Best Holden Poems
It happens when you’re debilitated, laid-up, sick;
random images, memories
coalesce within the unoccupied reason of your mind.
Maybe you have a memory, standing on a hill, chilled,
watching the final high school football game of the season.
Maybe you are a fictional character writing about mixed emotions:
your youth transcending societal doubt.
You could be a real person
fictionalizing a pubescent experience
upon a million future pages
describing insecurity at a time of social transition.
Agerstown Pennsylvania wasn’t a bad place to live,
but Pencey was a haven of unforgiving classmates.
Absent mindedness was no excuse
and a lack of self-discipline was grounds for expulsion.
The History instructor was an engaging and affable fellow,
like instructors are.
He was concerned about you,
that instructor that spoke with you
and was aware of the student unable to apply his self
in the presence of teenage shenanigans and impulsive drama.
It seems you were a victim
or a misapprehension of circumstance.
The lack of women at Pencey Prep School was obvious.
The slovenly plain and fidgeting daughter of the headmaster drew your eye.
A growing libido and an ailing fantasy life is no way to grow up.
And while such things make for an interesting read,
they are thin of poetry, romance, and sexual deeds.
Upon the hill pondering flashes of memory,
physical youth seems pleasurable compared to a bleak, unknowable future.
Some good-byes are worth waiting for, some are not.
We always seem to remember bad good-byes.
It is remembering what could-have-been
that keeps us recounting such random and undesired images.
Ode to Holden Caulfield
I'm not even going to mention that term you scattered so ubiquitously throughout your memoir
It's pretentious to bring it up, like I'm trying to prove something
I mean, why would anyone who claims to be a so-called devotee fall into the trap of perpetuating the hypocrisy you so profusely railed against
Your fierce, but misplaced and naive attempts at integrity fall short everywhere … but in that field … and on the edge of that cliff
f
f
That is where you find yourself and your genuine purpose
You save the innocent from corruption
That is a noble cause
That is where,
despite your upbringing and your awkward attempts at acculturation,
you find an escape
That is where,
despite your prodigious flaws and your insolence to all that is holy,
you find redemption
OK. I'll say it – Everyone is a phony. But the real phonies are the ones who don't even know it
Like Stradlater in the back of Ed Banky's car
Holden on to that golden smile
the power of a mighty river, like the Nile
Holden on to his incredible laughter
it echoes to the highest rafter
Holden on to his favorite quotes
“Hey, how ya doing?” and “are you tired?”
rings its sweet notes
On Holden to that beautiful place
with your charisma, they shall be graced
Honoring Holden Eanes
Richard J. Long- February 2011
When i was 20 i was driving out Ennogera way,
just a driving me ole FJ, {55 Holden car}
2 lanes we had near Alderley,
when the left lane guy made a right turn
and i was taken down his street ,
and me fiery temper burned,
and the air got blue tout suite. #@%^&*
I wasnt going thataway,
me route was incomplete,
just campdrafted me with his car,
down some bloody side street.
not happy Jan I say.
Don Johnson
A boy and a girl just arrived in this world
To parents they both will share
Now from the house within will echo the cry of twins
As an answer to prayers from everywhere
After passing the test of a month of bed-rest
To ensure that they developed complete
For Mom and for Dad, no more rest to be had
As in tandem twins seldom do sleep
But living this way is a small price to pay
For the privilege of parenting twins
For only a special few have the bond of these two
Sharing the womb in which life did begin
Congratulations to my daughter and the man that they'll call father
For doubling up on our number of grandkids
We are so very proud that our voices shout out loud
With the love we feel for this thing you did
These are the people that voted for our president
And these are the people that buy all the tabloids
And these are the people that wouldn’t notice talent
If it hit them over the head repeatedly
Last picked at your sporting events
Last picked off your publishing lists
These are the people that succeed because they know people
These are the people that scoff at true attempts in art
And get drunk on whatever they find in their parents’ cabinets
These are the people that fall into stereotypes
And don’t even care
And consciously avoid being noticed
In their looks
In their actions
In all things
And are so grateful and happy
Just because they belong somewhere
(It’s “conform or go crazy”)
These are the people that buy everything they see on TV
And believe every word their psychiatrist tells them
And believe their doctors when they say you’ve got 2 years to live
And f-ck and f-ck and f-ck all the pain away
Or get drunk
Or get high
These are the people that go to bars
And buy cars
And pinch womens’ behinds
And these are the women
That secretly like it but just play hard to get
And these are the shows
With all the perfect people
With problems that border on inane
And these are the reality shows
With the people picked from set types
“The black guy, the gay guy”
“The b-tch, the jock”
These are the people that rely on instant and never-ending gratification
To the point where gratification no longer exists
These are the phoneys
Holden knows
24 seven,
Eight,
Nine,
Ten to the second.
Heaven ate my pancreas,
Please pretend eleven likes me.
Twelve times its elapsed,
Survival wasn’t even likely.
Shelved minds,
And a brain collapsed,
He forgot the old me.
Thirteen days in hells binds,
Sustained damage behind waxed out eyes,
“Can he even see me?”
There’s a bird who abides by a tree,
And he sings tenderly just for me.
Without a word he refines his tune elegantly,
His voice rings out slenderly,
Just for me.
Just for me and my memories.
Chaotic verses full of life and energy,
Carefree expressions of a bird so elderly.
I’ll just bathe in this melody,
The critter could render thee so happily.
For the rest of my days,
True,
True,
True.
Sure I know the skies are blue,
But the sun’s a pale yellow,
And the tree shades me from reality's hue.
I feel my blissful ignorance is long overdue,
My sails cast open,
And the winds bellow on through.
This’ll take me across the vast ocean blue,
And even when my spirit is broken,
That old bird's gale will bid my blues adieu.
I’ll miss him too,
Assuming he missed me in lieu.
I’m either a ‘to-nowhere’ travelling magician,
Or just a square average citizen.
Because what’s a square without his ritalin,
A nowhere man,
Deaf, dumb and blind,
Your average pity city civilian.