Monday, September 18, 2006
Today wasn’t very dramatic, which was welcomed. The rest of the week promises plenty of drama, so one day that seemed almost routine was nice. Lots of office work: phone calls to make, thoughts to prepare, and emails a-plenty…
The picture above provided a small bit of drama I guess. A really impressive little storm blew in around the time to pick up Hillary from school. The wind was very powerful, and the rain intense for about 20 minutes I guess. The picture is a slice of normal life for me: sitting in line at the elementary school with my little placard declaring my child. This is my fifth year to battle that crazy traffic. You’d think I’d be used to it by now?!
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Some of you have read my primitive poetry. I’m only somewhat embarrassed to say that I’ve already lost the poetry mood. It’s been fun, however, and I feel like I’ve composed three somewhat “real” poems. Plus, if the urge ever strikes me again, at least I know where to start. I submitted these three poems to a real poetry magazine, and I received my nice little rejection letter yesterday. That didn’t cause me to give up (I’d already done that). I’ve just learned that it doesn’t hurt to take a shot at something anyway, so that’s what I did. I've been rejected before, and if I ever intend to accomplish anything in life, I'll be rejected again. Nothing but another little bump in a long road.
Upon the rejection notice, however, I decided to share these three finished (for me) poems for your reading pleasure. You can let me know what you really think if you wish… I’m kind of nervous, however: I haven’t even shared the one about my dad with my family, and it’s kind of raw I guess. I hope they’re received well…
Here goes...
ALBERT STURGEON, JR. (AN ELEGY)
Nothing reminds me of home like a pack of Camel cigarettes.
My dad smoked them, and then we shot Havlicek jumpers at his shoes
With the wadded-up packs. I hated the putrid smell of the smoke,
And knew I’d never take it up. But he did, so I loved it, too.
My dad was tough. He smoked hard cigarettes and had drank hard liquor.
He once cleared a bar with a pool cue and spent the night behind bars.
He had fought the Japanese, and he never cried. He lived his life
Without a shirt, his sun-weathered skin, barrel chest, and thick forearms
Nicked and bruised and spotted with “monkey blood.” His bicep sported a
Tattoo of a battleship with the name, Ruby, below. I was
Stupid enough for years to think that was the ship’s name. No matter.
I loved his toughness. Because he was my dad, and he loved me.
He was tough enough to kiss me on the lips and offer his lap
As a seat until I was too big. He called me “booger” and his
Grandkids, “tootie-wumps.” He was tough enough to sing songs like, “I know
A song, ain’t very long, toodle-up, toodle-up, now it’s all gone.”
He was tough enough to spend hours on end playing catch with me.
His toughness came from a hard life. Growing up in the Depression,
Becoming a man at war, and growing old carving sides of beef
As a butcher shapes a man’s perspective. His perspective shaped me.
When I fell down, he’d say “That’ll feel better when it stops hurting.”
He cussed like the sailor he was, using nigger and goddammit
With ease. Church was fine for us, but not for him, and yet none of this
Fazes me. He came from a different era, and he loved me.
He’d offer “a big onion and cup of coffee” as birthday gifts,
But it was no secret that his heart melted for his family.
I still see him with a flip-over baloney sandwich before
Heading outside to do “something.” Undefeated by life. My dad.
AUGUST 29, 2005
The nightmare opens with a piano
Sitting silent on Martin Avenue,
Illumined by flashlight amid darkness
While Katrina sings her sinister tune.
Two flashlights traverse the debris-strewn road
Like a crazy cat with twinkling eyes.
They are policemen courageously searching
For life, though they themselves are traumatized.
Katrina howls her haunting melody,
Over and over she whistles her scales.
A busted gas main hisses harmony,
Their music casting a hypnotic spell.
I begin climbing Destruction Mountain
Stepping on sofas, bedposts, like King Kong.
I shine my light ahead and see tree ghosts,
Bed sheets and clothes dance to Katrina’s song.
The nightmare pauses for intensity,
Leaving unforgettable images:
Hot breath, wind hiss, salt taste, gas smell, tree ghosts,
And a silent piano in darkness.
ONCE SEEN IN EATON, ARKANSAS
Old men in overalls fresh out of church
Sit in the shade as the meal is prepared;
Ladies busy with casserole dishes
And award-winning pies from county fairs.
The children still have on their Sunday clothes,
Now sticky with sweat from a game of chase.
The young men throw an old baseball around
Out by the oak tree that serves as first base.
An aunt goes in search of a cheek to pinch.
An uncle decides to sit for a spell.
The family historian writes down notes.
A cousin plugs a new product for sale.
A new car arrives with out-of-state tags.
Grandmama says, “Look who came after all!”
A tow’l-covered box comes out of the trunk,
Along with a cane so the man won’t fall.
Someone proclaims that it’s time to begin.
Granddaddy gives thanks to the Lord above.
As I bow now I can still remember
Old family reunions. Old family love.
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