Sunday, March 23, 2014

Another list

Ha ha ha       and HA!
That's my response. 

and a sarcastic laugh! 

Come! Lets write a poem 
the New Yorker might run. 

Something indistinct. 
A string of 
non sequitors 
and blurry

and opaque.

musket                 balls
carbolic       soap
and a     good 
old               Wych 


No narrative EVER kicks in. 

And another thing:
Blah blah blah. 

Really, blank stares.
That's is what these poems do
arouse in me.  

Am I to blame? 

n o. N   O.

I'm just the 
reflecting pool. 

The leap

I am not in the photo with the kids 
on that colossal rock we call a dinosaur egg,
in that flat grassy infinity behind our house. 
Yet the photo is still in me 
even though not much happens on that egg 
while we wait for my father
to come back from Korea. 
Only endless summer picnics 
of red Kool-aid and boloney sandwiches. 
The State Fair blows to kingdom come out there 
and my idea of a great time is born.
My brother calls every man he sees daddy
and then one day a stranger stands in our door.
Slips off the brown Army garrison cap, scans 
four kids sitting on the sofa for inspection.
I hope you've been behaving yourselves
that's all the stranger says before he holds 
out his arms to his wife, rests uncertain lips 
on her more uncertain ones. 
My mother is the only person in the room
who recognizes his face.
But not even she knows yet 
the leap from the window has begun.