V. 2, #183: September 28, 2013

The kids are outside playing on the swings,
which means inside, an eerie silence reigns.
These moments I can steal for other things:
I can veg out with TV, wrack my brains

for clever rhymes I might use in a verse,
or read a book--my God, such luxury!
Just drink a cup of tea? I could do worse.
I'm paralyzed by possibility!

But no, the whoosh of sliding patio door
alerts me quiet time is at its end.
The house is mere cacophony once more,
the broken peace beyond my skill to mend.

My singing muses suddenly are mute.
Good thing for children they're so fucking cute.

V. 2, #182: September 27, 2013

We'd stayed up late, and Grandma didn't mind.
A few feet from the black and white tv,
to popcorn cold and salty, soda cans
with drinking straws beside our tucked-up knees.
We whispered in between commercial breaks,
"How long now till it starts?" Then Johnny said
goodnight. The tube went black. We sat and stared.

The old pipe organ groaned. Pale cobwebs lined
the screen. We leaned in, straining eyes to see
what would emerge: monstrosity of man's
creation? Werewolf? Vampire? Killer bees?
A dinosaur, or maybe giant snakes?
Later, awake and trembling in our beds,
we'd laugh at each other for being scared.

V. 2, #158: September 3, 2013

I used to read that Larkin poem and smile:
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad." How true,
I thought! Equal parts tenderness and bile
in that, "They may not mean to, but they do."

But now I scan Phil's verse with different eyes.
The focus shifts, seen from the other side,
when one's done harm he could not recognize
as such, however hard he might have tried.

You had your chances, sure--you might have said
a good, kind thing. Might not have raised your voice
at small mistakes. Taught happiness instead
of bitterness. You could. You had that choice.

I only hope one day I live to see
my son a good, kind man--in spite of me.

V. 2, #142: August 18, 2013

There is a door behind which lies a room
wherein I hide the things that I enjoy.
I keep them locked away, not to annoy
the ones I share my life with. In this tomb

I stow the dirty jokes I'll never tell,
the movies I can only watch alone,
perverse desires she never would condone,
much less indulge. Perhaps it's just as well

to keep that secret part of me enchained,
pretend I'm only what they want to see,
ignore the dungeon moans from down below.
For if one day I went there, turned the key,
and let the monster loose, what would be gained?

Destruction? Peace? Content?

                                                 I'll never know.

V. 2, #139: August 14, 2013

Forget about what I said yesterday.
Today the weather's fine as fine can be.
The water's clear and green, the sun is bright,
and cooling breezes dance in off the sea;

The palm leaves whisper sweet, tropical songs
while swooping gulls sing backup harmonies,
and every good thing feels like it belongs
to you, and all you do is what you please.

Oh let me stay forever on the beach,
a cooler full of beer down at my feet!
I'll hear the mermaids singing, each to each,
and watch the girls strut by, naked and sweet;

I'll live in paradise each blessed day,
until the money runs out, anyway.

V. 2, #130: August 5, 2013

The thunder interrupts my daydreams like
unruly children stomping on the floor
in metal boots, and every lightning strike
a cookie sheet slammed hard against my door;

But then the rain--which sizzles on the street
and brings to mind faint childhood memories:
the garden hose turned on against the heat
of summer, all the possibilities

of swimsuits. One bright red, half-filled balloon
in stark relief against the slate-gray sky,
grass clippings stuck to muddy feet at noon,
till thunder stopped our play. Inside, we'd dry

ourselves in soft clean towels while music played
from Brother's room, and Mom brought lemonade.

V. 2, #126: August 1, 2013

Please bow your heads with me and say a prayer
for creatures slain by my marauding cats
this year: for rats they ate or disemboweled,
for sparrows crushed between their bloody fangs,
the shrew, chipmunk, and mole torn by their claws,
and corpses undiscovered, left among
thick weeds in other yards to bleed and die;

Lord, grant that poor eviscerated hare
they left--a macabre gift, eyes swarmed with gnats,
its lung or liver separate, befouled
by flies--some sweet reward for earthly pangs
inflicted by my pets. Let his soft paws
tread on heavenly grass. Let him stay young
and happy, and intact, up in the sky.

V. 2, #99: July 5, 2013

If you're going to share your domicile with cats,
you'll have to deal with dead things now and then.
Decapitated chipmunks, stiffened rats,
three-quarters of a squirrel. They'll bring them in,

or leave them on the doorstep like a gift,
a gruesome, sad, first-class delivery.
Those critters not as healthy, not as swift
as their kindred, are doomed. All shivery,

one day I took a shovel to the fence
behind our house, where in the knee-high weeds
a half-skint rabbit lay, gasping for breath.
The blood bejeweled her fur like ruby beads.
Her almost-killer lolled, all innocence,
and licked his paws while I clubbed her to death.

V. 2, #81: June 17, 2013 (Happy Birthday to Me)

I guess I'll never be a movie star,
be loved by millions, live a life of ease;
I'll never drive a fast Italian car
or date as many models as I please;

I'll never do a Fresh Air interview
about my novels and their fine awards;
I'll never be a rock star idol, who
makes female fans freak out and flip their gourds;

I'll never be the things I dreamed I'd be,
I won't accomplish what I yearned to do.
I'll live a life of sullen normalcy,
No better and no worse than all of you.

And when I die, it will be all the same.
In fifty years, no one will know my name.

V. 2, #74: June 10, 2013

We called them gumballs--pulled them from the tree
by careful handfuls, every time we could.
They looked like medieval weaponry,
a morning star, its handle living wood.

All spherical, spiked thorns along thin seams
with one bare stem on top to grip them by,
we'd pouch them in our shirttails, choose up teams,
take cover, declare war, and let them fly.

With no objective except to attack,
and daring, pointless forays from each side,
advancing until we were beaten back,
our ammo ran out, or somebody cried,

We sweated out the dusky autumn hours,
till called inside for cookies, milk, and showers.

V. 2, #61: May 28, 2013

Perhaps I'm getting soft in my old age,
my stony stoic front ground down by years.
It seems ridiculous at this late stage
to be so often moved to senseless tears;

The radio brings trite, corn-sweetened pap
that blurs the road until I wipe my eyes;
News stories leave me misting like a sap
for reasons hard to consciously surmise.

A harsh word from my son, my daughter's kiss,
a half-remembered line of poetry,
and I'm a blubbering mess. What causes this
strange flood of new sentimentality?

Rain, wind, and time lay veins once covered bare;
and nerves pain sharpest, thus exposed to air.

V. 2, #47: May 14, 2013

It doesn't bother me if no one reads
my scribblings here, these wayward drops of ink
I scatter heedlessly; I hardly think
such service one that any stranger needs.

This wordy stream might bear some specks of gold
that, if I'm lucky, settle in my pan,
but more wash past. I do the best I can;
The water's shallow here, muddy, and cold.

There was a time when, screaming myself hoarse,
I splashed and floundered, desperate to be praised
by all who passed. But now I am content
calmly to watch the river take its course,
kneel down beside it, quietly amazed,
and cup it in my hands, a sacrament.

 

V. 2, #29: April 25, 2013

She knew we'd all been taught the same hard rule:
you never hit a girl, no matter what;
and with that fact came power--if she caught
a classmate jawing at her like a fool,

Her wrath was swift and ruthless: scratches, slaps,
and punches beat down on his head like hail.
Impotent and humbled, he'd turn tail
and run away, beg mercy--cry, perhaps.

We were just kids. I couldn't even dream
that someday I would have to bite my tongue,
sit on my hands while those I could not fight
stepped over my bruised head. Now, it would seem,
I owe her thanks. She taught me, while still young,
how to stay low, and keep my mouth shut tight.

 

V. 2, #7: April 3, 2013

The smell of motor oil still makes me think
of fish. My uncles pulling up the drive
with river water pouring out the back
of that flat, dented boat they always took
to check their trot lines; then they'd lug the chest
of bluegill bream and channel cat on ice
into the dingy, cinder-block garage

Where old petroleum mixed with the stink
of doomed aquatic creatures, still alive,
mouths gaping as in shock. The men would smack
the catfish with a mallet. Wrenches shook
on pegboard, vicious pliers bit down to wrest
the skin from flesh. The bream they'd scale and slice,
while I crouched down beside the bench to watch.

 

Where Have You Gone?

(This is one I wrote some time ago, but didn't post, for whatever reason. I found it in a notebook and thought I should put it up here before I lose it, as I don't think it's *entirely* terrible.)

Where have you gone? I've searched and searched for years
with no result. An obsolete e-mail,
an out-of-date address; the track gone stale
and no new clues. Still, no one disappears--

The world's not half as big now as it was
when Fate threw us together that first night
and we our bodies; touch and taste and sight
remain as sensual memory always does.

On college websites, Facebook--lost, I try
to find you, in my dotage looking back
to where the ghost of you burns like a flame;
I still can feel your heat, and hear your cry
of pleasure--then your form dissolves to black
and leaves me in the dark, Googling your name. 


--SS

#435: Backyard

It should be flat. There ought to be a tree
right there--a river birch as centerpiece
around which everything else falls in place:
the compost heap, the long landscaping ties
around the garden--tall tomato plants,
with their red ornaments and glutton birds.
And over there, of course, two metal chairs.

There ought to be a swing set you can see
from inside, at the sink, say, finding peace
in one tall, sweating tumbler, while the lace
of hops that climb the porch posts give your eyes
some shelter from the sunlight, and the dance
of wind and leaf speaks inscrutable words
designed to calm away your daily cares.

#356: April 14, 2007

When I came back, the fields were just as green
as two years past. The buildings were the same.
The old faces peeked out among the new,
but slightly changed. And though your words were kind,
the spaces in between them stretched too long,
the friendly clasp of fingers broke to soon.
Already, then, you were forgetting me.

Later, alone, as I wandered between
college and house, a thing I couldn't name
turned my steps toward the back fields, where the blue
cold light and waist-high weeds bent and entwined.
I shed my clothes--for, naked, we belong
to just ourselves. Beneath that foreign moon
I walked back, silent, like a refugee.

#316: March 5, 2007

Will knew something was wrong. He saw right through
my fear-strained smile, where worry lined each cheek
like hard-pressed pencil marks. I tried to speak
calmly, but even three-years-old, he knew.

I had to bring him back. He did not play
while I cleaned out my desk, dropped photos in
a box (his birthday snaps, that carefree grin)
and tried, and failed, to find something to say.

And when he asked me why you let me go,
and saw my face grow dark, I saw my fears
reflected in his eyes--blue, bright with tears
to hear me, broken, say "Son, I don't know."

And now he's learned that friends aren't always good--
a lesson I'd unteach him, if I could.

#291: February 8, 2007

The sudden storm flooded Mark's neighborhood,
so we rolled up the cuffs of our blue jeans;
two chubby, graceless kids, just in our teens,
we waded to the center line and stood
(the water curled around our feet, and rain
bejeweled our hair like dewdrops in the crowns
of oaks) intoxicated by the sounds
the brown flood made pulled down the concrete drain.

And all our clumsy adolescence seemed
to wash away with it, and in its place
a childlike carelessness we never dreamed
we'd lose propelled us, stomping, down that creek,
and kicking plumes into each other's face--
so joyful neither one of us could speak.

#290: February 7, 2007

That night those years ago, up in my dorm
she lay down on my twin-sized bachelor's bed.
The lamp cast its own shadow o'er her head
and smudged to indistinctness every form
and feature, so that in my memory
there's only heat and softness, breath and skin,
and frost off blinded windows creeping in
to edge my nakedness with ice--till she
opened wide arms to fold me in, and pressed
me into her while I shook, as with cold;
we crested there, and she held me immersed
in that warm sea of her, told me to rest.
Linda. And I was twenty-one years old.
She never even knew she was the first.