Long Unshaven Poems
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Need to get back to my feet, find my way home
put down this heavy rifle, seek grace..
a familiar voice, a kind face,
hope for forgiveness,
these hands and lives they've undone.
Home, your birth mother's own,
where hearts unite and love ignites
among tall grass and damsel flies,
and panaramic hill just beyond.
Ternopil Pond fashioned by man's will
taken from marsh quicksand and Seret's flow
lies undefiled and still..
yet so many wounds to heal,
along Far beach and Lover's Isle of gold.
Shoulders slumped against the stair.
Scratched and worn, leathery unshaven maw.
Wisp of groan, in tired eye's misty glare,
while boots fill along with torn glove..
wanting only once more,
to be held in love.
Will loving eyes recognize the man she married..
and walk together again, that sandy beach?
her slender fingers just out of reach.,
tho' soldiered voice of pride no longer carries.
A wish remained, where no war dared go,
where hearts unite and love ignites
among tall grass and damsel flies..
and panaramic hill just beyond.
The old man gazed at the sun about to set
And its molten core soon to dissolve in the sea
Scratching his head with tremulous hands
And running his fingers on the stubble of his unshaven face
He held once more tight to his wheel chair
Casually he had a glance at his hands
Those dry, weak and shriveled hands
Gone wrinkled with passing years!
His hands once so busy are now limp
His days once brisk are now long and dull
He noticed the discolored patches on his skin
Under them the lattice of tortuous veins on the dorsum
They run down to join with the bigger ones
Like small rivulets flowing towards larger rivers
He remembered how the streams from summits
So vigorously come down with a gush
Also the noisy cataracts somersaulting down,
Leaving reverberating echoes all around
But they produce only a soft musical sound
As they join with the rivers and pass through plains
And finally end in a kind of hushed stillness
Just before merging with the sea!
The old man philosophized;
Life too is like a river:
Fierce and ferocious when one is young
Gentler and sedate after middle age
And slow and sloppy in old age
With this calm acceptance of the need to de-accelerate
Wrapping himself in the shawl against the growing cold
He turned away from the window.
Pushing his wheel chair,
He moved forward,
Knowing no haste…..
Towards his bed for another night’s tired sleep!
Aloof
Dressed in shoddy attire as I slow gait,
With unkempt hair and an unshaven face,
Are traits that express my depressed state.
Before my downfall, they did me berate;
And my self-confidence reduced to waste.
So now I dress shoddily and slow gait.
Since I don’t bathe, the odours permeate,
Warning others to hasten their escape,
Is a trait expressing my depressed state.
City dumpsters filled with waste serve my taste
Are on the streets where I beg for spare change,
Dressed in shoddy attire as I slow gait.
“Tragic,” they exclaim, “a living disgrace!”
I remain aloof since I quit the race
And don’t elaborate on my depressed state.
“I’m not lazy,” I explain, “I’m debased,”
And rebuff the world by accepting my fate.
Dressed in shoddy attire while I slow gait
Are traits that express my depressed state.
Failed humans
The forest he traveled had many paths
there was always something new to see
like a white tree that once wanted to be
the tallest one in the forest, but hubris
had made it to lose barks and naked stand
He thought of Israel, this foreign plant
among tall coniferous
In the glade where rabbits sit to catch
the morning sun, a group of people had
occupied their leader was an enormous
woman with fake blond hair, her man
was hateful, suffering from stomach
ulcer for all slight received when he
was a boy of nine, by his mother
there was also the tall man with three
legs wore a jester hat and told jokes
There was nothing funny about him and
his prop revolver, but he dreamed of
going into show business
in the clearing sat a group of unshaven
shopkeepers trying to sell dreams and
stolen inventions, enticing big bears
with a bunch of carrots
finally, under a bush sat three cooks
who failed the catering exam because
they had overcooked Idaho potatoes
They were the result of a mad god's
attempted to create new humans on
stolen land meant for olive trees and
vines, with a soil too dry for cabbage
In the afternoon, the failed humans had
disappeared what was left, a carpet
of white butterflies and three frogs
As I walk the same route each morning…everywhere I look…
It’s like re-reading my favorite passage from my favorite book.
Just as every time I read the passage I find subtle changes in the words…
each morning I find subtle changed in the clouds, the trees…the birds.
Which is why, though my route never varies, it’s easy to proclaim…
No two morning walks I take…are ever quite the same.
Take this morning, for instance…a man walked out of the shadows as I was walking near the shore…A man I’ve never seen on my morning walks before.
He was huge…unshaven…his hair disheveled…his clothes were tattered and torn…it was just him and me…alone…together…in the darkness of the morn.
As our paths met on the street he raised to his full height…looked at me, smiled and said, “Is this not a beautiful night?”
I breathed a sigh of relief, smiled, nodded…and we talked about the stars…I mentioned how clear the night sky was…he pointed out Jupiter and Mars.
As we parted I was reminded of a lesson I learned long ago…but this morning I rediscovered…it has to do with a book and not to judge it by its cover.
And, if I may, to this lesson let me add a second part…you can’t always tell from the outside…what’s inside a person’s heart.
Grandpa
a kind face
skin leathery and creased from years of working in the sun
long jowls like a basset hounds
sad droplet eyes
always a slight aroma of beer
brown wrinkled callous palms
dirt-stained fingernails were evidence of an old man’s toil
a blue plaid shirt now ashen from wear
a tall man
always unshaven with scrapes of gray hair that would scratch you un-mercifully if he asked for a hug
he walked with shoulders hung and bowed over as if broken
that of a man who had known the burdens of inequality all his life
the kindness in his eyes reflected a graceful acceptance of his fate
his tears masked a rage and unforgiveness for the destiny of his children
late afternoons he would sit out yonder under a huge black gum tree
a blackened wood briar pipe a pack of red man chewing tobacco and a can of snuff beside him
one jaw always popped out as the tobacco had to sit just long enough before it was time to spit
he would sit in that shaded spot for hours on end
up till sunset most days
always staring intently at something out there
was it memories from his past
or perhaps the dreams of a past that someone stole
eventually, grandma would call out to him
Henry where you be?
he would always reply
after awhile
I’m just there…
I never understood what that meant before
Until now
of understanding you
until I can correctly
identify colors
Green is to me
my mother's eyes
in the morning
when she laughs
at a rich joke
while we nibble
cantaloupe
and make fun
of our husbands’
idiosyncrasies
Yellow is in the nature walks
I take with students before lunch
and optimism is in the heart
of every red cardinal
that twitters down
at our scrambling
scrounging
I see you
clearly
to the fiber
of every insecurity,
unshaven hair,
awkward fumbling
and uncertainty
from morning coffee
to evening regrets
over wine and verbosity
you look introspective
when you talk after nine
at night, before the lonelier
barred owl hoots
and we sleep on separate spheres
of the same queen bed
You share leftover memories
of the weeping willow
that fell
and almost uprooted you
The pictures
remember you
from misordered time
of Christmas when reality
held its breath
and we had a day
of suspended reality
Yorkshire pudding and roast beef
We were the ones that broke the rules
of love, and rhythm
Tahira died before
her Swan's song was sung
or maybe I wasn't listening
Mozart, you were a lesser man
than my sister was to me
~ NEGATIVE MINDSETTED NIGEL~
Alas~he only can envision the hopeless!
With nary an answer ahead.
His land is for him,only of the following feckless,
With no soulful breath, as if he wishes indeed, he were already dead!
For breakfast he searches out spoiled jam,
On a moldy Brioche, to be sure.
Then, Nigel, the poet and eater declares in untruthful agony as best he can, mam.
That on this planet human life cannot be endured!
The TV set or radio is turned on, bleating like sheep of riots, COVID and such.
He goes to his cabinet to roll a fat joint to quell his mental agony!
Nodding in his non-thinking media mind constituted of negative media mulch.
That God's world is entirely terrible and
loaded with perfidy.
Then, in stained plaid housecoat, onto his computer this poet tragically travels,
Giantic mug of coffee in his poetic hand,
To quill a verse, with his still unshaven, stubbly face.
To repetitiously write the damnable media notes damning and anxious to
declare to us all~ that life itself, is imdeed a is disgrace?
And we sit as innocent as new robins,
Eating his banal poetry so joyfully?
Squeamish, naive, robins we are!
Ever so gleefully, eating untruths, voraciously.
Unaware, that for us, life right now, is as grand as
living on the most glorious,brightest star!
June 22, 2020
1:30pm PST
POEM # 1303
Earth is sleeping. It is dreaming in silent
technicolour peaceful and alone, calm and
gentle without the tragic crush of mankind
and its usual stampede. Nature noticed it
slowly - having time to stretch, to breathe,
to open its eyes wide and bright and luscious
away from smoke steam and smog. The sky is blue, clear.
Rivers are lapping, gently. Birds fly above in chorus.
The moon can be seen waving twinkling and white.
Earth is resting its patchwork body, its tissue of
grass and pores made from the exhales of trees.
Its legs are growing hairy, left wild and unshaven.
This time of solitude and watery reflection
is repairing habitats and watering oceans -
replenishing nature, whilst strengthening us.
I am tired and thirst
far from having any erotic feelings,
too hot for a 'nookie,' the last thing on my mind.
Here in the stifling heat surrounding our camp site,
I keep traipsing back and forward to the eskie
to get an ice cold drink, and wet my face cloth.
Passing my husband, I see his hot sweaty face,
I laugh to myself and say
" No hints of an erotically charged afternoon today."
He is also hot, tired and thirsty,
heat has a way of sapping one's energy!
Perhaps? if a cool change arrives
we may change our minds, and
fall into a passionate, erotic embrace.
'I don't think so'
The only erotic thing in my vision is
my husband wrapping his lips around his cigarette,
performing slow drawback's and blowing smoke rings
Or curling his fingers around the radio knob
to change the radio station.
I gaze at his rough, unshaven face, and
think to myself 'Pash Rash' if
caught in erotic twists and turns -
'No thanks.'