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Best Poems Written by Matt Kindelmann

Below are the all-time best Matt Kindelmann poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Kerouac's Grave

Alone,
slicked with sweat,
and hearing the locusts’ cries 
deep in my neck,
I stood over the remains 
of Sal Paradise.
 
The spotty grass 
around the tombstone
was browned and littered
with trodden Camel filters
and corroded bottle caps.
 
I reached into 
my inspired rucksack
and discovered a Deutchmark,
forgotten like a sleepy drunk
at crowded a tavern.
I placed it on the granite,
amid the years
and a crusty half-empty 
whiskey bottle
a different friend had left.
 
I hunched over the grave,
my head bowed,
but not really praying 
or thinking about him.
 
And now I sit across the street,
seated by the window
in a little Italian restaurant.
I am the lone customer,
ensconced by piped-in light FM muzak.

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The Prado Thieves

I noticed her limp immediately
when she sat next to me on the bench
in the park outside of the Prado.
I inquired about her deep brown eyes
behind her octagonal glasses
that looked sad and defeated.
“I was robbed here yesterday,
during siesta,” she said.
“Two men with knives
jumped out from the bushes.”
She was Finnish and her trip to Spain
had to be cut short
because of the incident.
For a moment, I wondered,
but that didn’t stop me from asking
her if I could buy her a cup of coffee.
Minna looked tall and slender
in black jeans and matching leather boots
and her hair billowed while she hobbled
as we walked to a nearby café.
We chatted about our countries
over coffee and chocolate;
I told her about Brooklyn and baseball
and she talked of a girl’s life in Helsinki.
When our cups were empty
we drank cold Spanish lagers
under the café’s awning
and we laughed and connected
and Minna seemed to forget about
the previous day’s terrible afternoon
with each cool sip.
I trusted her true and dusky eyes
and asked her if I could lend her some cash.
“You can mail me a check
when you get home,” I said,
but Minna shook her head.
“At least take some pesatas to get
 you through the day,” I added.
I reached for my wallet,
but she touched my knee.
She smiled faintly and brushed her hair
out of her face.
“There is something you can do,” she said.
“I don’t want to leave Madrid
with a bad taste in my mouth.
Can you walk with me
past where I was robbed yesterday?”
My guard went up again and I thought,
for a shameful moment,
that this was part of her plan.
I reluctantly agreed to help Minna
exorcise the thievish bad vibes
and we walked back to the spot of the offense.
She held my hand and I half-expected
a knife-wielding duo
to spring from the shrubbery,
but there was nothing except
for the sleepy midday Spanish sun
poking itself through the canopy of trees.
“Do you feel better?” I asked
as we returned to the bench
in front of the Prado.
She didn’t say anything,
but held my hand tighter.

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A Page For Her

Her lips 
are soft,
fragile
petals 
of a wild
pink 
rose,

Whose kiss 
is so 
delicate,
it compels me 
to compose.

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Pretty Girls

This is for all the pretty girls,
with necks choked with ashen pearls,
and pricy shoes on your feet,
and pinned up golden tresses,
and virginal white dresses,
ready to make love complete.

Now when the wedding bells chime,
it will be an ideal time,
to think of the one you tossed.
The one who bled true passion
and whose love he would fashion.
The good one, whose heart was crossed.

And it is for your own sake,
when you taste that angel cake,
to think of the one not chosen.
There's a gem on your finger,
but you know something lingers,
and thoughts of me are frozen

Details | Matt Kindelmann Poem

Her Pink Rubber Boots

They awoke to a classical radio station
that sounded so crisp,
its studio could have been in 
an apartment down the hall. 
They lied and listened
in the shadowy bed
while Beethoven and Brahms 
circled above them.
Her black umbrella 
and matching raincoat,
that were as dark as her hair and eyes,
were on a chair,
next to her pink rubber boots
that looked electric in the morning gloom.
She delayed the inevitable
for as long as she could
and finally reached 
for her glasses to look at the clock.
His fingers grazed her back 
as she slid out of the sheets.
She flicked on the bathroom light
and he caught a glimpse of her naked back
as she shut the door.
The rain’s gentle tapping against the window 
reminded him of the delicate sound 
of someone secretly typing a letter 
and when he heard the squeak of the faucet, 
he knew today was the last he’d see of her.
He looked at the ceiling 
and then at her pink rubber boots,
before he closed his eyes again
and listened to the concerto on the radio
mix with the sounds of 
her shower
and the rain.

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Hemingwayesque Eating

I feel like a portly and bearded 
Hemingway 
in a bulky fisherman's sweater 
after a bullfight when 
I ingest barbecued pork.

A bona fide man 
clutches the ribs 
with his creased 
and hard-working hands,
sinks his incisors deep
into the roasted flesh,
and with a quick 
forty-five degree 
snap of his head,
shreds the dead 
animal’s brawn
from its bone.

And like the full-bellied lion 
who rests in the verdant shade 
with gazelle blood 
dripping from his lips,
the man leans back in his chair,
rub his enlarged stomach,
while not realizing 
that he’s wearing 
a moustache of 
barbecue sauce.

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To the Pint

O Guinness, lovely Guinness,
Irish black rose of the night.
I drink in your beauty,
a wonderment of sight!
Velvety raven body,
filling out that cold glass,
I look into your dark eyes,
you wicked, sassy lass.
I watch your tiny bubbles
cascade down and sigh,
like feather-like snowflakes
falling down from the sky.
Your heavenly head leaves
foam above my lip,
I cherish our shared moments
with each tender sip.

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The Dam Broke In Quebec

The dam broke in Quebec.
My thoughts,
my words, 
and my pen
all moved.
Moved like the thin layer 
of brackish water
over the icy depths
of le Fleave St. Laurent.
Moved like the evening breeze
over the cobblestoned streets
past the lighted shops’ doors.
Moved like the flags flying 
over le Chateau Frontenac
as the high winds whip.
The French 
from the tongues of
the waitresses
and bartenders
and patrons,
and the strums and songs of 
the brickwall guitarist,
all worked as white noise,
and the glasses of wheat beer,
the plate of white cheese and 
cold red grapes,
and the warm amber candles, 
were all sustenance to the soul
to move my pen across the notebook
and break the dam.

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The Sacred Part of Town

Barcelona looked like a church 
as I walked down La Rambla
in search of a vacant room 
on that warm morning.
The balconies of the flanking 
high-rise apartments were pews
festooned with holy day
football flags and bedsheets.
The white haired flower seller 
sat silently with his serrated scissors 
and buckets of sugar water 
as if listening to a confession.
People who passed me 
on that righteous path 
became parishioners 
with detailed back stories.
The mustachioed man walking 
his dog near the grass 
was a lapsed Catholic 
and Spanish novelist
taking a break from 
the tapping of the typewriter.
The chubby middle-aged lady
in high heels and a skirt,
who carried folders and puffed 
on a quick thin cigarette, 
was a museum secretary 
with the curator's copies 
and a mother who cooked up 
fish and paella for her children 
every Friday during Lent.
The invisible clouds that 
wafted from the restaurants 
smelling of grilled seafood 
and lemons and garlic
were like the prayers that a 
priest's incense personified. 
I later spent a humble evening 
in a small rented room
washing my socks and 
shorts in the white sink 
and reading the boxscores 
and baseball epistles 
from a day old New York Times.
I studied batting averages 
as my underclothes slowly dried
on the back of a wooden chair
with the help of an electric fan.

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Education At Gino Vento's

Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to 
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with 
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs 
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated, 
and Life
were spread out 
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of  glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring 
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold 
metal and pleather chair
and thought about 
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model 
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose, 
or another pointless prop. 
Images cavorted as 
Gino’s quick hands
floated around 
my teenaged head 
and his silver 
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked 
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.