Long Uncoupled Poems
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Tanka
Folk Heads Down in Flocks
waders stoop heads down
feeding uncoupled in flock.
like texters bowing
heads down to worship screen folk
disengaged with here and now
Heads Down, Engaged to Screen, Remote
Like waders at dawn sifting mud
with heads-down stance,
Modern folk in flocks with heads down, peer at screens
With thumbs a-tapping, eyes engaged
with friends on screen remote
But what of the here and now?
Those poor folk you are with, are ostracised,
displaced by 'You've got mail',
subplanted by there and then.
It is worrying how screen worship
has become such a priority.
It is infectuous when others all around you do it.
Interuptions to conversations now an accepted interlude,
not seen to be rude, when message calls
with bongs and rings,
demand heads-down bowing stoop
to worship screens.
Last night's storm
has left its artwork on the beach,
a postmodernist exhibition
of brown seaweed strewn in clumps
like hair on a barbershop floor,
broken seashells
and a fallen rainbow of plastics
strung out along the shore
where now an exhausted sea
licks the leftovers of a meal.
Chaos has been distilled down
to washed up artifacts
and red bottle caps, drinking straws
and spoons buried deep inside a ball
of yellow twine. I cannot make
much sense of what is on display
or glean from this haphazard art
a hint of meaning
other than in its making.
All seems uncoupled, specimens
torn from lonely souls, bits
and pieces coughed up
out of the exhaust of a huge machine
whose pistons pump and drive
a spinning wheel that has no purpose.
I pick up a plastic sandal
and wonder whose foot
it once belonged to, then put it back
and walk home
alone.
courtesy sharp pointed objects
(that string of words
doth hoop fully connive fist
(cuffed) around handles of knife
discounting divorce (from wife)
i.e. remaining uncoupled
mandated eventually note hissed
unbridled love and apology
toward thee missus and progeny
who forever did blacklist
das scribe, how objectionable
now, he profusely kissed
mouth of other voluptuous
(zoftig) older women
(consensually, flatteringly, indiscriminately)
and amazingly enough spouse did insist
to forgive, boot never forget.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
thus very little paternal (filial) love expressed
and she chose to live yonder
Oakland, California her temporary dwelling
no matter, her papa blatantly confessed
YES, more'n his eye did wonder.
At present petty coated junction irreparable schism
doth rank as horrendous on par me adopting fascism
forever sullied image ("daddy's girl")
who once thought the world of me
selfish misdeeds buzzfeeding swelling egoism
no more how enlightened I became
ex post facto, pure unconditional acceptance
refracted light risque behavior thru prism
where primary parental accountability
not satisfactorily explained away courtesy
Darwinism (to seed genes), nor chauvinism,
whereby ever since time immemorial
men disregarded and hardened libido
against marital covenant.
My jaunt through over crowded hallways
past bodies grouped like gulls gathering
a grey murmuring
patients on overdose
their creased faces like glaciers streaked
by warming
pink white rings that circle their eyes
rabbit pinched
unfocused
glances not easily discarded
Henry, slumped in his wheelchair
his body uncoupled like a skylark
cut from song
thin shoulders falling to trembling limbs
He greets me, barely audible
words that leave soft traces
that sometimes choke on their own silence
What oozes forth,
fragmented stories of acting on the stage
till footlights dimmed
Time vandalized history
Roots in a cushioned land
Beseeching, he asks "Roll my wheelchair to the
train tracks. Leave me there."
Panic closes in like shutters
to darken the wood of smiling
I wedge words, can brook no paths criminal
A quick embrace to soothe unmoored grief
to appease the unprotected
My blunt exit (slowed momentum)
on floor stickiness,
waste-brine that coats my soles
anchoring displacement
Poem revised June 9, 2021
For years I carried you
like a carriage, coupled to me.
I mistook attachment
for a steadying hand,
for a ballast weight guiding me,
keeping me on the rails.
A burden I willingly hauled
convinced we shared,
a common purpose,
a common destination.
I called it devotion,
called it a partnership,
never noticing the strain
and wear in the coupling,
the groan of steel and wheels
longing to run free.
Then came the quiet siding,
where the tracks forked and parted.
A pin was withdrawn.
A clasp was undone.
So softly, no one noticed.
As I slowed down
and we coasted.
As I passed the junction,
I pulled the points lever over.
The rails shifted silently between us.
You drifted off, along the branch line.
I carried on, uncoupled and unsure.
For miles I still expected
the familiar tug behind.
The ballast and counterweight
that had become
the measure of my heart.
Yet the further I traveled,
the lighter the regret became;
and when I glanced back,
you raised your hand,
waved, then smiled,
Content upon your own track.
Happy to share
the quite grace of uncoupling,
singing our swan song
and carrying on.
A tall, chain wire fence
surrounds the perimeter
of the power station, casting
its evening shadow over a wide
bank of grass leading down
to the river. Sometimes I sit there
just to listen to the sound
of the wind make music through
the wires.
It is a soft, melancholy music
that carries a certain sorrow.
Uncoupled from a name,
it seems a composite
of the sadness accrued
in the wordless wells of the soul
that finds voice here.
It has a strange attraction,
an addictive beauty
which keeps me coming back
though each note strums
a nerve giving a little hurt.
At times I can almost hear
human voices weaved
into the music, a tone
echoing out of places
made restless with longing.
It is the music that lovers make
and gently plays at the center
of all good art, sad prisoners
of time, composed by the heart
to mourn when what is loved
and what is beautiful in this life
passes from us,
and let go.