When my ashes are brought home
don’t place them on a mantel
between the tacky Hummel figurines.
Tip them out onto the backyard
to nourish the cabbages.
I am not coming back,
but check the wind once more,
I might blow into the house again
and the dust-buster will clog up.
Do not look for me in the sky,
I am not there,
nor on or under the earth -
please really?
I may appear to you at night
if you lay with another man,
haunt you
if you marry again,
but that’s just me
and my little insecurities.
Also dear, be warned
I still retain the power
to trigger the cat to pee on your bed
if you neglect
to dust my photograph.
Love yer.
Categories:
hummel, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The moon raced ahead of us,
like a thirsty dog.
Mama wet her knickers earlier that day,
she yelled at everyone,
for she didn't see it coming.
Later, we teenagers latch-keyed in,
the empty house begged us to come together,
passion leached through porous walls,
brazen desires made Hummel figures,
hide their faces.
The porch light danced,
in the center of a moth fandango,
our ears were listening to the road,
our shadows acting out,
turning to flesh
before we could stop them.
We were both inside the moon now.
Coyote calls trembled our young knees,
as we pledged to be forever this drunk
on each other.
When parents showed up
I was laying on the bed
cocooned in an afterglow,
and ‘my girl’ had slipped away,
yet we were both tied,
to the center of a magical moon.
Mama bustled around the house
like a Nile queen
singing her ***** little songs
that only hoot owls heeded.
Dad sipped a late cold one,
and remembered, with a grunt,
that tomorrow was still only Wednesday.
By then the moon had got so big
that I thought it might turn us all
into a fictional story,
one told between ageing astronauts.
Categories:
hummel, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Do not cry for me, for I am gone.
When my ashes are brought home
don’t place them on a mantel
between the tacky Hummel figurines.
No, tip them out onto the backyard
but be sure the wind is not blowing
into our neighbors open window,
that would not be cool.
I am not coming back
so check the wind once more,
or I might blow into the house again
and the dust-buster will clog up.
Do not look for me in the sky,
I am not there,
nor on or under the earth -
please really?
I may appear to you at night
if you lay with another man,
haunt you to your grave
if you marry again,
but that’s just me
and my insecurities.
I am what ash becomes
when sifted through
the harps of heavenly angels:-
I am a song in your heart,
the sparkle in your eyes,
the light beneath your smile
your shelter in any storm.
Also, I’ve the power to
trigger the cat
to pee in your bed
if you neglect
to dust the photograph
of my grinning mug.
Categories:
hummel, poetry,
Form: Free verse
We study our language when we are just born.
First, we touch and hear, taste and smell, and then we see.
We put a name on it. And we repeat it back by sound, motion, and symbols.
Some words we cannot really translate, like the words in the greeting "Hummel, Hummel; Mors, Mors." The people of Hamburg, Germany might be able to explain it, but it would be difficult. In short, "mors" generally means in English "kiss my butt."
But what if it was more profound, take philosophy and theology? Not many in the "west" understand Hinduism. There are words like "zen" and the teachings of Kabir, that describes ideas foreign to the "west."
Unless we look beyond our language, we will be prisoners to it.
by,
Martin Braun
3/17/2020
Categories:
hummel, language, , hinduism,
Form: Free verse