Long Polishes Poems
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A good writer
can write outside of themselves—
crawl out of their own skin
and wear another man’s shoes
until the soles burn through.
They sit at a bar
with a drunk they hate,
and still write his story straight.
They listen to a woman
they’ll never touch
and feel her loneliness anyway.
A bad writer
only polishes their own mirror,
keeps kissing their reflection,
keeps mistaking confession for courage.
But a good one
gets punched in the mouth by life
and writes from the floor,
from the gutter,
from the hospital hallway
where the lights never sleep.
They write the whore’s prayers,
the janitor’s philosophy,
the gambler’s last promise,
the child hiding under the table
when the shouting starts.
They don’t ask
if it’s pretty.
They ask if it’s true.
And if it hurts—
good.
That means it’s alive.
when rule's concerned as a whole
total concreteness there's not seen
on the same world climate differs
language religion and many been
red blood smells differently on earth
even in same family and in same country
in polluted love true feeling's blurred
for self gain polishes self colors bluntly
wherever and whatever be anything
nothing's left to be unchanged in time
to love and feel in body heart's fixed
alas, now lung's love going to be prime
from the inception rule has been broken
history speaks in pages worldwide
for selfishness humanity's been crying
by breaking rule world's dreaming with pride
That rule was begging to be broken - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lewis Raynes
My jeans I’d wear, twirling in the air
the cousins, loved those kids; I’d
see them hardly ever, flying, laughing,
rising. Mother couldn’t understand
the wriggling out of the purple dress;
nails were temporarily permanent,
bought in Poughkeepsie, when it
was safe for teenagers to shop by
themselves.
In thirty plus years,
my daughter-in-law would be approached
and encroached upon; she’d chase off
the ho-supplier. Not far, not far at all
from my childhood neighborhood.
My friend and I look at jewelry, but buy
an assortment of polishes for our eyes
and nails. Purple would fill the nailbed,
on the unwrinkled, no need to iron hands.
Could I explain,
time, cannot be bottled;
tears jeans, cracks nails, hammers.
Could I imagine a son, a daughter-in-law;
not a thought
unless we played the game
of
crisscross.
We’d write down places, numbers, names of boys,
- we’d see where we’d live, how many kids, and
find out who we’d marry,
no one
expected me
to fly
militar-ily
find that guy
who followed me
to places
in disguise.
In purple skies
at cross purposes
we intersect
I now know - where, how many, his name, and more.
Simpler days, would I return the polish and the friend?
I remember the celebration, followed by the divorce.
I remember his daughter, at five - she’d survive
his death. I’d not forfeit the purple polish - in the end,
before my marriage, three kids, in-laws, grands;
I’d not sail away from Sandy - I’d play a game;
it’s been a long, long, long time since we sat
in our grandparent’s house, in her Dad’s absence,
and behaved as cousins, fourteen years apart.
She died on a three-legged stool
in her kitchen,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her nimble hands.
Now she cooks the twilight
mixing the dried fruits of yester-years.
I feel her thoughts taking shape,
see her sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed, the twilight
shapes her tireless hands.
I pay her rent as her interlocutor.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her life.
We never did meet, but at night
before I fall asleep
she spits on a yellow duster and gently
polishes my drowsy eyes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
- The Goodbye Goose-
Winter polishes at four o'clock, shining all the rocks aglaze.
Reflection, stretching shadows.
Longer thinner men - longer thinner still.
Shadowy tall , feeling small.
Sunmangled window in a diamond quadrant.
Keyhole orifice and creeping becomes nostalgia.
Why dont you just shut up and call?
Home going geese-slipstream in a vee.
High honking traffic, trailing vapour leaves you exposing me.
Cascading spirits slipping down the walls, swirling eddies
and smoky waterfalls, draping over furniture like slimy octopi...
Drunken weekend metaphors , Monday morning remorse.
Up and down the ladders of my memory, tinkly piano playing on my spiny vertebrae.
Permeating lies of my story told not of voice or tongue or lips-no.
But of crafty bits that left unsaid, untold encyclopaedia of me.
T'would be so simple to top you up, yet dark forces warn me ,
to pimp me out to you is to forfeit martyrdom and victory crown,
deprives the joy of shooting you down, shifting the blame.
Denies the stature as abuser , distracts my winner into loser.
Never be a frontal goose .
Childhood should ideally be packed full
Of giggles and hugs and good times at school.
But not all childhoods are walks in the park.
Some's starting years are tragic and dark.
Sometimes the parents are just not able
To make everything so loving or stable.
And the ones we lean on are shockingly small
They live in our homes and cushion the fall.
Because not all monsters are under the bed
And not all fear is just in your head.
Friends understand a that or a this
But nothing replaces a bro or a sis!
Holidays are beautiful when shared with others
Especially a slew of sisters or brothers.
To all of the siblings, but especially mine
You are what polishes my Christmas-time shine!
Beneath the weight of silent years,
In darkness where no praise appears,
A fragile stone endures the strain,
Through crushing force and hidden pain.
No spotlight shines beneath the ground,
No cheering voices gather round,
Yet deep within the earth’s embrace,
A transformation finds its place.
The heat, the burden, time severe,
Forge beauty out of doubt and fear.
What seemed a curse, a heavy load,
Becomes the jewel the world is owed.
So when life presses hard and long,
Remember pressure makes us strong;
For every trial you survive,
Polishes the light inside.
And one day, from the dark you’ll climb—
A living proof:
Pressure makes a diamond shine.
My song goes like this
time after time I read bedtime stories
back then there were no worries
simple kids go to the store
big momma did her floors
pops cut all the boys hair
at the barbershop
snowballs in the summer time
wind mills in the wind
Italian ices on 18th street
Chicago style hotdogs
jew town polishes
Greek town old town
new town uptown
oh Lincoln park zoo
dreams of being the first black
Supreme Court Justice
I sing my song only after
the blues stopped playing
on Maxwell street
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Written by Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
May 14th 2004 right before my
sons graduation Fort Myers Florida
My Sons Graduation Day
FOND MEMORIES GROWING UP
HEARING THE BLUES
ON MAXWELL STREET
CHICAGO
We drift along the town-side promenade
on damp paving stones,
at blue hour,
past caffé windows
and the resting Héracléa port
Earlier we were sun-struck
watching gulls flicking over the marina
worn thin by the heat and glare
now we’re moonstruck
the harbor bobbing with a thousand white hulls
tide-light, the skin of the night
silvers the masts at sway
and polishes the darkened curve of the sea
the sea is never still, as if breathing
further out at bay, yachts cork and glitter like crystal
a warm breeze loosens cares
drifting honeyed with jasmine and salt
gentle waves wander in then out
returning as if by instinct
and splashing on the breakers like applause.
little bells in boat riggings chime
everyone's strolling tonight
being not just stimulated,
but biohacked - seduced by the scene
now and then a scooter mumbles past
its lights gleaming in puddles
as if for measured emphasis
.
.
A song for this:
Inesaurible Tu by St. Project
Inside familiar folds of my hanging apron
I encounter a blinkless miniature figurine
Glossy, posable, plastic as a Lego creation
Loyal component of kitchen enforces routine
Breakfast allures with buttery muffins toasted
Lunch- a- lot predicts sandwich towers teetering
Dinner calls for lavish legs of livestock roasted
Day which follows knows a sequence repeating
Pack away cycle of soap, soak, replace, bench polishes
Scouring for recipes, Lego lady's eyes neatly smile
Cinnamon wafting whirlwind with servitude accomplishes
Devourers' belches earn her Master Caterer title
Beneath bed, which ejects me at six am alarm
Failed slipper search produces palm sized plaster sculpture
Icing faced, eyes without memory, eternally calm
Solid base she stands on stops commotion from toppling her
Nine am sees my arrival, politely inquiring co-operation
Afternoon forgets to yawn, incessant key tapping keeps on
Harsh carpark steps echo, repell dusk's contemplation
Traffic jams tomorrow's chasms, where dreams hold reunion
Crisp gives way to crinkles, plaster sculpture refutes
Her congeniality and aptitude due to exhaustion
Chalky cheeks split with encouragements' overuse
Legs held as one are motionless to express discourse
Steam escaped open door shows mirrored me showered
Bounce of towel buffed flesh rises in delightful nonchalance
Droplets of conciousness roll a path cleansed in empowerment
Serpent tongue hair saturates time, attacks life with vehemence