The Song of Vietnam (a poem reflecting on the ten-year war)

The Song of Vietnam
(a poem reflecting on the ten-year war)


For ten years together, the Presidents of the United States,
the Lords and Kings of other countries tried to subjugate
the lands of Vietnam.
From the inner southern jungles to the sea-coast they had
conquered most all the land; although,
the north was there before them, left to sand.
Yet, there was no town nor village uncrushed by this plight,
save only Hanoi that stood on the north’s side.
And at the war’s end, even they, the American’s bombed
that city, in which no beauty was found
no love for democracy, or the Christian God; they worshiped
Buddha and Confucian traditions.
Nor could they shun the evil fortune that beleaguered them
thereafter.



II. The Armies were gathered more than five-hundred thousand
men: not counting the enemies (this was the forth occupation,
one with Japan, China and the French, now America).
“Here now has come the President of America,” cried the Vietcong,
“to our land to overthrow us!”
They had no equal in weaponry to meet the Eagle with its might,
nor enough henchmen to beat them in any fight.
But a wise man gave them counsel, saying “Wait…
time is not a virtue to the enemy, it brings to them, a slow death
among their kind, and shame.”
All listened, save the Americans and they came, and came and came



III. Among the wisest this man was known to be, called,
Hoe Ch Minh (revolutionist, statesmen)
And a good vassal, he seemed to be, a man of humble beginnings.
Shrewd he was, and skilful, politically cunning,
And he spoke unto the king of France, on a treaty.
(But to be dismayed soon thereafter.)
“But send us Chiang Kai-shek,” cried, but Chiang Kai-shek
traded Chinese influence in Vietnam for French concessions
in Shanghai, from the arrogant and strong,
and so for the man who once was a cook, and chef,
with promise and faithfulness, service and friendship, he
leaped forward and long, and his dogs fought the lions,
five-hundred thousand of them, like hawks they came well
equipped.
They came with the dollars, and the grit, muscle bombs,
hundreds and hundreds of them, they came like hawks.
And more dollars wherewith to pay the soldiers.
Of his people, three-million would die, perish, by bullets,
mines, Agent Orange and bombs, and much more
They couldn’t die straightway, but they didn’t die like
beggars in their own land, but with honor and dignity.

1-21-2009 (No: 2555)

Meadows of the Charioteer (in poetic prose)

Meadows of the Charioteer

In Poetic Prose

((A day near heaven, and a midnight stir, from laden-brows) (part one))

I knew them also—some. I had seen them, in my other life. I was now like a wheel, like the spoke in a wheel itself, in its hub, in this vast place that doesn’t even show on any earth map, that not ten-people out of all the earth know its name, if that many, if it has any name at all, for I heard spoken out loud, in all directions a name called ‘The Meadows of the Charioteer,’ and here no one touched, never a one, not a big nor a smell touch, never a one too light or too hard, it is a place that men and women, live in—as I felt I was about to—and here I am starting to think of a lot of little things—quiet enough to do so—although not so quiet are the things I’m thinking of, things I once loved, places I once lived, names of people, and people before them, deeds done and not done, that made the quiet and loudness in my life, names of men and women who did the deeds, thinks and names and people I want to forget. How they and I lived, how we lasted and endured, fought the battles of life, and the ones they and I lost, and the ones they and I fought again, because a voice said, “You haven’t lost yet.” The heights they and I climbed to; the deserts that soiled us, and the shapes we turned into.

I knew many of them, the men and women standing about, that couldn’t touch or be touched, old, some young, some twice my age, and I’m seventy. And they, like me, thought these things, as we waited for the Charioteer, in the meadows, we thought these things in our minds. Then, as I looked down upon earth, it looked so dangerous and still, I looked at the storms coming from the North and South and East and West—in the mist—we all could see the four horsemen of apocalypse—riding faster and faster.

But stone-still we stood, waited to hear the name of the Charioteer, to see which way he’d come from, and I thought, and I could sense the others thought: what did we die for, or become just before we died, louder than any hunger it echoed in my head, it seemed to cover the whole meadow, and then, only then, did we all see the Charioteer, afar. (How long they waited I don’t know, how long I was to wait, I wasn’t sure, some had been there long, I sensed that; and I’m sure, some didn’t want to leave.)

And he rode fast and hard, and I listened to the hoof-beets of the horses as he came closer and closer, and we all waited until after dark, and we stood outside in the meadows, and we could hear his horse breathing, and to some it made them deaf to the voice of the Charioteer, and to some they could hear him plain. And that night I started to say…but he said, “Hush!” as I was thinking. And so we stood there, it was getting cold, and I was listening to him talk—but in-between, thinking, and he said “Hush!” And he said some things I understood, others I didn’t, and still some, I couldn’t make heads or tails out. And then he said, “That would be all for awhile.”

Across the meadows he rode, and I cried, “I want to go home!” And he stopped, turned about, said, “What’s the matter with you? I called your name and you didn’t jump on.” I said, “I didn’t understand.” Next he said, “When are you going to start?” and I ran, this time I heard him loud and clear, and I wasn’t thinking or looking back at anything, nothing at all—just straight ahead.




(The Charioteer, Near the Gates)

And he, the Charioteer, rode hard and fast, and all the old snapshots in my head hurriedly faded, as his team of horses swaggered a little, and he had—I noticed, a gold-and-leather military harness, and I said, “What about those left behind,” and he looked at me, said, “They are dead.” When I had left they looked lost, baffled, but not dead. I noticed his hardness commanded respect, so I said very little, trying to get used to the ride. He looked at me, said “They are all thick-sinned, men and women with scrawled transparent unbootable hearts; they lived and now are dead.” And as we rode on, he gave me a series of brief glares, instantaneous and without intensity or a point of view in particular, perhaps trying to see if I understood I suppose the depth of what was happening, as I stood on his chariot, then after a while, he told me, “The object of general interest in their hearts is different than yours, I know what heaven can bear and become if I ride them up to the gates, I cannot let in darkness.”

And so I understood, and for some reason, the closer I got to the gates, the less tears that were going to be tears, because of the lost ones, faded, and I was elated, and I could smell a fragrance that was so pleasant and majestic, and unique, it made my senses and my pours heavy and sweet. It was poetic stimulating and rich at the same time, and I saw angels, and the Charioteer said, with a smile, “Yes, this is the place.”



Note: Part one written: 1-12-2009 ((Poetic Prose: No: 2549) (Part two, ‘The Charioteer, near the gates’ written 1-13-2009))

Dynasty of the Great Cats (26,801 BC)

Dynasty of the Great Cats
of the Third World Order
(26,801 BC)
As Told by: Archangel Moun ‘el

(This story was created from the archeological remains, fragments, of a survey, in Malta, 1/2001, taken from an old vault found at Hagar Quin, dated to 3600 BC, and then fictionalized. Told to me by Moun’el)
I was assigned to earth in the Third World Order era, a time before Adam and Eve, perhaps 20,000-years (26,108-years ago, from 2008); man was taken off his podium, and put on the pyre, and I was one of the observers. Before this time was the time of men who challenged God, and went with another archangel, and thus, many got cast into “The Prison House for Angels,” in the cosmos, while others became demon (or demonic forces, those who once roamed the earth with the angelic forces, and sided with these forces against God Himself), as they are referred to now, and many got one of the 72-deaths? (such as eternal sleep, or hell in a frozen or heated abode, or buried under unmovable stones, and some placed into the wondering shadows of the invisible world on earth, and other planets)and so forth and on). But this now came to be, the era of the great cats, diminished to this level, more so than given, and now they ruled. Man’s existence had dwindled down to around 2000-earthly inhabitants, almost to extinction.
Somehow, they acquired formal reasoning; they became a select group, lions breeding with their own kind, even with in the nuclear family: when one was killed, such as the cheetahs—whom became a select species—inbreed, and the third generations produced a high quality of the cat—but they were turning out to be all the same; to include jaguars, tigers, and so forth. This all became part of what man now calls, natural selection, the top of the line, part of the ecosystem, as the Neanderthal Man would became more civilized in future time (perhaps we are talking about the Stone Age, or Paleolithic times which comprise close if not more than a million years; consequently this is where man’s predictions of human evolution took in a firm place, the emergence of homo sapiens, but as Moun’el will tell it as he saw it, and he saw it all, he was part of the demonic and genetic past of man, the man who failed and what was left of the species was this Neanderthal beast, which was really in itself an improvement over what he had been, not what he was originally created as and for.
In consequence, a massive genetic disorder, facial asymmetries, lower birth rates adult size, smaller than their brothers and sisters, now doomed the earth, and onto hell and else where.
The cats were inbreed by several archangels, those who protested to God, and now they took charge of mankind, through this inbreeding, hybrid selection of cats, and tipped the ecosystem in their favor, put man on the run, and into the caves, and incest as they knew it was not uncommon, as it would become in Ancient Egypt in 15,000-years.

But what took place was this: God saw all was not right, and he had me do something no one expected, I created a virus (Moun’el still narrating), and because all were of the same stock, all but a few perished, they had no way to fight the disease (the virus), health and fitness and genetic diversity was restored to the almost extinct man.
And now we see the advancement of the so called ape man, or Neanderthal, or Stone Age man, and I guarded that area of the world, over the Mediterranean Sea, as this distinct species became more adapted to the world outside the cave, and away from his rock art, as he tried to restore language, I thought of all disciplines emerging scientifically at once, during these far-off days, notably: the physical, some anthropology, linguistics and genetics, and somehow they did have a comeback. God doesn’t tell even his secrets to us, but rest assure, he may have had this plan ‘B’ in his storehouse for a long time.

There was a period of time left open, a forty-nine day period for all the spirits to be rounded up, put into a cage of fire, and have a burning, there was a numerous amount of images that came out of this high flame, one might think that they were God’s enemies, but it was those who did the inbreeding, His enemy, his distracters. After this burning, there was a long pause in creation, then came human man, and the memory of the battles of the past had been wiped clean from his memory (where at one time he knew of all the seas, and land masses, the constellations and weaponry, now was lost) as was the language. And now it was all new, man was created and liberated, to conquer the world, to face his final confrontation.
(Moun’el, was speaking and communicating in an ancient language used by the Albanian’s some seven thousand years ago, now lost, picked up by whom, nobody knows, it was a language that evolved during the first era, over 100,000 BC. Which evolved over time, and became Albanian’s language to be, and perfected, with limitations, for Moun’el had of course second insight to all this, and could give it to his recipients such as me, those receiving his messages; whatever, he did say: the beast and man were not all that far apart during those far-off days, of one another.)

And this is what he said to me and now I shall tell you a brief, of the First Era,and this will be what I herd from, Sael’el:


The First Era
(as told to Moun’el by Sael’el)
The first era, the one where God sent Ur’el to judge and take note, I Sael’el, was his assistant, and his scribe at times and what I saw and heard I brought to the ear of God, this was the era of the reconstruction of man, from demon, a time of the so called, Australopithecus, a slender beast of a man, the residue of the former demons, and of the mammal class, and animal (is) kingdom, these beasts would walk the earth, as imps and ghouls, and ghosts, and freaks, from birth defects, in later times (and do to this day).
His brain size was that of modern man, the males being larger than the females, perhaps fifty-percent larger and taller; they ate termites in mounds, nuts and so forth, robust in form. Their ancestors had selected to go along with the leaders of its earthly era, Azaz’el at this time was one of twenty, and Lucifer, and in time all were crushed, and these beasts were the results—until the final era; Lucifer being the exception in the sense He was the most powerful.

Written March 13, 2008

"The Sun, and Coffee at Starbucks" (a poem) and "Intrusion"

The Sun, and Coffee at Starbucks






The sun has no door today—but it’s looking for one;
its face is in the window—slightly, it has white bright
knuckles this afternoon—
It drags its Sunday rays along the profile of my face.
The trees outside, from where I sit, across from me
through the window,
are porky-pine green, and beyond those, are peach
colored balconies.
I’m at ‘Starbucks,’ Benavides: the walls have long
stretched out pictures, of a weird coffee pot,
tables, circles, coffee cups, and musical things, things
like horns and notes, and so forth…!
My latte is strong, I like it like that, and I sip on it,
while reading: Shelley, Dylan Thomas, and Plath.

There are no clouds today in Lima, just mist from the
ocean, mixed into the atmosphere, a lazy
lazy mist at that; a stiff and thick kind of mist, like
soup—with slow moving feet, for I can see patches
of blue beyond it, and the sun, the sun I so love
seeping through a porthole or two, still looking for
that door.

#2362 4-27-2008



2) Intrusion
(Poetic Prose, and Confessional Poetry)


When I was a young man, I was likened to terrified fish, an alcoholic that is what I was back then, not how I wanted to be. It is forty-years now. I know now I was better off with no father, thus, I had to row my way to where I am today, through a generation of vipers. Mother was always fearful I’d become nothing more than driftwood, but thick salt kept me up, and I didn’t know (floating just above my neck). My mother and brother were happy (perhaps the only ones) when I somehow slipped through the keyhole and finally opened the shut door and joined the opposite continents. A late bloomer you might say.

#2363 (4-27-2008)

In the Children’s Dungeon, 2008

In The Children’s Dungeon, 2008
((The Sea-toad Knows)(a long poem))
1—Iron
In raising my children I never heard their death sighs, years away…

Like a rustic faucet, of cast-iron, slowly was their false love dripping? Like worms gathering and crawling in a future nest of brooding, worms from hell, full of vengeance

I never saw their boneless hearts tell now, old age but, they were saying, “Wait, wait, we will grow older, worms grow you know…this is the tough time, youth!
“Then we will place him on the hook when his tissue is old and soft, we will not visit him, nor call: not even a minute one! All in time all in good time!”
Five children and I in an empty house watching fish swim around and around
flies buzzing in circles, outside by the light looking at old pictures now fading.

Their voices are always silent, as they appear in the form of children, not ever aging… children that turned sour, scorpions or bees trying to sting me.

Inform me:
why did you take that road? Out of what door should I crawl? Where would you have me lay?


2—They Told Me

Sun rays told me, hide from them; the moon said: they are like eels; the doctor held, love is not enough, tears will not help, nor extol nor money, nor gifts of any kind they do not wish to comfort you only to sadden you with hammer and gossip.

The toad told me, they are flat stones owls in the night; they are looking in the bug infested rubbish in the heat of summer, looking and hunting for something—


3—The Vision

I had a vision, a dream, I saw the shape of their hearts bigger than elephant’s, but darker than a rats, with less blood in them, than a mosquito’s— and the pumps made a loud nose.

I was under water looking up it was soft like a sponge, wrinkled like a mouse it didn’t fit in place, it had valves like toes! And it turned into an eel with fangs of a wildcat and it pulled out of its socket, and rolled about in thick muck it felt good, I think with its long wobbly legs puncture holes here and there and it liked to swim under the water sleek as an eel….

4—The Abyss
Where do the hearts go? To the gravel of the seabed (I was told by a mysterious voice). I looked and they were covered by hard marble stones, they looked as if they had been there quite long; it was their home away from home. And they twisted about like a vortex. Ask the sea-toad he knows, he saw from his leaf…deep into the sea… he told me “Beware father Lee, they live a grimy soaked shell, and if allowed they will simple nibble at your nerves, and punish your will.”

5—Betrayal
From the mouths of my children I heard their bitter and scorn it was getting old, and older, things I’ve heard before.

Like a rustic faucet, of old cast-iron, slowly was their false love dripping? Like worms gathering and crawling in a future nest of brooding, worms from hell, full of vengeance
Like wild dogs, they groaned snarled and wailed; twilight was against me, as was the deep eels of the sea, as was the houses around them whom whimpered out of gossip. The birds, dogs, cats all cried; their neighbors, like cows took their sides, in their bushes to listen as they hid, and wished I’d die! What small character they developed, what shallow songs they had to sing, what thick mud, they had to crawl out of… What kind of father are you now? You all live in ice caves dripping with envy, jealousy, and black-blood only the hypocrites here!

I’m tired, I’m very tired, all my bones crackle, so crack them more if you wish, you have anyhow! Only the winter now; you have drained the summer and spring from me— father fear, is no longer here, you have drained the love from his heart, now he has nothing to offer.


6—Perhaps Snake Oil

What kind of shape plays to a Mind that is recovering? Beckoning to do all it can for His children, through halls and hail and while standing still in a fag, trying to put one’s life back together; once scared, now scarred and perhaps a little phony…?
From the mouths of children things are seldom expressed how they can be, no vocabulary! Perched on my shoulders, I saw my boys flowing away; that coldness growing inside of them like dead eels being frozen (thus they became phony like me). They dropped me into a watery grave even though I did all I could to save what I could, sometimes it is worse, doing what is right, and being cursed.

This is the storm I have to endure pay the price for this and that, and all they gave at the end was unsmiling within themselves, things they never knew; as for my bones they still grew old, and the fire in my heart grew dim, and the seeds I once planted that sprung to life did not bud, butchered at the stem; Doom was already decided, for me and them, windows and doors now shut? House burning, new rage, now old rage, in their hearts, primordial tears, ongoing agitation and they all ran every which way—year after year.

7—Money and he Toad

Money, money, money came into the show, And when I was dying, they all stood by, hoping I’d die quicker than I would, go, just go…they think they hid this from the toad…but he always knew.
How stupid they can be, for the toad, he hides in the cool of the grass when no ones looking, and in the deep part of the sea; or from a branch in a tree, he doesn’t even leave a shadow…he’s part of me.
“Look, look,” he says “they are like ashes, falling through a dark swirl….” and I look, and yes, he is right!


8—When I was a Kid

I ran to the hill to see my mother (when I was a kid of eight or so)walking up it, walked with her side by side, full of pride, my eyes looking to the sun, she’d pick up a weed put it in her mouth, and I’d do the same as if I was a trained ….
On the foster-farm in the dark, I had many years to breathe and with my little feet, I climbed the little steps up to the bunk bed underneath me my brother slept, but I never hated my mother!
There was a light down the hall coming from the bedroom, like a fire-pit, here the owner slept, and other children wept. But I played big, I never did! And I never hated my mother!
In the morning light crept through the window light from the East came slowly over my blankets like snow…cool and refreshing in summer, refreshing and warm in the winter. And I never hated my mother.
I’d say to my brother, “Mom is coming!” As frost melted on the back steps that led to the horses, and pastures—it all melted like a fine haze, day after day, and I never hated my mother, thank God! And I’d say to my brother, over and over,” Mom is coming!”

9—The Years
There were several great years, in-between some winters, we traveled a lot, planes and trains and cars: those far-off memories, like roses kept swinging in the wind, above my head.
The festive times in Germany the kites in the backyard and playing in the woods, nights in Amsterdam, in the cafes and parks. The light moved slowly over our horizons, the beautiful surviving memories now over these old bones, their youth still swings back in my wind, for me to smell. The toad knows.
10—Their Troubled Souls?

Is it dark? Is it dark inside? Is it dark inside the dark? Movement becoming energetic unsettling? A vivacious logical will once amused them.
It will not happen again. Be quiet. You have only a while to wait, to get what you deserve, nothing…! Then I’ll leave. The toad knows.


11—Somehow the Roses

Am I not yet an old wound? The Sea-toad can vouch for me! He is the spiral that you cannot see. He tells me everything, pushes me forward shows me your heart, dear children…He whispers “They try to infect an old wound, leave them to their destiny; they have no room for comforting you!”

I am hunting or hurting, one of the two, the Sea-toad, says I am both, and you, yes you children are my protagonists, geared-up, to portray my soul of consciousness (animistic), but I am no fool…your tails flick like spiders running to their webs, to eat the remains of the fly, I know, your wish that I should die! —And I know you tried!

I can’t tell who you are anymore, the fish, the eel, the mole in the hole or the rat, the owl, perhaps you are a symbol of all of them, plus my obsession, to love and be loved, with respected! A frenzied activity lapsing like rain in your desert.

I dream of you two, the other three seldom, as in memories of when you were children somehow the roses appear around your frames “Papa” I hear you say, renewing my light, nothing essential to today’s reality, just old, old memories, buried in ambiguity.

Now you are all grown men and women, Your childhood long past, all mad silent poets, these are the only moments left I have, I have lost the spiritual quest, the ploddingly pursue.

Like a rustic faucet, of cast-iron, slowly was your false love dripping? Like worms gathering and crawling in a future nest of brooding, worms from hell, full of vengeance (The toad always knows).

#2351 (4-16-2008)

Melancholy Roses (A poem for: Elise Cowen)

Melancholy Roses
(A Poem for: Elise Cowen)

She wrote of death, and its desire
Never quite knowing if she was
Coming out or going in—
And committed suicide, like a coward
At twenty-nine (in 1962), much like
Her contemporaries: Hemingway,
Sterling, Plath and Sexton…!
Sounds in her ears, ringing,
She jumped out of the living room
Window, falling seven floors.
Gone now, like her and her lovers,
Ginsberg, and Sheila, gone forever more…
But her poems on death and doom
Surpass most poets of gloom—.
She was direct and honest:
She dragged death, like two-dogs
Pulling on the same meat—
Her dream somewhere tucked away
inside her poems—left for us to decipher.
She became part of the beat generation,
In San Francisco…and I guess that
Will have to do…! The Poet of Death,
Doom, and melancholy roses.

Note: Life long friend to Allen Ginsberg, and lover (she was bisexual), another poet who committed suicide, and from the beat generation, in her late 20s. She was in an asylum, for her mental breakdowns. After her suicide her family destroyed most of her poetry, yet 83-poems have been found of hers. I have read some of her poetry, they are, and sound as she lived, depressive, and psychotic, with intelligence. She could be considered the equal to Anne Sexton, had she lived longer. She wrote: “Gone to Mexico—gone home –Gone to –death. Death ‘Death’” And “…Blind dreams in a green room, No love, No compassion, No intelligence, No beauty, No humility, Twenty-seven is enough…” And two years later it was, she killed herself.

#2350 4-14-2008

Outlook Poems (Four poems with a View/ Part I)

Outlook Poems
(Four poems with a View/ Part I)


Poems about Life, God and Love



1) Frosty Minnesota March

Dennis

“Mother, you look so cold?”

(She’s gazing out the window, she loves winter time, its frightful cold this evening, though, and winters turn into a lion.)

Dennis

“Mother, I’m going south for the rest of March—come along, the winters too long for me!”

(She simply looks into my eyes says :) “The South, go on, let me be!”

Dennis

“Sweet mother dear—tomorrow they say, comes another storm!”

(Here cold eyes now look at me, says with a gleaming eye and smile :) “Then take me to Las Vegas or let me just freeze!”

#1735








2) Jesus’ Riddle to John


Jesus once said to John, a riddle, “Answer if you can...: must I die for God, or must I die for man?”

(John bewildered couldn’t say, he just lowered his eyes and prayed.)

“I take their sins…” Jesus said, “I feel their pain, from Monday through the Sabbath: in cities, nooks and valleys, and in allies, as they hide their selves from me, to sin some more in quite, as if I can’t see…!”

(John still looked bewildered but said :) “I guess you’ll die for me!”

#1736 3-16-2007


3) Life, God and Love
(The king eater)

Saddam Hussein, he wanted to be king of kings, like Nebuchadnezzar, and so he was—:

At the end of his quest, he: crawled out of a hole, when captured; he grunted like a hog when he was judged—and he heard the hooves of the deadly horses approaching, the roars of anger by his henchmen, when he was hung.

#1738


4) Love Leaves a Debt

I am an old lover, and cry to all yokels out there:

Love a day, and for a time
For love is grim, and seldom kind….

To all you lovers have good heed
Love fades without a word, or deed.

And: —

Love always leaves an unpaid debt—
For one always loves more than the other

(and that one never gets)!

#1737

"Under the Rock" & "Moth and the MInd" (Two Poetic Prose Poems, with notes)

Under the Rock
(Poetic Prose)


What is hidden in the unconscious and cannot be found in the dictionary, it might be wise to leave buried under the rock (to rot, motionlessly).
We are not cats; we do not have nine-lives (we can break like porcelain).
I have left many things under that rock of mine: halos, devils, old friends, pearls or experiences—and expressions.
The rock has an abdomen, I’ve noticed (believe it or not): with spirit and appetite (eyes that open, adjust to its environment), looking for who can offer it a sunny day.

(Oil the spring to the door, in case you have to run, once it clicks, your stuck.)

#1730 3-12-2007




Moth and the Mind


At night, the unconscious revives the mind, plants powerful images, shadows for the curious conscious to figure out, once woken up in the morning (perhaps too dreadful, too frightful to paint a perfect picture of).
Now the dusty room is empty, pure black nothingness—the moths want to come in, attack the dark mist, suck dry the chamber walls, while in a state of mania (and they try to); then the organic gases drown the moths, to a stupor: thus, as night befalls the mind again, new shadows, images start coming in—no room for the moths again.


#1731 3-21.2007



[A Note on Prose Poetry:] The prose poem is usually made-up with more wit than rime in it, so it has been by the master pieces, and master poets, in the past; the lines involved are not usually all that important.

My First Real Lover (Confessional Poetry)

Note: Dispensation Poetry/Confessional: so I refer to the four poems below. I don’t often look back, and process my life into poetic stanzas, unless it is in short story form, traveling, culture and a few other exceptions, and in a different character other than me usually, it seems to make for a better read, but here are for poems that are to the contrary of that rule.



5— My First Real Lover
(Dispensation/Confessional Poetry)

At seventeen, not yet married, there were
signs: that read caution, I was too young, to see them, her given name, Barbara, ah, Barbara — my first real lover; even her face

had signs, even her brother, perhaps a lover; on my wedding day she called my name from the car, honking the horn, pregnant, to South Dakota, entrenched, I went with her

stubborn they were, mother and daughter.
we married, and mother went her way—
and Barbara went with me down the street,
to a motel, at the age of only sixteen.
So it was poorly done, but to some liberation. Alone in my bed, no longer unseen as I had been;
to her — I was a friend: for me, a lover—
and then I learned how to drink, to overlook!

I was drinking a lot back then, a far-away lost soul; that such youth has to suffer to grow; had I a knife to slice off that part of my soul—
I might have done so, and live in a bubble!...

#1706 2-28-2007

Aftereffects (In Ozark, Alabama)) A Poem))

Aftereffects (In Ozark, Alabama)

I think by now it is time for us to move on from here. I can see the shanty huts, the ones along side the
Cemetery, dilapidated they are, in need of restoration long overdue. The garbage has filled the air
above our small rented house, and the grass against the fence can’t hide the cemetery or the garbage.
I’ve walked through that section, when we first came here, over the gravestones through the tall grass, —twilight itself
shinned on my porch, the neighbor flirted with me from her’s . I just pretended not to notice and stood outside, smiled.
I saw her move about. She reminded me of me — when I was single and younger, long ago —
as she moved on, and away from the porch from the screened-in door with reflections from the moon.
I confess that my insides were dropping, cramping
I kept a pretense. In it, I became different and nervous, not
wanting to crossover to her, shameful she came to me
from her mouth these words came (echoes throughout me)
“You see, my husband wants me to lay with you, and watch?”
that came from her so easier, opening a wishful door,but I didn’t want a scar, or wound, or being numb; it would
had been the beginning, the second time —closer to the end.


#1706 7-27-2007

Note: I lived in Ozark, Alabama in the 1970s, and have been married a few times, and was there with my wife, and my neighbor was an attractive woman, a few years younger than I (her husband a friend, and both high on pot all the time), and to be honest, I and my human nature was being tested. I am no hero for avoiding the situation, but glad I did, it is simply trading one pot of crickets for another, and who needs that.