j.lewis Verse-Virtual 2019 September

September 2019

Author’s note: I am a Nurse Practitioner, musician of sorts, father and grandfather, photographer, and poet. I used to try to separate all of those identities, but it never worked. They are too tangled, and too interdependent to stand alone. Working with sickness and death has tempered me. Music has helped my memory. Family has been a furnace of affliction and a burning joy that purifies all else. Photography has made me a better observer. And poetry has made me a better recorder of what the other parts of me have experienced. I have published one book of poetry, one chapbook, and have a second full-length book coming out in 2020.

the smell of a well-worn saddle

always unexpected
the sudden rush of memories
tied to some odor from the past

this time it was so out of place
that it took five minutes
before i put the smell
and the event together

i was having grits for breakfast
and they needed a little more
than the packaged butter flavor
so i added a hefty splash
of an obscure brand of hot sauce
a chipotle sort of thing

and stopped stirring because
there was an aroma that didn't fit
not the day, the food, or the room
but it was searching through
random access memories
from more years ago
than i like to count

and there it was
paired with childhood days
at grandpa's ranch
an old horse
and the smell of a saddle
well-worn and warm
being taken off and stored
with the bridle
in the tack room

i finished the grits
because i was hungry
thinking of new mexico and home
but the salsa contradiction was harsh
and overrode my habit
of never tossing out
anything edible

waiting for the last time together

because the human body is not infinite
nor is it immortal, at least not yet
the inevitable is only a question
of timing

perhaps it has already happened
with no way to know it
my father said goodbye and
it was sure nice to see you
wish you were closer
hardly anyone comes to see me
wish my kids were closer
don't see you 'old guys' much
maybe if some were closer...

and maybe he said more
i don't recall because
this was a litany on replay
cued by any break in the long
silence from california
or washington or utah
or anywhere in new mexico
other than where he is

not that any of us mean him disrespect
or would ever think of offending
but life happens for us too
and there is a cost involved
in every visit

it makes me wonder
if the complete lack of loneliness
that i feel about my own sons
and their infrequent contact
is just a way of warding off
talking the way my father does
fencing off a sense of abandonment
and waiting for the last time together

looking for myself

midwinter deep clean of my room
hands me a forgotten ring
silver and turquoise, made by me
i don't remember when
and i think of new mexico
bitter times and sweet

memories tucked away in a recipe
that reminds me how my father
when he was so much younger
loved stacked enchiladas
always with an egg on top
i never knew how much that dish
would come to represent
the me that was, the me that is,
the me that waits to go home

cleaning done, and time to relax
where better than a japanese garden
in california, where i have grown
new roots, and family, and memories
the koi are such a reflection
of my own thoughts, wandering aimlessly
gaping at shapes above the surface
hoping to be fed, then off again
without purpose, but not without beauty

everything turns into a reminder
of what i was, what i am,
what i thought i would be
and i find myself searching
past, present, and future
for a solid place to land
wondering if this is what
people of a certain age
spend their time on
when they realize that time
was never infinite

real world

a puzzling phrase, to be sure
"the real world"
used in every setting
i've ever been in

remember high school
the drama, the trauma
emotions infinitely multiplied
for every trivial thing

"the real world" was waiting
we would automatically enter it
the day after graduation

for some it came
with an illegal hangover
for a few, who should have
been with us, not at all

for others it didn't come,
not in the endless summer
before our college days
not in the tedious courses
mandatory classes
that we sometimes heard
through sleeping ears

it came too soon
for those whose draft numbers
were too low, whose fate
was to die in a real world
of jungles across an ocean
tangles of death and destruction

fifty years on, and still
i hear that tired phrase
people comparing where they are
to where they want to be

and i finally understand
that the real world isn't real
it is an ignorant longing
for something better
than where and what we are
as though our current reality
cannot be believed

Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF