun-hats & fedora.
Does the telephone ring so rarely that you forget to answer questions
have the people said their farewells
have those strange ones at last
abandoned or lost the aura?
Here the smell of mown grass
so fragrant-fresh with onions.
The rebelliant twinge of  vegetable,
so acrid in this dwelling.

At the cutting-board of perceptions
you & I are chess-game equals,
the hilly waves of the square life
you gave to me
you laid on me.
Applied, embroidered & forgotten,
let it stay
as you tie your crochet-edged napkin,
make it simple & inarguably lifeless
as my dried flower is in the budvase.

I stir & you sneeze,
some piece of you in me.
Always having a conniption ending in a splattered freedom
of giggle and teary musings
as tossed shards
from a knife-point--
into the can of endings
all molded warmed
& seething.

Shoulder to shoulder
arms in a lock,
you tell me grin to bear it--
out of sight but still in mind
the bending of the daily
this will not end so stand it;
you must resolve your basement
the fondations of your clutter.
It flows & floats like rumor,
imagine now--
it then is fact
alive is dead
this can't retract.

In the corner is a floor-mop
propped still from my late mother,
she had wiped-clean in the cupboard
then began the other hallway
to my long forgotten bookshelves
so dust-laid & unpainted
full circle at the doorway.

I repair the crusted elbow
I am jabbed into your slop.
Biscuit handed tea sip
a tiny motion of the
Never embarrased nor name calling,
with decorum you are leaving,
time is gone
you have withdrawn
Light filament
is receding.
Ended now
shakes the trueness,
I have hands to head & eyes so damp,

but yet,
still bleeding.

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