Long Aftershave Poems
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I am the surplus confusion of my mother,
the left-overs of Uncle Tommy –
sous chef and demon lover,
the aftershave of my father,
and his father before him.
We are what we are,
but of course
there are the missing links,
the ghost branches,
the genetics of glitches
and other social chicanery.
Time hides
what we are in the windfalls,
vestiges that end on the forest floor,
illicit bones
forming invisible roots.
When I was a child
I had a swing on one of its lower limbs,
leaning back
I would watch the sky rolling around,
never thinking that it was I
floating by
that was the stray leaf.
There were so many present today,
To pay their respects and
To bid you their final farewells.
Some expressed grief at your sudden absence,
Some took a fond walk down the memory lane.
Some left early having fulfilled their societal responsibility,
Some sat in silence, unable to articulate their many thoughts.
What about me, you ask?
I wondered.
I wondered what will it be like?
When I run out of the last of your favourite biscuits.
Or when the bedroom stops smelling of your aftershave.
When your loyal labrador is too old to go for a walk,
And when the flowers stop piling at your grave.
When the oak tree in the backyard withers,
And when they stop selling your treasured cigarettes.
What if our trusted tea shop around the corner closes down?
And all your shirt buttons start coming undone one by one.
I wondered.
I wondered what will it be like?
When everyone stops grieving,
When everyone moves on.
What will it be like?
When I lose you in the truest sense,
And I finally grieve in a world happy without you.
Your shoes by the door,
worn soles tracing paths
you used to walk -
each scuff a story,
each crease a memory,
quiet but heavy.
They sit there,
still laced with quiet defiance,
a reminder of mornings you rushed,
of late nights spent at your desk -
always just a little more to do.
The scent of your aftershave
lingers in the hallway,
waiting for you to step back in,
but all that’s left are your shoes,
empty now,
facing the door that never opens.
I remember your stories -
the ones that made us laugh,
the silences that made me listen harder.
They echo now,
soft whispers in the rooms
where you once stood.
Your shoes by the door,
waiting in quiet solitude,
never quite lost to me.
I see you in the way they sit,
as if you’re just about to walk in,
like you never left.
I’m a new style hell's angel
I hate motor bykes
I tear up the town on my new
Souped up electric tryke
Burning up the pavements
Finding litter bins
Ands when no ones looking
Putting rubbish in.
I don’t wear dirty leather
It’s so hard on my skin
And I aways smear the best
Aftershave on my chin
And I don't go with women
That just aint my way
For to tell the truth
This angel's very gay.
I guess I’m just a rebel
Way ahead of the rest
But for a retiring chap
I think my way’s the best
I’ll never lead the pack
Never wear the full kit
But I can do their mending
And show them how to knit.
The snow slowly morphs into rain, a thousand cold cocoons that release raindrop butterflies into the frosty air. They glisten in the morning light, clinging to soft leather like tiny diamonds as he drapes his jacket across my shoulders.
The jacket smells like him: fresh soap and spicy aftershave--and that spearmint gum he always keeps on hand. It's way too big on me, but he zips it up anyway, pulling the hood over my head to shield me from the rain.
dripping icicles
bleed beads of liquid light--
fingers intertwine
He's soaked, but he doesn't seem to care as water slides down his rosy cheeks, dripping from his frozen nose. He brings my hand to his lips and whispers, "Happy New Year." Even his lips are cold, but I lend him my warmth.
As we stand there together in the soft tranquility of winter rain, I realize I'm happy. I want to stay here forever, in this life-sized snow globe of frigid weather and smooth, warm leather.
For Giorgio's "Leather Jacket" contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wire rims~
thin as a whisper,
holding the weight of every page he turned,
every clockface he squinted at before dawn.
Now they sit,
empty orbits on my desk.
I lift them,
and the world bends~
not as he saw it,
but as I imagine he did:
The morning newsprint smudging into prayer,
the stubborn lawnmower that refused to start,
my childhood face,
always slightly out of focus,
as if love itself were a thing
that needed adjusting.
I wear them like a ghost.
The bridge rests light,
almost apologetic,
as if they knew
they were never meant to be mine.
Through Pop’s lenses,
the light is softer,
the edges kinder.
The coffee stains on the counter
look like continents he never visited.
The crossword puzzle~
half-finished,
pen dropped mid-clue~
becomes a map of all the words
he didn’t have time to say.
I take them off.
The room sharpens
into my own life again,
but for a moment,
I swear,
the air smelled like his aftershave,
and the light was gold,
the way it is
just before it fades.
A wintry night
Beam of scorching sunlight
Eventually stifling inside through the curtain's strands
Loafing over the escritoire and olden snaps
(some years ago i spend the time snapping him)
Indulging in traditional afternoon tea
Some dainty sandwiches, scones
Served with clotted cream and preserved memories
Bleak breeze snuggled down the tresses, nape and a keen nip in the spine
(his reminiscences of his early days haunts me)
'O girl! You are so much drunk'.
(He yelled...)
Was she so much drunk with him or the whiskey?
A wintry night in January
Diurnal seven o'clock hold Irish music evenings
What more burly in the air?
The Irish latte
Or
His aftershave
(her sniff grappled with whiff)
She emptied the whole bottle of whiskey
And both bonked upstairs
He mumbled something she didn't catch
He made a grab before she had a fall
Laid back and enfolded her
With his arms and the denim jacket
(nodded their noses)
Ahh! She spewed the festered whiskey
The sided where he laid
'O girl! You are so much drunk'.
(a voice echoed)
Was she so much drunk with him or the whiskey?
(a thought relived)
I stood there and gazed at the tidal wave of traffic surging down bellow.
I hovered frozen in time until by chance I glanced upon a troubled fellow.
He was sitting in his car surrounded by the outside noise of the gentle rain and the cars constant hum.
His ears could hear unyet his mind was numb.
As I moved in closer I could feel his sorrow and pain.
Mourning the loss of his partner his soul whispered through the misty rain.
I remember now I whispered back as I drifted into the seat beside him that was vacant.
And so to do I remember that aftershave as being my favourite fragrant.
As my soul whispered to his he glanced over to where I sat.
With sadness I could tell that he did not see his passed wife with the golden platt.
An empty seat was all that greeted his eyes.
A vacant stare for a vacant seat unyet I could hear his replies.
With his minds eye he smiled and his soul whispered such sweet words of love and affection.
Even now I could still feel devoted protection.
Some say that the words we speak in our heads are merely thoughts and nothing more.
But I believe they are whispers from our souls and the replies of those who are not with us anymore.
Before my passing I told him this with great certainty.
In this life and in the next our two souls will whisper to each other for eternity.
In days of old when men were bold
And they didn’t use moisturiser....
They shaved with a sword,
slapped whisky on their chin
And didn’t use aftershave in an atomiser
The scraped the dirt off with a shell, they reeked a good manly smell
They combed their hair with the jaw bone of an ass...
Not now oh no, their hairdryer is so big
You need a drying license to use it
there’s even an exam you have to pass
They broke their nails with hard work
A beer or two they do not shirk
But now it’s a wine bar and a manicure...
Oh where are the days when a man was a man
And not a female male that’s for sure
We woman must share the blame
We wanted equality
But then we took it too far...
Now we’re down the pub while they cook the tea
And we are the ones having a jar
There was nothing as nice as a man opening the door
To let a lady walk though
Not today’s man we find,
we have to stand behind
And open and hold the door for them to pass too...
When men were the ones we looked to for help
They always came through for us girls
No now I’m afraid,
they are busy at home
Baking cup cakes and tying ribbons for little girls...
In days of old when me were bold
And didn’t use a consealer
Proud to show off their scars
And not refuse a date,
To use their face mask and their skin peeler...
Girls we must shoulder some of the responsibility
We wanted to be more equal to our men
Now we get the tattoos,
Drink pints and pints of booze
Wear jack boots, party till dawn and even then...
Bring me back a real man,
I’ll do all that I can
To keep him happy in his manliness...
I’ll work at it hard and teach him well
Even if I have to I’ll pick out his dress…
© ~GG~ 28/12/2012
Please do not be upset all you men out there I was cleaning my bathroom, I have to grown sons and a husband. I was moving all the products while I cleaned the shelves and out of 15 different bottles and potions I found three were mine and one of those was my toothbrush. I borrowed my son’s hairdryer to dry some moister because I wanted to re-grout behind the sink. I had to ask him how to use it because it was digital…………….dah xx
The phone rings for someone else.
The promises arrive dressed in clean shirts, smelling of aftershave and polished shoes.
They leave before the dishes are washed.
You learn.
The world isn't lazy because it's cruel.
It's lazy because someone always believes another pair of hands is coming.
No cavalry.
No angels.
No man with a clipboard checking off your miracles.
Just your own bones, aching before daylight, dragging themselves toward another unwinnable morning.
You curse, you laugh, you light another cigarette even if you quit years ago, because memory still smokes.
The rent gets paid by the hand that signs it.
The floor gets swept by the one tired enough to notice the dirt.
The tears dry without asking permission.
If there's a god, he probably respects a person who keeps moving while talking to the dark.
That's the joke.
Everyone wants saving.
But most days salvation looks like standing up again when your knees have already voted no.
If you want something done,
pick up the hammer,
write the letter,
wash the cup,
say goodbye,
say hello,
keep breathing.
The world has never owed you a thing.
But every now and then,
it steps aside
for the one who refuses to wait.