poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:034

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
Still Life with Random Thoughts
To Endure
The First of September

for your reading pleasure, verse
from new and established poets
poetry requires a mature audience,
if you are under 18 years of age, click here Big Fish


Still Life with Random Thoughts

Why can't we go back? Why must it always be forward, like blind dust motes, like railroad tracks that end at the docks? There are silver finned fish there laid out in the sun waiting for salt, for brine, for a kiss that never comes. The things that be, all the should nots, like the girl in first grade that you loved, where you wrote your names on the desk, but she never loved you back. You went into the cloakroom and cried, there among the cedar smells, the mothballs like tiny white moons, the dark cloths that you burrowed into ashamed. Later, outside the soda shop Billy Thomas took your ice cream cone bought with your last quarter. You knew there was no one to wait on you, not now, not up the line. Not ever. So you construct a still life based on random thoughts where you walk like an unseen Goliath into the mind painting and squeeze out colored pigments that mark what you would like to believe really happened, but like a bleeding canvas you are covered over in a crusted impasto, a Munch scream not enough to erase the cloakroom, the smell of yellow piss, the eyes that never stop following.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:034





To Endure

Winter and snowing when he came upon her. Gray shroud of Turin clouds hugging the mountain tops, the wind blowing like it was waiting for a clock to stop. This was the Big South Fork at the East Rim overlook. She had climbed over the chain link barrier and stood on the cliff edge staring at a thousand feet of air between her and the bottom. Fall sassafras leaves red hair, the kind born to be wedded to the earth, and staring, staring at the riverís rush and roar so far away. Itís not that bad, he said. Iíve been there. Two things drive us, she replied. Like that river rushing to nowhere only to return to the source. Two things. Biology and myth. Myth and biology. To fuck and fight, make meaning of it all. To become a female Icarus with polyester wings, soar between here and the moon, to fly with falcon vision and seed the sky, a Venus of Willendorf stripped of will breathing out the earth. Fog extinguishes the hills, the river, she said. The fish fuck and fight and make good corpses for others to do the same. I do not know you, but I do for all we can know is the unknowing. To know the answer to Hamletís question, the riddle of Opheliaís love. To kiss the paws of the sphinx and hold dinner conversation with an Egyptian mummy, there might the puzzle be known. One small step, like Armstrongís, and I too, would be the flying eagle visiting realms unknown. Strip off the wooden growth rings, sprout grass from my mouth and lie down in a field of stone.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:034





The First of September

My Motherís reflective stories, her memory of what she believed my father to think that day in 1939 when he said the war would be over by Christmas. The days of hunkering by the radio, entire families listening to CBS live broadcast Polandís invasion. The red and black swastika not yet branded by airwaves on American foreheads, my fatherís interests lay to the mountain top, where the Murray twins swam in a frog-scummed strip pond full of cattails and flagellating tadpoles from mating season. He thought of their shadowed crotches moving in the September light, my mother said, of their young breasts soon to be tipped by autumnís first frost. He didnít drive to war; he drove a heaving and gasping rusted pickup to watch them swim, gave them rides home after bottles of beer and naked bodies pressed into the grass. Who knows Motherís mythologies of the mind that she found from the vantage point of old age. The quilted heat of that long ago day where love and war fused in the mind like pieces of steel arced together by a blowtorch. He would leave her for a time, all the way past 1945 when the warís march ceased, his boots carrying him through morning fog, dripping trees like alabaster, the poised shotgun a marker in time, of moments past and canned reels yet to project. Sometimes squirrels fell from the blast that made stew for hungry childrenís mouths. When weary of dying in another womanís bed, he would return, never knowing the story of Isolde or Tristan, Paris or Helen, Heloise and Abelard. He had none of their tragic honor, where the only black catastrophes he knew were those of coal-dusted men returned from the underworld each evening, to go to the creek in the woods, drink and gamble. She told me that when he lay dying in his bed pointing to air and saying there is Betty Jane, you need to talk to her, his mind ravaged by time and circumstance, German boots long perished ghosts, that she forgave him, for what he saw was vision, not flesh, an American moment, where his myth met hers that would never be written in epic meters.




thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v17/034.html
link to POETRYREPAIRS




All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading





Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT
http://www.zazzle.com/poetryrepairshop



No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs
PLEASE
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, DO NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.


I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian


free counters

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary


read more poetry

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
Still Life with Random Thoughts
To Endure
The First of September


top