July 2016
I am an Associate Professor of English at Erie Community College North in Buffalo, N.Y. I have 5 books, 2 chapbooks, and 1 CD of poetry. I am married to Maria Sebastian, a well-known singer/songwriter, and we perform our poetry and music together at many venues in the WNY area. For more information please visit my website: www.perrynicholas.com
Memento
Ripples on the azure pond slowing,
no ducks surface to sneak a look.
A blank page with no scribbles, stuffed
between bench slats, where you visit now.
I wonder how long before someone
settles there with you. Will you explain
how special we were, more so
than any of these sparkling nights?
I wish you hadn’t witnessed my reflection,
hobbling off toward the finish—
I had hoped to appear upright
during the final months of our meet.
A majestic moment, when you agreed
to marry our lives. Bluest, tinted later
when you said you were never sure. Still,
here is my pond, your smooth inheritance.
Conquering the Steps
Philadelphia Museum of Art, 2016
I place my right hand
on your left shoulder,
rely on youth to guide me
up this endless mountain.
I start slow, a beginning, imagining
schoolyards and all the time spent
as a boy in the corner with a book.
At the start, son.
Composing my next long poem,
I try to focus on the climb,
mumbling up the concrete
about how family seemed
so important then, but disappeared
without consequence. Almost
to the middle, mother.
Faking it, father, on my way
to understanding a man
is a complex being, who weakens
even as he manages to seem strong.
You started over again and again;
I can’t turn back now.
Hotter and hotter, I’m nearing
the top. College no matter,
degrees don’t count much,
love, if you’re lucky enough,
waits at the bottom of the steps.
No time for a break, baby.
My sun is sinking, dear,
and visions are blurring.
I struggle like a shadow
up a large, rocky hill.
I’m slipping on memories.
My sky getting dark, daughter.
The King of Comfort
I finally dreamed of you last night, father,
standing in front of Union Hall,
tapping a fresh pack of cigarettes
on your palm, patient and smiling.
You were in your comfort zone--
workers circling like subjects
around royalty, eyes upward
waiting to be told what to do.
I often wonder if you wanted
to remain a commoner, not forced
to become a king, family in tow,
from the time you wore short pants.
In the dream I had last night,
no one dared speak unless spoken to,
question your confidence and cool,
you who willed open the heavy, wooden doors.
Ripples on the azure pond slowing,
no ducks surface to sneak a look.
A blank page with no scribbles, stuffed
between bench slats, where you visit now.
I wonder how long before someone
settles there with you. Will you explain
how special we were, more so
than any of these sparkling nights?
I wish you hadn’t witnessed my reflection,
hobbling off toward the finish—
I had hoped to appear upright
during the final months of our meet.
A majestic moment, when you agreed
to marry our lives. Bluest, tinted later
when you said you were never sure. Still,
here is my pond, your smooth inheritance.
Conquering the Steps
Philadelphia Museum of Art, 2016
I place my right hand
on your left shoulder,
rely on youth to guide me
up this endless mountain.
I start slow, a beginning, imagining
schoolyards and all the time spent
as a boy in the corner with a book.
At the start, son.
Composing my next long poem,
I try to focus on the climb,
mumbling up the concrete
about how family seemed
so important then, but disappeared
without consequence. Almost
to the middle, mother.
Faking it, father, on my way
to understanding a man
is a complex being, who weakens
even as he manages to seem strong.
You started over again and again;
I can’t turn back now.
Hotter and hotter, I’m nearing
the top. College no matter,
degrees don’t count much,
love, if you’re lucky enough,
waits at the bottom of the steps.
No time for a break, baby.
My sun is sinking, dear,
and visions are blurring.
I struggle like a shadow
up a large, rocky hill.
I’m slipping on memories.
My sky getting dark, daughter.
The King of Comfort
I finally dreamed of you last night, father,
standing in front of Union Hall,
tapping a fresh pack of cigarettes
on your palm, patient and smiling.
You were in your comfort zone--
workers circling like subjects
around royalty, eyes upward
waiting to be told what to do.
I often wonder if you wanted
to remain a commoner, not forced
to become a king, family in tow,
from the time you wore short pants.
In the dream I had last night,
no one dared speak unless spoken to,
question your confidence and cool,
you who willed open the heavy, wooden doors.
©2016 Perry S. Nicholas