A white tear bled from the foil seam,
a cold, lactic rot sliding down her woven leather heel,
drawing a pale, sour map across her instep.
I watched the porcelain skin of her shoe drink the milk,
and in that quiet curdling, my entire small frame snapped.
A choir of jagged iron shrieked beneath my skull,
tearing through the bone and behind my eyes:
a ruined child deserves no sun.
I did not wait for any reflex.
I dragged myself by the throat,
spat curses into my own ears,
and ran.
I bolted past the garden gate,
past the tall, unbothered grass,
my bare feet slapping the dirt in a rhythm of
self - contempt and fault.
In the damp dark behind the compost heap,
I pressed my face into the stinging nettles,
scraping my knees against the jagged limestone,
offering my own raw, bleeding shins to the air
to pay the debt for what I had done:
I pray the earth shall swallow the wretched thing I am.
The shins born of black blood were browning after the thins
So see we earned the gold medal and tried our hand at fins?
The path dissolved three turns ago
Green walls press closer now
Ferns brush against my bruised shins
Every tree looks like the last one
Sunlight drops the canopy like sharp needles
The air smells of damp moss and old rot
A twig snaps behind my left shoulder
I freeze
The forest holds it's breath with me
I am not longer the observer
I am the guest who stayed too late.
each dawn, in the kingdom of skeletons,
bones knock together—
shins clatter,
ribs get a quick shine
as the kings rise with the sun.
the velvet robes
they've discarded moons ago.
their old souls
rest quietly in wooden beds.
no itching skin, no hair to comb
or run fingers through,
the steady clack of hollow heels
echo with each step.
the Duchess
gleefully spins around
all teeth and bone, barefoot.
they raise empty cups
and celebrate
breath that’s long gone,
dining on nothing but
the glow of moonlight.
you have to chuckle, right?
the afterlife has its own peculiar perks;
beauty be damned,
no one dresses to impress
since when do dead folks care about hair?
in this rattling land, joy endures.
the only thing broken?
funny bones, and truthfully,
no one cares to doctor them.
Ponder awhile, as should we all;
at dulcet morning birdsongs call,
at virgin leaves that break the earth,
watch mother nature giving birth.
Observe your lover now at rest;
slow rise and fall of her soft breast.
The sun glint on a drop of dew;
white clouds against a sky of blue.
Think of something that you now miss;
when your mother gave her last kiss,
the butterfly that brushed your nose,
your baby’s soft pink wrinkled toes.
Soft ripples of a gentle stream,
the cold delight of fresh ice cream,
a lacy web that spider spins,
the joyous pain of tree-scuffed shins.
Oak leaves that turn from green to gold,
a sleeping chrysalis unfold,
and tadpoles growing their new legs;
the dripping yolk of soft-boiled eggs.
Stare out, stare out, stare out to space.
Your too-short life is not a race.
Ponder awhile, don’t wonder why
that everything you see will die;
they will not, if you let them stay
there, in your mind, as bright as day.
Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance,
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the still edge of a speeding sun.
Another swift day has begun
yet here you sit among the traffic
unflinching, a bold
bladder quelling gravity
with low-sprung shanks.
You deep-seated recliner,
standing-pat over upholstered hams.
A lumpy Mona Lisa,
with your come-hither girth
and just a thin membrane
between you and chaos.
Your skin an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the cockle and crimp
of your glistening skin
a truculent contrarian gleams
beneath your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
redux
A bright afternoon lunch, a darker shadow wraps around
your leg. Not clawing, just yawning. Yearning for a twitch
in its way.
You sit terribly still.
Your mother urges you to shoo it off, your father chews
absentmindedly at the way too bloodied meat, gazing through
your forehead. The clinks of the neighboring tables annoyingly
in sync. Your foot turns to face it.
The waiter gets your sister's order wrong, she curls up to a ball
as so does her stomach as she pipes down the vanilla milkshake,
an excuse to leave to the bathroom. To leave here.
The edge of your eyes catches the figure 8 being woven
along your cramping shins.
The heavy grimace of your brother, your mother fixing up
his collar, clearly not ironed. The setting bores you,
you look under. Beady eyes staring at you too. A plea
for what you should do.
The sinful act of feeding a noir stray cat.
With the steady grip of a football player, a knowing smirk
a bright eye glint, you hold it close,
the pitch-dark abomination–
and toss it onto the table.
An approving purr.
A feast for all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
home—a sigh in worn floorboards,
kitchen's cinnamon hum,
dog's tail thumping welcome
against my shins.
rain taps
the tin roof's lullaby.
grandma's quilt, threadbare love
stitched in every patch.
not just walls, but the ache
that loosens when the key
turns in the lock.
safe.
known.
my bones remember.
MY BONES REMEMBER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
home—a sigh in worn floorboards,
kitchen's cinnamon hum,
dog's tail thumping welcome
against my shins.
rain taps
the tin roof's lullaby.
Mother's quilt, threadbare love
stitched in every patch.
not just walls, but the ache
that loosens when the key
turns in the lock.
safe.
known.
my bones remember.
He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.
We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,
Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.
Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.
He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.
That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.
Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.
pants for watching -
as we wonder around the supermarket
my daughter pushes her own trolley
she's trying to give her brother's shins a wallop
he shouts at her - how dairy
the trolley is confiscated; we look for the extra strong mints
there's a dog in a trolley
looking shell-shocked
we pass the ham
my son talks of hamlet
my daughter, in the trolley; her cheeks scrape against
the frozen food doors
sweet chin music in the fruit aisle
i jump on the melons
in snack limbo
we find the mints and confectionary
we can't find the car
cash and carry blues
a trolley is rolling towards us at 20 mph
we're running out of thyme
Wishes
I made wishes: to
have
instant not light shaggy hair, to
have a
not able to
be eaten egg-shaped nut with
yellowish brown shell (no face) as a
head, to
have aluminium shins and
maybe
aluminium eyes.
"Balls!" said the umpires
"Strike!" yelled the pins
"Take that!" cried the little girl
who kicked both my shins
And when the green penguin
started dancing a jig
I realized it was high time
to buy a new wig
So I hopped on my pogo stick
and headed to town
Took me two weeks to get there
bouncing up and down
But the town was abandoned
Oh no, not again!
And that's when I spotted
a large rabid hen
It was foaming at the beak
when it then spotted me
so I bounded and hopped
up the side of a tree
Then the tree said "gesundheit"
though no one had sneezed
and the squirrel with his nuts
seemed mightily pleased
Saw a midget run by
looking like Ben Gazzara
and over his shoulder
was Maureen O'Hara
Then I sprang from the tree
and pogo'd back home
where I wasn't quite sure
how to wrap up this poem
So I stole a line here
and borrowed a line there
nobody will read it
'cause nobody cares
And that ends the story
you can sigh in relief
Every bit of it's true
if you suspend disbelief
© Mike Wise
7-5-24
Like a welcome Summer rain, humor may suddenly
cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you.
—Langston Hughes
RAINING IN SUMMER
The little teapot leaned over, steam pours out,
sizzles on the pavement. Trickles, sprinkles,
waters the subsidiary gardens that sprout -
those pointed out by a grandson. My wrinkles
curve up as the rain skillfully waters my willow,
my patch of roses and lilies, scattered and rare.
With Summer storm, I ruminate on a long time ago.
This grand-generation of blessing, not yet a prayer.
Drip…drop…splosh! The hope of the window pane.
We dream, as the outburst streams down to spill
our dreams, like seeds giving more than the mundane.
God saturates our lives with more than we will.
It’s raining Summer all over this land of honey-wheat.
Though droll and gray, a grateful soak gifts a sun rise.
My flower petals, leaves and boughs bathed in heat
and nourishing drink, replenishing the owls, and other wise.
Ker-splash, the puddles of inky-mud, stain the shins,
leave me, us, them, refreshed and sodden with grins.
Dirt is great,
To grow crops,
Build houses,
Mix with water,
Smear all about.
On the other hand,
Dirt is all over the land,
And I would like to see,
A little less dirt on me!
I track it into the house,
Leave great lumps all about.
Stain my clothes,
Have dirty shins.
Makes me wonder,
Could I plant seeds in this fertile stuff?
Grow my own groceries,
And carry them about?
Perhaps let miniature cows graze in my hair,
Have milk and cheese to store behind my knees?
Find a few small chickens to eat bugs out of my ears,
Lay eggs in my pockets,
To keep them quite near.
I guess dirt could be great,
Particularly if your covered of late!
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