My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations,
where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms.
She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things.
They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless,
of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions.
She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased.
Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic
watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially.
.
.
Songs for this:
Us by Regina Spektor
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
A hero turns conspiratorially,
staring into my future.
What he said into the camera then,
is meaningless now,
but I see his lips move,
as if he were predicting this moment.
A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs,
blood fills the flesh of memory.
I remember I love her, but it is too late,
she is dead, and she did not die young.
Often, I wonder,
about the never was and the could be.
Has this been a badly spliced life?
One day we may all get to watch
our full movie.
Black and white movies,
old even when I watched them
flicker still on an inner retina.
A hero turns conspiratorially,
staring into my future;
what he said into the camera then,
is silent now
but I see his lips move
as if he were predicting this moment.
A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs;
blood fills the flesh of memory,
a dialogue recalled by younger nerve-endings.
I remember I love her, but it is too late,
she is dead and she did not die young,
her ancient hand seems to
grasp my fingers now,
seeking closure.
King Kong lives a broken life in my hall closet.
At night I hear him weeping still
for that little platinum haired women.
He is no longer tortured, angry,
and confused,
but he forgets stuff,
Nightly I still have to explain to him
that the sound of buzzing biplanes
is only the air-conditioner kicking in.
Eventually we both slip into sleep.
“Memory isn’t as good as it used to be”
Cackled Sam Browne, feeling all of his eighty years
Sam drained his ale and conspiratorially
whispered “Here, got tales of woes to tell you young man”
“Now come on Sam” stepped up the sympathetic soul
“Your drunk, I’ll see you home”, but in vain cajoled
“Don’t want to abstain, I was destined for greatness”
Sam was addicted to finding a solution
To finally ridding himself of his demons
Sam mused as they shortcut through the cemetery
The night was moonless and the lamplights dimly shone
On seeing the exit gate ahead the young man
breathed a sigh of relief, eager to get the old man home
Suddenly an icy feeling crept down his spine
extended across to his arms and down his legs
Frightened he looked at Sam who was standing apart
whispering “Free, no longer a slain warrior”
The young man collapsed, appalled “Woe is me” he gasped
Totally now in the grip of outside forces
manipulating all his thoughts, feelings and flesh
8/10/19
Eight Word Challenge Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
8/10/19
A convention of unconventional warfare
It’s the Olympics of BS, the mind boggles
Unrelenting coverage; I try not to stare
Through my thick, round minion goggles
Slogans chanted numbly trump reality
Still, there are three sides to every story
Windmills fall; eclipse goes to totality
Attention shoppers, Kool-Aid spill on aisle three
I’m trying to grasp, the mindset eludes
That would make you cheer deliriously
Reality, as it’s wont, invariably intrudes
While they wink conspiratorially
And speaking of warfare, it seems I’ve heard
Special ops uses aerosolized narcotics
So instead of feeding us the national turd
Give the politicians aerosolized antipsychotics
7/28/16
The bottles looked sober, waiting till it's over.
In between quaffs and hiccups he mumbled
that he had staggered and fell many times.
That he'd tried to walk society's line,
follow proper paths of places and climes.
But he couldn't help displeasing anyone,
for to him blazing trails are never crimes.
With zonked sobriety, he grinned and winked
at his beer, asked it conspiratorially:
"Must my self-worth desperately cling to a crag
that is loosening off perilously
from the edge of other people's opinions,
and crash down, trampled upon cruelly?"
The bottles looked sober, waiting till it's over.
The thunder had shoved from sleep
What would the soul’s anchor seem:
So deep and falling men’s fears are
When eyes no buoyancy provide.
The trees, conspiratorially hissing,
Exhorted, it seemed, the angry
Masses of air that I knew now the
Storm that was early rumored in wind.
The heavy slugs of rain tore
Open the flesh of the ground and
Mud ran everywhere, and me,
In some hotel room, by kisses
Gunned down.
Yes, I had seen all this early
In dark battalions westward
Mounting who had become so
Long impending, familiar, death
Grew beautiful.
These things come out of
The West, where late it becomes
So red, so full, that the onset
Of night is full-well assumed,
Received courteously.
The bottles, looking sober, mutely wait till it's over.
Between quaffs and hiccups,
he mumbles that he had staggered
and fell so many times,
that he had tried zigzagging
down society's proper paths to suit
places and climes,
that he can't help disappointing
anyone, to him blazing and trekking
trails are never crimes.
With zonked sobriety, he winks
at his tonic and gin and asks
them conspiratorially:
"Must my self-worth hang on
to the crack in the crumbling crag
loosening off perilously
from the edge of the steep cliff
of other people's opinions, and crash
down, crushed cruelly?"
The bottles, looking sober, mutely wait till it's over.
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