~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suddenly, the scent of old glue
unseals memory: yearbook pages
sticking together. Forty-seven Augusts ago
Susan Alexander's laugh cracked
through algebra class; our fingers
brushed, passing Man From LaMancha lyrics
scribbled on notebook margins.
We dissected Austen heroines
during sleepovers, shared
popcorn at matinees, dreamt
in Technicolor futures.
Then silence. Decades folded
into drawers like unworn sweaters.
Facebook algorithms blinked, those strange
matchmakers, whispered: Berlin?
Dallas? Three winters have since melted
into midnight texts—her German syntax
knitting with my Texas drawl
across glowing screens. Old jokes
resurrected like vinyl records
scratched but still singing.
Distance shrinks to pixels;
the gift of friendship blooms anew~
upon digital soil.
* This poem was submitted to and published at Persimmon Tree, November 2025. This is my original poem.
Long ago, there were the halcyon days
we once knew when we were young -
gone like dollar matinees
when from tree branches we swung.
I remembered the dire words of song,
that said changes in the weather
are often known to come on strong,
as I watched the dark clouds gather.
You tell me that this storm has passed,
but should this howling wind prevail,
a martyr, I won't be miscast -
watch a battered heart set sail.
Almost evening.
The smell of seaweed hanging
on whispers coming up from the beach.
I sit in the backyard, rearranging thoughts,
trying to fit shapes into what's missing
in that vast mosaic I have been piecing
together all my life. The last blush
of the sun fading from the sky, the day
dimming like a picture theater
before the film begins.
I think of the Alberton Odeon matinees,
back stall seats on Saturday afternoons
with wall to wall westerns galloping across
childhood to deafening cheers and stamping feet.
From Hoppalong to Roy, a generation
breathed the smoke from six shooters
blasting out in the black and white world
of cowboys and trusty steeds.
Heroes stood out for their good deeds,
the bad deserving of the bullet
that always found their evil hearts
without the spill of blood. Death was clean,
no more than a crumpled fall,
hands clutching an invisible wound.
The gore was kept off screen. Boyhood
backyards became extensions of motion
picture sets.
I come back. Shadows have swelled
into a thick dark. Awoken from their
daylong sleep, mosquitoes circle my head
like thought clouds in search of blood.
The Chucko Children
roller derby brains passing into the steel mainspring
if we eat these slivers of veal paradox and watercress
the chucko children will slip beyond the sly pastures
they will forever traverse the bone rub badlands
the golden hard-on matinees, the grinding piano teeth
tearing it up, absorbing the pretenses, the stoney soufflés
the moulin rouge’ side glances dripping from the stars
now it’s clinging to your skin like jellyfish regurgitations
the simplex television people rattle chains during halftime
roller derby brains passing through the perforations
the backwash inseminations from a thousand lost nights
the dusty facades of made-up motel girls smoking fear sticks
hey you, yeah you, i got ten bucks in my pocket all for you
maybe you and me can test the winds and apply the dance
we can slip beyond the sly pastures, the stoney soufflés
the war still rages, even as the comatose night sleeps on
We can hear the chucko children tearing it up grinding it out,
bringing it on, again and again inside the steel mainspring
The joy of my life only likes to wear red
Thinks I am public enemy number one
And takes me to movie matinees for fun
I fear that she is hoping to see me dead
Short weekends and long weekdays
School’s out then it’s onto résumés and workdays
Mondays dragging on through to Fridays
Long commutes on highways, subways and tramways
Toiling for okays, some praise and hopefully a raise
Soirees and negligees for Saturdays
Aspiring to bouquets so enchanting in a vase
Before you know it’s on for matinees on Sundays
Enjoying soufflés, sorbets, sundaes and parfaits
Eyeing the calendar for paydays
As well as birthdays, holidays and getaways
But nowadays, as retirees, we have our days
And often we just graze in haze almost a daze
Where Tuesdays look no different than Thursdays
To paraphrase it’s our final phase when interplays
In many ways the sweet nostalgia of yesterdays
AP: 3rd place 2020
Tame the treacherous TRESSES.
BEFORE battling BRAVE BEAST
IN IRONIC INTENSE IMPRESSIVE
DANGEROUS DUNGEONFUL DREAMS.
MONUMENTAL MORNING MESS MUSES
BREAKFAST BREAKS BLUENESS
TIME TO TEST THE TERRITORY
SINCE SATURDAY SEEMS SO SLOW
TURN ON THE TV TO TRACK THE TREASURE TROVE
MOSTLY MUSING MOTHER OF MOMENTOUS
MYSTIFYING MATINEES
NEXT, NUDGE THE NUTS
AND HELP HARRINGTON HUNT HIS HUNCHES
MUST MEAN MERRY MOVIE MUNCHIES
LET'S LOOK AND TAKE A TOSSING TIDE
OR RATHER RUN AND RISK A ROCKY RIDE
THE THEATER TWISTED AND TEASED THEN
FINALLY FINDING THE FEATURE
WE WOUND UP WISHING WE. WERE WISER
WHEN WE REMINISCED ABOUT RIDICULOUSNESS
THE ECHOING END
MY MATINEE FREE-SPIRITED FRIENDS
be it the barstool at a favorite watering hole
or a stretch of a path trod daily in silence,
an independent movie theater whose matinees attract only the dedicated,
time spent on a park bench in the overcast afternoon,
a table at a favorite café near the window,
a gym in which one works off steam,
the top of a mountain hiked up to on the weekends or
a stretch of the city bridge biked when its not raining,
there are places that one feels comfortable alone
(even if surrounded by others),
that hold a calming quality wherein the mind is allowed to
wander &
where no one can get in from the outside
even if they wanted to---
how fortunate are those of us who can still
push the rest of it all
completely out of the picture
to focus on ourselves &
appreciate the shortness of life
for exactly what it is,
in an instance of peace brought on by
our own doing.
Passing through this cardio ghettos carbon life
Touching tawnies matrix of perennial painted times....
Escaping now unto a passage forged afore my sight
Matinees in brilliant shining omni light as this
A morning boulevards tranquility sunrise ~
Tracing trails upon the walls within its wake
Sapient calling from such peaceful depths
Deep inside, vitrifications resolve; chains disolved amid
Freedoms reflective blue sky glass....
Chandeliers which glitter beyond the mundane
Ushering in Shangrilas sweetened dreams ~
More precious this Shepherdess than that of, a priceless
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...."Septembers Pearl"
There may come a day
When decisions are made
When war in theatres
Will stop being played
The worlds matinees
Will show a different scene
As we all sit and watch
The return from being mean
No more enlisting
No more conscription
We all live our lives
In peaceful prescription
Our lives move on
With natural progression
As we close our eyes
To natural submission
There may come a day
When we have actually begun
To grow as a race
And have flowers for guns
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/loss-4.php
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