writing about technology, and vice-versa.
for M.B.
A handwritten note I found
that had nothing to do with me
and wasn’t particularly wrenching
or well-enjambed
still startled me
because the handwriting,
the blue lines and charcoal grey
reminded me of days in school
when you would write to me
thinking about me instead of
world geography.
in my dreams I was always walking somewhere
half-aware even in my dreams
I wasn’t walking anywhere
not for the time
being I’d had an accident in one
I stood behind a man speaking
on a podium he was leaning back
against me a heavy
weight a marching band advancing
everyone on their feet a
strange rhythm made musical
by repetition
muffled drums and low brass.
I half-woke hearing the solenoids of
some hospital bedside machine
clacking the music I’d heard.
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
from Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
In the faded Polaroid colors of the early 1970s
he sat quietly eating at the Thanksgiving table.
The guests hadn’t arrived.
My aunt called from the kitchen,
sounding concerned, because he wasn’t –
asking for the third time if he wanted coffee.
“It’ll just keep me awake,” he said.
“I’ll see everyone tomorrow morning.”
There is no dramatic turning to this story,
no subsequent events to make it tragic,
and I doubt anyone else remembers.
I can see clear space at the bottom of my Outlook inbox.
My Task List starts with tomorrow.
My gmail is temporarily cleared of advertisements.
I’m waiting on a reply from my boss on fifteen different matters
of the utmost importance.
He bleats a grey cardboard version of the word of God.
He makes me wish I believed in the kind of Spirit
which strikes men and women with prophecy
or else shuts their mouths to wait for a true saying.
Not the god of committee meetings, an ice-milk
calling no one else heard; a gentleman’s C
In Communications at a community Bible college.
He should have been a farmer.
Maybe then he would have understood
dry days and lightning on the plain,
What it is to work, curse and be cursed,
wrestle with God until your hip pops. He
should read Reynolds Price. He
should weep because he doesn’t understand,
not crow three points about how I don’t.
Jesus.
Sometimes, as with Isak Dinesen,
Raymond Chandler, LBJ, or other famous people,
a casual picture becomes their life-mask –
shown on any book cover, documentary,
or magazine article, their logos.
They may
have been returning from a restaurant
or sitting, waiting for some entertainment
to start when someone produced
the massive picture-taking equipment.
They gamely smiled, or didn’t –
just another day in their typical age.
What if they had known this shot
would become what they were known as,
that others would not recognize them
ten minutes before or hence?
and she’s pretty pissed off.
The vet said something unkind about her weight
and now she’s put out about it every day.
My cat has been put out
and she’s stalking every door,
peering inside as I work from home
or rather, write poetry about it. Continue reading “My Cat Has Been Put Out”
I extremely enjoyed the standard info an individual supply to your guests?
Linda, You have such a wonderful touch with your tropey.
Shame on Google for not positioning this publish upper!
Charles fair enough .no unonis in dell..my mistakebut i wonder what min wage is for dell workers.
I’m guessing he’d need regulated pressure, and a good distribution system.
ireland has been too expensive for a long time now
ireland has been too expensive for a long time now
I extremely enjoyed the standard info an individual supply to your guests?
I’m guessing he’d need regulated pressure, and a good distribution system.
Linda, You have such a wonderful touch with your tropey.
Charles fair enough .no unonis in dell..my mistakebut i wonder what min wage is for dell workers.
Shame on Google for not positioning this publish upper!
I bought a brown felt hat in a western store
wearing it with the sunroof open I
heard birds
the squeaky axle on a truck
smelled grass just cut
felt sunlight in the shade of its brim
a rushing roar, the radio off.
There was a young maid in a shoe
Who didn’t know just what to do.
She went several places
They undid her laces.
And children soon lived in it too!
poetrytech 