“What is that?” a child asked, looking at the typewriter. I explained what I was doing and offered to write her a poem. She said she would like one. I asked her for a word, and her brother said, “Library’s closing. Get your books.” The child followed him—then turned around and said to me, “Blue—and thank you!”
The Stranger: Saranya
The Word: Blue
The poem I wrote:
On my windshield
this morning, a child’s
handprint, small as
a leaf and spectral as
the ozone. It runs the
wrong direction but who
doesn’t. Before words
& time, such ghosts.
I can see through them,
faintly blue, to the
beginning & end of the
sweet veined world.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
October 10, 2018 at 10:17 pm
“Souls don’t exist,” he says,
and though non-belief in the color blue does not affect blue
he is adamant:
“Blue exists only in the mind.”
Talking perception-reception-reflection-response-impulse-image–
Life is just a movie, he says.
As the movie plays my soul looks at his.
I see you.
October 11, 2018 at 6:35 pm
Blew It!
It’s too bad you missed our golden age. It happened when you blinked
Around the century’s turn when things were most in sync.
Bluebirds flew in blue skies beheld by blue eyes, smiling.
The new promise of a century that we could find beguiling.
It was not too late, then, if only we’d take a course of action
But no one could agree on one to any satisfaction.
Climate guys and gals were warning us that soon we must be done
With profligate behaviors, ones that must be shunned.
Ancient animosities soon reared their ugly heads.
As Towers came crashing down, the mourning of our dead.
No turning other cheeks. We had to go to holy war.
Multitudes must die so we could give what for.
On the home affronts, power hungry politicians,
The Prophets of Profiting, affected all decisions.
As we lathered the pale horse of unbridled greed,
We seemed hell bent to ride over those in need.
Corporations gave away our jobs and our technology
To ambitious, farseeing Chinamen far across the sea.
We get to buy cheap Band-aids with the last of our held wealth.
Our livelihoods exchanged for goods on Walmart’s shelf.
I suppose that I could go on with this thread of my lament
But what good would it do? Could my time be better spent?
When I was a child, there were writings from the sages
Some ages were deemed golden. It was scribed upon the pages.
Now, that I am silvering, I find I grasp at slivers.
Did we lose our golden moment to Cosmic, Karmic Indian givers?
In less than a generation, we’ve traded gild for guilt.
To say we should not shame ourselves would deny blood and tears we’ve spilt.
Once fulgent with promise, our tabula rasa was unstained.
Inevitably, like loss of a pristine snow, we could not be restrained.
Is it too late for our golden age, one that is untarnished?
I really cannot tell you and that’s the Truth, unvarnished.
As you wait for your ride in the handbasket on its way to Hell,
I’ll be at the Dollar Store to see what is on sale…
October 12, 2018 at 1:02 pm
RIP Scott
Demons twirl around
confusing thoughts
with reality
like hurricane winds in ominous
shades of blue and white
gathering in intensity
out of control
suddenly life is torn from
its foundation
with nothing left
but the debris of the heart
October 13, 2018 at 5:54 am
Blue Smocks
After you give up
and nothing in this world even shudders,
you call it a bad dream.
But you won’t forget
the blue smocks,
swirling around your body,
hospital half-socks
with rubber grips,
the foreign sound of family
talking from inside your skin.
You remember Liberty Island,
the back side,
her one foot lifting,
prepared to step east,
maybe home to France.
She has to decide.
Being loved is not enough.
You can only hope
that a blue smock hears you
when you announce
you are done
giving up.
October 15, 2018 at 3:20 pm
I Thought of Him as Aragorn
I thought of him as Aragorn, the young King of the Rings.
I mean that he looked the part of which the sagas sing.
Shoulder length, platinum-haired, he had a fine nobility.
He galloped on his horse across pastures I could see.
He lived in a trailer house on a hill above our ten acres
With his significant other. They were good neighbors, givers and not takers.
Then, the young man had AIDS. He was bedridden and was dying.
It seemed to be all over except the eulogy and crying.
The New Age Woman brought a crystal, a large one, sky blue, to ease his pain.
“It is my greatest hope,” she said, “this stone may bring your health, again.”
Lo and behold, the crystal was lost or did it evanesce?
“It may be Karma,” she thought, “doing what is best.”
“Sometimes stones performing magic are doing what is weird.
Into dimensions, otherly, they are disappeared.”
“Crystals take with them bad energies, ones divined malign,
To be dispersed across the universes, into other places, other times.”
For a day or two, as the young man’s health was tallied,
He became more animated. Perhaps, his living force was rallied.
Still he was in pain but escaping from his lethargy
Gave encouragement to us living, perhaps, a sign for us all to see.
Alas, this did not last long. He rapidly declined.
In a moment of delirium, he gasped, “The pain, it is behind.”
We took this as encouragement, as he gave this thought to voice.
Perhaps it was relief and acceptance, a small moment to rejoice.
The next day, he was gone to whatever his reward.
He was a very good lad. His demise was quite untoward.
When they came to collect his remains is when we found the stone.
In his back, in a cavity, and lodged against a bone.
I have tried to find some solace, some existential trying
In an act we meant to comfort, we did some mortifying.
When there is nowhere we can turn but to our faith or magic,
We do so with our hope, our hedge against the tragic.
True story. Mostly.