Long Hand me down Poems
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the deer died with her eyes open
which means she watched herself
become field
something permeable
I found her on the third day of autumn—
found autumn wearing her decaying hide
like a hand-me-down dress
the flies had already written their poems
in the metaphors of her throat:
small black punctuation, multiplying
I wanted to close her eyes
but my hands passed through
what I once believed was boundary
later the biologist told me
decomposition is just the body
finally telling the truth
about how many selves were always
inside you waiting to be released—
even the child who never grew old enough
to be revision
now when I say I, I mean the forty trillion
bacteria who call this dirt-body home
I mean the deer
the flies
I mean the light
that passed through her
and landed here
in this poem
which is just another way of being eaten
which is just another word for love
by the porous self
Thinking about the good old days
Reminiscing for a little while
Some memories made me happy, some made me sad
Some brought a tear and some brought a smile
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To put lighting bugs in mason jars
To look at tail lights and name the cars
To lie in a field and count the stars
To go trick or treating in the local bars
Then I turned on the radio
To an oldies station that took me back
Listened for an hour or two
Put my mind right on track
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To drink water from a garden hose
To be proud to wear hand me down clothes
To sneak a cigarette at the local park
To play in the street well after dark
Then I fell asleep and dreamed of the past
Seems we had a Utopia but it didn’t last
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To play baseball and share our gear
To walk at night without fear
To have laws written in black and white
To still be friends after a fight
Then I went downstairs to call an old friend
Never wanting the old days to ever end
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To walk each day back and forth from school
To have parties with friends at the community pool
To listen as a bluebird sings
To be happy without material things
To play the game fair and square
To end each day with an evening prayer.
And I wonder
He relied much on ‘expert’ opinions,
doctrine and dogma
as if assumptions and conjecture
were an undeniable truth.
‘Settled science’ was accepted confidently,
blind faith and an irrational rationalism;
the hand-me-down punditry of pundits
silenced his every doubt.
Against all odds
conspiracies conspired -
unauthorized books read to him,
even under his closed eyes.
One night he flew awake
like a bird departing a nest of fire.
All that he had known as true
were revealed as a script
written by a Satan that did not exist.
His hollow tree sprouted leaf,
incredulity flourished,
a belief system faltered, staggered dazed
into a ditch he had labored upon for many a year.
He became a heresy unto himself:
the beloved of God.
if you saw me
the way i see myself
maybe you'd get it.
"count your calories,
read the nutrition panels,
diet,
exercise,"
i know.
believe me,
i know.
"it's for your health,"
turns into
a chase
after my...
after your
ideal weight for me.
but you say it's mine.
I'm afraid of dying
because i worry they won't even be able
to lift my casket.
body positivity
until you no longer fit
into any of the boxes
you were destined for,
not to mention the clothes.
foraging for a size at the end of
the clothes rack
because nothing near me will fit.
unable to read my poetry out loud,
because i can't speak without
obnoxiously frequent breaths.
I don't care anymore.
i tried
i really did.
but when a bite of rigatoni
turns into a fear of the scale,
i give up.
looks when i order my food,
if not at me,
then at the portion,
fit for a giant.
that's what i am to you,
isn't it?
no longer human,
but a puzzle you just can't fix,
a mishaped piece you need to cut down
to make it fit in its place.
fit.
what i'd do to look
feel
be
the embodiment of that word.
and by fit,
i mean thin,
and by thin,
i mean skin.
and bones.
nothing more.
I don't want to be anything more.
I'm cringing at the word body
because i know it's something
i will never like.
i never expected that response
from you too,
i suppose.
but i shouldn't be so surprised.
i saw the way you looked at me,
trying on
a hand-me-down
from someone five years my senior,
breaking the seams
as i struggle to fit an arm through.
i develop a fear of mirrors,
i deflect from the possibility of seeing
a reflect
of the error I've become.
breaking the binary of
skinny or fat,
I've become something worse,
not something in between...
just.
worse.
I don't want to live like this anymore,
but it's too much now
to change.
so maybe I'll give up,
and maybe you can rest.
Herons fragment the mist,
appear and disappear while remaining motionless.
The skiff rocks as a coal barge trundles past.
A dewy sky shivers.
Nowadays he just sits in a boat looking at Ohio.
This morning the sun reached the top of a willow
and got stuck.
He rowed toward the bank thinking to get under the tree,
filled an imaginary pipe full of tangy river smoke,
sucked on the wet air
as he watched the tree struggling with the sun.
For a while it was a tussle, then the willow shook itself
and the sun slipped away like an unmoored ketch.
At first, the sun just hovered like a blanched balloon
then it found a window above the mounded smother
and it rose up like a Choctaw bass
about to mouth a trill of small fry.
He was near to the shore now,
Ohio slanted down to meet him
cattails and reeds scratching the aluminum hull.
A couple of mallards jumped out of nowhere
and flew over his eyes. The clatter of wings
ruffled the chill bank where a dank light had sunk.
His mind followed them for some time
until they settled deep down
amid a wraith-wrapped Kentucky.
A heron slowly rowed the wind
stirring up the vaporous air, Patches of clarity
drifted across sky-high filtering puddles.
Ohio becomes a river town, the huddled houses
have scuttled their roofs upon soggy pathways.
The mossy hulks of an abandoned industry
wallow in a foggy backwash.
Castaway wharfs drip a spatter and smear,
a hand me down script of a yesteryear.
A small blue-collar marina,
beer cans roll on swaying pontoons,
a couple of dry docked rowboats
and canoes.
Truck tires thump harbor chains.
Someone is up early, someone else watches him
gut and clean a large flathead.
On the damp dock cats circle the bones and scales
creep through the miasma
their fur wet and glistening eyes flashing a liquid silver.
The catfish is naked and shorn of the river
a thing to be watched least it return to life
as something beyond the ken of cats and fishermen.
On the ramp he hitches up his straggling life
and drives away from a berth awash
with the haunted cries of Loons and Redtail’s.
Soon he will be back in the patched-up pockets of Ohio
where corn husks snag hoarfrost and rattle
in a fresh rinsing breeze.
I’m okay you’re okay
I’m not okay and that is okay
honour your parents
but respect needs to be earned
blind obedience kills childhoods
and where right becomes wrong
opposition becomes duty
genes and hand me down customs
un-reflected socialisation and traits
are a wicked combination of templates
for unexpressed emotions
and irrational thoughts
when defence mechanisms
and blindfolded acceptance
create no more than a chip
off the old block
on one’s shoulder
to be okay
is definitely
not okay
yet in a way
it is never too late
to have a happy childhood
because adults can play
and now I need
to talk to my Selves
just a bit because otherwise
analysis becomes paralysis
07th September
written with Eric Berne's concept of transactional analysis in mind
Rust and chrome, a hand-me-down bike,
granddad’s grease still singing in the spokes,
each turn a prayer he hammered back to life~
the bent frame straightened under stubborn love,
the chain baptized in oil and patience.
Ten years old, I straddled time itself:
the saddle, cracked like his laughter,
the pedals, spinning secondhand stars
beneath my untested feet.
He said, Every wobble teaches balance,
and the road rushed up to meet me,
not as a stranger, but as a conspirator~
wind in my face, the world unspooling
behind me like a liberated kite.
Even now, the ghosts of those handlebars
twitch in my palms—how they trembled
before they learned to trust the fall,
before the wheels, like memory,
stopped fighting the curve.
O first flight, O rattling heirloom,
you were never just a bike~
you were my resurrection.
related memoir vignette can be read at
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_girl_a_bike_a_librarian_and_a_magical_spell_13645
~
Flour on her hands, and centuries on her elbow
Fingers balance a 'hand-me-down' dish,
Roosting deftly on finger-tips, high in mid-air
Lovingly she spins it, magician's hands twirling
Trimming the edges with flourish and flair
A bit like Da Vinci' ,…a small tool in hand
Skillfully carving, as a blade skims the rim
Pieces of pie dough, will soon drop away
She is shearing the excess, and trimming the dough
That turn into ribbons…wouldn't you know?
You must use every scrap,…meaning just that!..
Waste not, want not…each morsel a prize
Rolling them flat to large walnut size
~
Spread thick the butter…nothing is better
A sprinkle goes here, a sprinkle goes there
Cinnamon sugar, please don’t be spare
Baking till golden, toasting next to the pie
A preview of magic, a taste of delight
How does she know it, ... this magic voodoo?
Lessons in chemistry, from so long ago
She had watched this drama unfold in her dreams
Unfolding and playing on her memory's screen
This silent black magic, will play once again
Although the old soundtrack, worn of it's skill
The warmth of old memories, will never be stilled…
Don't bother to ask, for recipe pages
It is magic at best....., so priceless the task
So sprinkled with love, and has passed through the ages
Walking down the old country road,
Hand me down clothes in the bag.
Clothes with holes, and tattered robes,
There’s no worries in getting dirty
We’ll wash away the dirt in the stream,
Whilst you stand there, smiling at me.
Sing the songs that nobody’s heard
As we look above, at singing birds.
We’ll sit in meadows, of golden bed,
As we dance without shoes, into scarlet nights.
I’ll hold your hand, as I hold your heart,
I’ll make you happy, you’ll see.
I’ll publish my words, and sing my songs,
For other people to hear,
Of the days we went on the country road,
And by my side you’ll be near.
But for now I’ll wait, by the tree we met,
And I’ll wait there for your presence,
I’ll write my words, on paper with pen,
And forever I will wait, my dear.
They stand on the pointy end
of compass arrows,
friends and strangers
scattering, flickering now
like fireflies in a jar someone else
is carrying yet further away.
The young are born
on the far side of the moon
where nobody looks
for the earth.
Of course the dead have left,
but you still have their business cards,
debts. owed to you or to them
not money, but hand-me-down memories
those 'post-its' once pinned to the hope
of a shared journey.
You suddenly know you are alone,
the only fish in a shrinking pond;
rooted now by the very long roads
that brought you here.
Will you follow the calling winds,
will you backpack up to another peak
that goes nowhere?
Your are a veteran of foreign engagements,
time has so slowly
placed your heart in a box of pressed flowers,
a box muffled by plush and velveteen
one as large as any coffin
its four walls marked
'Do not open until the last train
leaves forever.'