September 2024
Bio Note: I have been writing poetry all my life, I am now retired and think of poetry as hobo art. I love storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. I’ve had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and have a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. My office houses 500 books and there are about 500 poems in a folder on a laptop. These words tend to keep me straight.
In the Corners
Retired is a routine,
no mark to hit on stage,
no lines to rehearse, just get up,
make the coffee, stay hidden,
hang in the corner backstage,
occasionally audition for a part
you know you won’t get.
If lucky you’re hanging
with a Sundance or a soul mate,
the corners can be electric,
when you get to the Kuerig
you make two and it feels good.
You don’t have to perform,
you know you are the lead.
But what of the empty corners,
silent theatres, an occasional mouse
or cockroach rushes by,
the only conversations are soliloquys
to no applause, to be is not to be.
The treadmill of alone is stifling,
the only part, meaningless.
I contacted an organization that -
Takes poetry to underprivileged children -
offered to do readings, teach someone to write.
The director said, “we don’t
have volunteers do that anymore.”
I went back to the corner,
to mull over my mission statement.
Marooned
I am surrounded by indifference,
my island is a condo. I travel daily in my raft,
the Accord, some days to the horizon,
amid waves of mindless shopping, drinking,
walking to nowhere, words like bait fish
everywhere slithering thru the day.
Yesterdays, todays are x-ed off the calendar,
I’ve been here years, there is no reason
to get up, lie down, there is only
the sea of apathy to swim in,
an uncaring sun, to dehydrate me,
darken me, deeper than I am.
A Friday will come, may come,
perhaps escaping slave traders, sexually attituded,
attractive with small breasts, enjoys my cooking
speaks the same language - at this point,
a Thursday with long hair, any color,
a handhold, a bump-into, a wink, a glimpse.
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