Long Uncomfortably Poems
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It was nice to come in from the cold
I ordered my espresso
Sat in the corner by myself
Wanted to read and relax
A man then came and sat
At the table next to me
Uncomfortably close I thought
He took off some layers
Unpacked a bag
It crossed my mind
He may be homeless
He had that look about him
It’s not like I was about to ask
Or engage in conversation
I had not slept all night
Definitely not in any mood
To stir the morning air
It crossed my mind
That I could not imagine
With the oncoming of winter
Being without my home or family
I was no longer in the mood to
Leisurely hang around
I reached to put my coat on
And couldn’t help but notice
The big hole in his left boot
I gasped inside my head
As I nodded and
Gave him a warm smile
Too stunned to do or say anything
I think about him now and then
And how that hole is now
Imprinted in my heart
Read on air by invitation ~ July 7, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2021
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the vulgar appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
I’ve joined a group new to the net,
A group where no one is fake,
A group made of folks living their flaws,
Not hiding their inner most ache,
And they annoy me with whatever they say,
Make me uncomfortably real,
Make me be honest about what I believe,
Honest with things that I feel,
And they wont be my friend just to be cool,
They wont buy a ticket of false,
They expect a dignified genuine truth,
Sharing all of my old fashioned faults,
This group I have joined has one cost to join,
One cost we all must perform,
And that is to unshackle any fake pretend thoughts,
And leave them by the front door.
my waste basket reclines on a full stomach,
patting a grated belly
stretching over three course meals
of rotten ideas.
i ask myself why?
you've had your native tongue for,
how many years?
how many months?
how many days
of chatter and quip
could you have spun?
i count the minutes between pencil strokes,
between lines of order and my graphite mess.
i think the only long word i can properly spell is
Tantalized, but only because it's phonetic.
it's not that i don't want to write.
you could only dream of
how i dream of writing praise-worthy poems;
maybe one about a bird braving the storm,
or
how betrayal leaves the
bitter taste of coffee in the mouth.
but then i think of the galleries of poets
who have already written about small birds
or storms,
or both,
and how coffee really isn't that bitter.
and so
mind not made,
my paper stares at me
with blank expression, reflecting
the thick snowy fog
i'd like to think fills my head
instead of empty space.
the kind that clumps up
and trips over itself
like a hairball stuck in a cat's throat,
or a ball of tangled thread.
uncomfortably clinging like an itchy sweater.
The Bible is said to be the Word of God -
a belief that many people regard with awe.
But I have several questions that I need to ask.
First, do I need to ask forgiveness for taking God to task?
I have no desire to offend anyone or say anything unsavory,
but is it the Word of God that there be no commandment against slavery?
I do not want to create division or schism,
but why is there no commandment against racism?
Some years ago, a family member of mine was assaulted.
Many of us were in shock, with mouths agape,
which led me to ask why
is there no commandment against rape?
When I asked this next question, the replies
were uncomfortably vague and obtuse.
Why is there no commandment
against child abuse?
And why, in the Old Testament, are there so many accounts depicted
of these horrific crimes being committed?
I refuse to accept the notion of a vengeful God,
but how could a divine being be so...flawed?
If I'm going to believe in God,
then I'm going to believe in one that's loving and forgiving;
but after years of church and Bible study,
I have to say that I have misgivings.
Nowadays, I am less religious and more spiritual,
coming as it does from observation - mostly empirical.
For me, faith is not a given.
In my heart and mind, it is a constant struggle -
a debate with much argument and rebuttal.
Through it all I continue to pray
hoping, anticipating, that the grey
clouds of doubt will lift
and the Creator will see that I do not go astray.
Sitting uncomfortably on my kitchen chair, waiting for the doorbell to ring,
I think back to past Halloweens, underlying feelings - this uneasiness thing.
Do these feelings stem from my childhood or knowledge of All Hallows’ eve,
Or is it that I live way out in the country - has my mind just taken its leave.
Historically this night was thought to be, all wandering souls’ last chance
To revenge their enemies before entering the realm of their final dance.
Costumes and masks were worn to avoid being recognized by a lost soul,
Jack-o-lanterns of turnips remembered those in purgatory, that was the goal.
Raised in a quiet little village, Halloween was always a time of high alert,
Rumors and folklore outlined of terrible fires, of animals and people hurt,
I would watch my father the town’s clerk prepare for this horrendous night,
Each sign of concealment, a whisper just added to my ever growing fright.
Store owners sat quietly in the dark waiting for pranksters to soap windows,
The farmers watched for signs of movement by barns and over meadows.
Volunteer fire fighters sat by the phone to respond covertly to any barn fire,
No sirens were used tonight, reduce the alarm, or so they tried to conspire.
My best friend lived out in the country, we would trick or treat together,
Her parents drove us around all the country roads in the stormy weather.
Pumpkins would flicker eerily on the railings of front porches as a guide,
Acknowledging someone was home with treats, you were welcome inside.
But every single cornstalk moved in different directions adding to my fear,
No doorbells to ring or bright street lights to show the masquerades clear,
Fires burned in the distance, yellow and orange flames licked at the night sky,
Now cars pull down my gravel driveway, is this a murderer, am I going to die.
With each knock, I take my life in my hands and open the front door,
This time I see a little princess and a funky monster walk onto my floor.
It is now late and I move to the jack-o-lantern to blow out the candle,
Another Halloween - the fear and fright - too much for me to handle.
Written September 7, 2012
For Gail Doyle’s Halloween Night contest
Albeit cold shower with sudden zoo
ming onset of
brisk fallen temperatures
may not be amenable to you
dear reader, but after Matthew
sets to washing
creating substantial lather,
visited with healthy slew
of frothed shampooed hair do
(cuz - jest like
Spongebobsquarepants,
I like abundant suds),
which initial shock
of cold water jolts mine
body inducing "Whew"
to escape soaped over mouth
(here, lemme lean in
so yukon get a whiff)
this self proscribed
quasi (very diluted off the
Peco boo grid) deprivation
of hot H2O tolerance,
qua minimal self
elected survivalist
modus operandi value
bull electric kool aid acid test
undertaken in the
event devastating adversity
(mainly an electricity
power outage) doth render
livingsocial uncomfortably
cold to the bone and sinew,
where mind over matter decides
riches superfluous,
especially if parvenu,
when scads of back up
generators conk out
total unbelievable wreckage,
sans the overnight
natural germane Blitzkrieg
imposes savage apocalyptic
devastating hellacious milieu
(on account of a mega disaster
such as hurricane Michael), who
doth not indiscriminate
toward gentile or Jew
obliterating entire infra
structure super glue
equalizing economic disparity hew
wing fair playing field reducing
whether disposable wealth harkens
from "old" money, and/or nouveau
riche, this sudden
catastrophic event brew
till lee decrees indeterminate
penury, and trappings
of theoretical leisure class
bon voyage every stitch of cloth,
and other material goods
forcibly bade i.e. adieu.
“The Great Riddle”
Humanism became a new religion
in a world where romancing gods
at war sanctifying acts of violence
for their own levels of commandments,
became defunct, monotheism at odds
walked inside the vessels of mortal existence
there also,
inside the great
I am,
an image
lives
and speaks
the sacriligious poet
writing and speaking
listening to others
all the words gone wrong
considering rehoming
after death,
there are many houses...there,
what should gods
and warring religions
matter then?
Inside
the great
I am,
heresies romancing apostates
perilous poets and
all consuming clerics
all made
from the one
image of a man
living life
from the confusing words,
read, written and spoken
sleeping together
uncomfortably
like warring lovers
blanketed under harsh covers
of different books
seeking something sweet
riddles to be answered
by judges after their death
when all do meet
standing around
the communal fire
burning all their books
peace came
to be
upon them
no longer
did they
speak in riddles
a common knowledge
all words transparent
one voice heard
its beating heart succinct,
yet terribly misunderstood,
eventually felt
held
in hands
after death
the Reborn,
eventually
understood
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Out of the eater came something to eat,
and out of the strong came something sweet."
(The following vignette barely resists collapsing into raw blurting.)
Ask my priest and he’ll tell you
I have a long-term boyfriend, whom
I’ve loved improperly for years.
He’s the custodian of my sin (my priest).
The church has its own language of fault.
He might not tell you, actually, priests have rules
- there are legalities aplenty - but he’s sure,
I’ve laid it before him (confession).
I outsource my gilt to professionals
- I’ve left my faults behind -
who wants to cary all of THAT around?
I have an unstable and somewhat elastic
belonging to the Holy Roman Catholic church,
but there are tethers of family that hold me
- one of the obligations of inherited identity -
and I find it convenient that my sins can be
formally acknowledged while socially invisible.
“You have an unrecognized attachment,” he’d said,
moral frameworks often expose their own inadequacies.
Alas, my morals sit uncomfortably behind my desires.
In my mind, I momentarily see a triangular road sign that reads,
“Warning: self-exposure: intimate realities may exceed dogmatic frameworks!”
“Say two Our Fathers, three Hail Mary, and one act of contrition - and in the future,” he said wincingly, “use your indoor blasphemy voice.”
Yeah, I frequently leave ‘Our Lady’ with scheduling issues.
I use an Apple Watch app to tally my penances (Counter for Watch - free).
He did complement me on my consistency and how politely I misbehave.
Still, despite my over-caffeinated, theatrical guilt and moral dissonance
- I’m clean. I keep my sins organized
- Heaven, here I come.
.
.
A song for this:
Stoney End by Laura Nyro
.
.
slang…
Priest = my authority figure/witness
Confession = is not absolution, it’s documentation
Our Lady = Notre Dame Cathedral
Snip-snaw lambasted me today.
Misunderstood initially,
Practically undiscovered
Until I remembered the stories of
Some others.
Zeke and Sam’s horrible, vivid scary
Stories of unkind deeds the snip-snaw had
Caused them to do, against their
Best judgement, immobilized me
To my bed for an extra hour,
Weighted blanket over my head.
Terrified burgundy hair stood up notoriously tall.
Goosebumps on my scalp,
I felt uncomfortably threatened, as I
Shook louder than a twenty-eight year old
Unbalanced washer on spin.
Yes, snip-snaw happened to me today,
I will speak of it no more,
But it was even more terrible and
Horrifyingly scary as I had ever
Had the audacity to believe.