Long Apartment Poems
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Empty Apartment
I sit here
in agony
I'm the one who was murdered.
You turned it around on yourself
and I have nothing,
nothing.
You only wish to come out alive
shoving my pain aside
but I lost myself
far too long ago, it isn't fair.
You're words linger,
every tone of every syllable
and I pray,
I pray you'll come back
to the emptiness,
the dark cold corridor
where once hung the photographs of our memories
that once sang in a blue sky melody,
while birds chirping-
would eliminate all evil.
Now they are crows.
Digging deep within the dirt
to savage little worms,
in this case we are the worms
we were.
but now,
only what goes through my head
are the memories,
the memories which now seem so pretend
so imaginable.
I look down the hall,
to our bedroom,
where we would lay
in comfort
and clench the blankets tight
as if guarding from evil.
and when I wake up
you're here,
I'm gone
so I leave you all alone,
in this
empty
apartment.
There’s a reason why the windows
Don’t get cleaned but once a year
And the answer, like my windows now,
Is obvious and clear.
It’s an awful, dirty job and it
Takes effort, time and sweat,
With an unobstructed view the only
Bonus that you’ll get.
If you live in an apartment,
On a floor up several flights,
Then the misery’s compounded
By the dizziness of heights.
For each time I grab a window,
I can picture my descent
And my husband in the doorway
Wondering where the hell I went.
Still, with rolls of paper towels
And a Windex, all a’spritz,
All the grime that I’ve been granted
Has just up and called it quits.
Now the vistas of the city
Are there beckoning to me;
Though they might have done so prior,
There was no way I could see!
If you could be an animal,
Which one would it be?
Which one shares your personality?
Would you be mammal, or amphibian,
Perhaps a reptile, or a fowl,
The strength and memory of an elephant,
Or the wisdom of an owl?
Or maybe one that science says is probably
A branch upon our family tree?
It's anthropologists' contention
That the simian's most like us,
Though that theory's raised an awful lot of dust.
They cite the chimpanzee, especially,
As being anything but dumb,
He has a brain as big as ours
And an opposable thumb.
Of course, if being a monkey's cousin makes you cuss,
Blame Charlie Darwin for the fuss.
Or maybe you'd select a species
That's endangered or extinct,
Each few years the list is adding one or two.
But we'll keep chopping down their habitats
To put up shopping malls,
Apartment homes, and parking lots,
'til one day it befalls
The ones who're left
Will dwindle down to just a few,
And they'll be living in a zoo.
Evolution proves we're better off
As the species that we are,
There's no need to alter chromosomes or genes.
But as the human population here
Continues to explode,
And unless somebody figures
How the excess to unload,
Then it won't matter who we know
Or what our means,
We'll have no choice but be sardines.
Inside cooped up in my loft all autumn with writer’s block, it was time. I arrived on New Year’s Day. I wanted a fresh start, so I took a well-deserved hiatus.
Such grandeur, and glory, partaking in wine, croque monsieur and then champagne so decadent. I met him in a bar café, the one alongside three others in a row! He indulged my fancy with a Moulin Rouge cabaret, a real gentleman; flamboyant, debonair, and flippant. Montgenevre mistakenly booked my room. By chance of fortune, he overheard the desperation of my voice, cawing at the matradee. “I know my way around. We’ll find you a place to stay until they get their affairs in order.”
I heard a voice whisper, “You can stay as long as you like, mon chéri.” This morning I awoke alone, I remember late last night looking out his high-rise apartment window, down at the four cafés', to see what he sees, think what he thinks. Long leggy locals, intoxicating femme's, drinking peppermint schnapps to tame the harsh chill of January. Perusing today’s paper, I noticed his name, Emile Zola VI. He’s a journalist?! My muse reignited my passion to write. A work in progress.
A croque monsieur-is a hot sandwich made with ham and cheese.
I had a feeling about today.
Not sure why but I knew I had to race to Iowa.
I called my boss and told her I had to go.
She was surprised, I rarely miss work.
I have a strong feeling I have to go I told her.
If I want to say goodbye to my mother.
It had been a month and three days since I saw her.
She had bone cancer, and was in a nursing home.
She had been vibrant, full of life, and pretty until six months ago.
She was so active, other people in her apartment building were jealous.
Until six months ago.
I drove four hours and saw a stranger.
A tiny woman whose legs looked like toothpicks.
She was flailing and groaning; she seemed to be in pain.
I took her hand and tried to talk to her. She pulled away.
This was not my mother, and yet it was.
I looked at the clock. I had been here for forty-six minutes.
It seemed like forty-six days.
I began to pray that she could leave.
She had a rattle in her chest, like a death rattle.
She could no longer speak.
My vibrant healthy mother had already left this body.
I did not recognize this creature.
She was gone by six that night.
I was glad I had the feeling to go to Iowa that morning,
Yet I would have rather remembered her the way she used to be.
The worst of cures
He had bought a flat in a new apartment bloc still not ready for the buyers, but since it was Sunday, he drove to the building to have a look risky surgery and worried he might live long enough to move into his new home in time
A lift had been installed took it up to the seventh floor, flat looked roomy although it had no floor or windows there was a terrace without railing on the terrace he took in the view, could see the bay and the ocean, the sun warmed his face
Suddenly, he burped, had a blob of something foul in his mouth which spat out in disgust, saw it make a splash on the asphalt that turned green where the blob landed, this caused him to lose balance and without a railing a fatal fall
The obduction showed his body was cancer free
watching you drive away via the phone receiver
after an argument that left me riddled with confusion
wondering how we got here
i guess i am the kid that you choose to see me as again
i want to be the passionflower of your spotlight
yet and still when i am given the key to that special place that you possess,
i am a block of ice overwhelmed by chattering knots
while in the dark of my lonely, drafty apartment, i can still smell
the rare scent of the definition of you
all of a sudden i become that certain type of toad aching to be healed
i guess i am the kid that you choose to see me as again
i want to be the passionflower of your spotlight
however and nevertheless when i am offered the special welcome mat of your arousal,
i am a mummified maniac driven insane by an overtly elongated monotony....
. Each year as Christmas rolls around, as I buckle under the pressure and stress of
shopping for gifts for people that already have everything, I find myself remembering that
Christmas of 1954.
Dad had joined the army that year and we moved from the East Coast of Canada
to Ontario, leaving behind our extended family and the only home I had ever know in a small
fishing village along the Bay of Fundy.
Now we stood gazing in horror at the rows of ugly buildings sitting on barren land
in the middle of nowhere. This was the housing provided by the army and was a major part
of the wage agreement.
My mother was inconsolable until dad rented us a small apartment over a Chinese
restaurant in downtown Barrie. There was no remuneration by the army for forfeiting the
housing, so it left dad with a very small pay-check
Pay day was once a month and we usually ran out of money in the last week, so,
off we would go to the pawn shop with dad’s prized possession; his short-wave radio, won for
superior marksmanship.
Being kids, we finally adjusted to our new world as we watched the Santa Claus
Parade march below our living room window amid the honking horns, blaring bands and
throngs of people lined along the streets as far as the eye could see as we laughed with glee.
~~~
We had seen them on our way to school in the window of the bicycle shop;
gleaming with chrome spokes and handlebars and hand grips adorned with multi-colored
streamers. There I would stand until my feet grew numb from the cold, daydreaming of
riding back to the East Coast. I could actually see the sun glistening on the waves as I raced
along the ocean on the way to grandma’s house. More than once I had to stay after school
for being late.
My brother thought maybe if we were really good, Santa would bring those
bicycles to us. I being the older and therefore the wiser, knew the state of the real Santa’s
affairs and promptly convinced my brother I had heard from a reliable source Santa had a
shortage of bicycles this year and we would just have to earn the money and buy them
ourselves.
Continued in part 2....
Cold air whistles acquainting
me with Arctic Blast, when
roundly forcing acquiescing
into half foursquare corner, activating
most recent spate of
ideal linkedin warm weather
ah...,my favorite sweet
spot for read ding
partially secluded from
gossip mongers addicting
fellow nosy residents,
who rarely brave elements
of style lush nature addressing
natural environment, sans leaving
comfort of their hermetically
sealed apartment adhering
to zero risk exposure
even during pitch
perfect weather adjusting
cessation to renouncing
"cabin fever" administering
most potent panacea
for heavenly solar fling
nay, most every tenant
here at Highland Manor
prefers vicariously admiring
terrestrial flora and
fauna, even when nature
bursts forth with adoring
"The Rite of Spring" adorning
the snapchat buzz zee
flight of the Bumble Bee
the still frozen, yet slowly aerating
rib rock solid state terra
firmae slowly alleviating
thick slabs of iced over terrain
indiscriminately allocating
patch of landscape
legion limitless almsgiving
then as instagram dusk
preempts afternoon alternating
cathartic, fantastic,
and iambic anesthetizing
magic, opportunistic, and therapeutic
reverie blitzed, viz banshee screaming
mother nature's wound
dead spirit expressing
agony dost vent wrath
heartfelt lament vacillates, manifests,
and explodes analogous
qua red bull who readily
didst get smitten angling
to expunge anguishing
cumulative racking torment
hell bent on annihilating
primate responsible species
akin to a silent spring announcing
slow but inexorable annulling
guardian (nee abuser) role usurped
by *****sapiens,
who need answer
for relentlessly antagonizing
writhing, lowing, and bristling
Planet Earth!
Memory Poem In Apartment A - 1971
a brace of wine glasses standing tall on a kitchen table
greasy frying pan luxuriating immodestly in the kitchen sink
two forks and two knives bathing naked in the steamy water
vinyl black record spinning clockwise under a cool ceiling fan
music by beethoven caressing the hour with perfume sounds
clock on the television console ticking with slicker love-bites
purple pleated pillow breathing excitedly on a big green sofa
portraits of curious dead people peeping through glass frames
bowl of red fruit sitting ripe and ready on an oak dining table
wide open window allowing a red sunset through shy curtains
bathroom faucet in pink bathroom dripping rivulets of sweat
silent resplendent wall mirror staring with secret fascinations
a brace of wine glasses standing tall on a kitchen table