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Sylvia Plath  Jun 2009
In Plaster
I shall never get out of this!  There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was:  she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.
KatsaNovari Aug 2014
I am a Forget-Me-Not,
budding into spring.
I am shy in my shady place;
I still wish to dream.
My petals will remain around me,
Until I feel safe.

You've planted me, watched me grow.
You've whispered words of encouragement, promising me I'll be so much more.
I reach out, as far as I can, my feet have taken root into the soil.
My leaves want to reach you, but you've turned away.
My courage falters, I retreat back to security.
Forget-Me-Not.  

You've returned. My heart flutters with joy.
It's okay, I want to tell you. I understand.
I am not the only flower in this bed. Of course you have more.
Many require your attention more than I do.
It'd be selfish of me to consider otherwise.
Just Forget-Me-Not.

I can feel my petals unfurling. Soon I will be beautiful.
But I'm slow.
My brothers and sisters are ahead of me. Why won't I grow?
I want to ask you, but you're so busy. I shan't disturb you. It'd be wrong of me.
I can do it myself, I know I can. They have, why can't I?
Please Leave-Me-Not.

I can feel the taunts now, the humored jeers.
I thought they were funny at first, but now they're spoken too often.
I can no longer deny them.
They came from my fellow peers first, it was all in good fun.
Yet things have changed, and each uttered word is a jab of pain.
Stop. Hurt-Me-Not.

I was one of the first you've sown, yet I have not grown.
I feel the youngest, my siblings tower over me.
I want to join them, to show what I can do.
But my confidence is gone. I wish to hide in their shadow.
If I am not noticed, I cannot be made fun of. I won't be criticized.
I'm still here, Forget-Me-Not.

Tell me the words again. Tell me what I'm capable of.
I need your voice, your reassurance. But I dare not ask.
I am not weak. You've said so yourself. So why am I still a bud?
Can you hear me? Do you see?
In this mass of plants you tend to, in this bed of problems presented, I am buried beneath, my own only my own.
As small as me, but please, Forget-Me-Not.

I'm dying. I thirst, but no water graces my face. It does not soften the soil the petals of my family block.
It's the survival of the fittest, my only chance my silence.
I must stay hidden, not draw attention to myself. But you notice me. Sometimes you do.
Your presence draws me always, it's the only thing I reach for. I'll stretch until I'm nearly pass the other flowers.
Just let me have the sun for five minutes, I implore you. Ignore-Me-Not.

Your smile makes me want to, but then you laugh.
I've made a mistake. I've shown how stupid I could be.
I try. I really do. I try my best, but when I attempt anything, I make things worse.
I cower back to my place, wrapping my petals around me, my only solace.
My siblings stand tall around me, and whether it's honor or arrogance, I wish I had it.
Ask-Me-Not.

Regardless of my shortcomings, I don't blame you. They're my own fault.
Because of them I cannot grow, I hold myself back.
There are times you try to help. You urge me to grow stronger, and I want to oblige.
But you push. You push too hard, too harshly. My instinct is to withdraw into myself,
But I've made you sad. You think I hate you. And that makes me sad, and angry.
I want to tell you: Force-Me-Not.

You have your own difficulties. It's selfish of me to ever think of a bad thought of you. It's not your fault.
I want to help, but your own experiences have made me cautious.
There's no such thing as love. It's always one-sided.
Even as the bees buzz around, I keep myself hidden. No matter how friendly they seem, what promise the wind brings,
I know the truth. I've seen it happen to you. I don't want to endure that heartbreak, that stupidity.
Love-Me-Not.

Despite my own consolation, my own redemption to your faults, I feel the anger burn within me.
Always the nagging inside my head, the jab of rage when I can't do something right.
Your words always echoing in my mind: You're grown. You're not stupid. Figure it out. I know you can.
Then why can't I ******* do it?! What am I doing wrong?!
I need you to teach me; my teacher, my sensei. You've taught every single one of them. What about me?
Remember-Me-Not?

Each time I think you'll turn to me, each time I feel that you care,
Your attention averts elsewhere. Always someone before me, always someone else who needs you.
Like someone cheated, I am plagued by jealousy. I disgust myself with my petty emotions,
What right do I have? What do I have that makes me more important?
But would it **** to have five minutes where I'm the center of attention?
Hear-Me-Not?

It's a battle inside,
Logic against Pride.
I feel alone,
Though I know I'm not.
Do you see me in this garden
You've reaped and sown?
Can you hear my voice over your own?
Take on the world, I know you're able.
But do not forget what's beneath your feet,
I am not a fable.
In this unbearable heat,
I am still here.

Tend to your children, to those brokenhearted. To the confused and betrodden you save.
Those with no home find it within you. But don't I live here too?
Save,
Give,
Provide,
Love,
Care...
Do all of these things, give it all you've got.
But please... Please....
Forget-Me-Not.
First poem I'm putting on here due to a suggestion from someone I know. She encouraged me to join this site, so I'm a little new, but hopefully not for long!
Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
There was a house fire on my street last night …well… not exactly my street, but on a little, sketchy, dead-end strip of asphalt, sidewalks, weeds, and garbage that juts into my block two houses down. It was on that street. Rosewood Court, population: 12, adjusted population: 11, characterized by anonymity and boarded windows, peppered with the swift movements of fat street rats. I’ve never been that close to a real, high-energy, make-sure-to-spray-down-your-roof-with-a-hose-so-it-doesn’t-catch­ fire before. It was the least of my expectations for the evening, though I didn’t expect a crate of Peruvian bananas to fall off a cargo plane either, punching through the ceiling, littering the parking lot with damaged fruit and shingles, tearing paintings and shelves and studs from the third floor walls, and crashing into our kitchen, shattering dishes and cabinets and appliances. Since that never happened, and since neither the former nor the latter situation even crossed my mind, I’ll stick with “least of my expectations,” and bundle up with it inside that inadequate phrase whatever else may have happened that I wouldn’t have expected.



I had been reading in my living room, absently petting the long calico fur of my roommate’s cat Dory. She’s in heat, and does her best to make sure everyone knows it, parading around, *** in the air, an opera of low trilling and loud meows and deep purring. As a consequence of a steady tide of feline hormones, she’s been excessively good humored, showering me with affection, instead of her usual indifference, punctuated by occasional, self-serving shin rubs when she’s hungry. I saw the lights before I heard the trucks or the shouts of firemen or the panicked wail of sirens, spitting their warning into the night in A or A minor, but probably neither, I’m no musician. Besides, Congratulations was playing loud, flowing through the speakers in the corners of the room, connected to the record player via the receiver with the broken volume control, travelling as excited electrons down stretches of wire that are, realistically, too short, and always pull out. The song was filling the space between the speakers and the space between my ears with musings on Brian Eno, so the auditory signal that should have informed me of the trouble that was afoot was blocked out. I saw the lights, the alternating reds and whites that filled my living room, drawing shifting patterns on my walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and shelves of books, dragging me towards the door leading outside, through the cluttered bike room, past the sleeping, black lump of oblivious fur that is usually my boisterous male kitten, and out into the bedlam I  had previously been ignorant to. I could see the smoke, it was white then gray then white, all the while lending an acrid taste to the air, but I couldn’t see where it was issuing from. The wind was blowing the smoke toward my apartment, away from Empire Mills. I tried to count the firetrucks, but there were so many. I counted six on Wilmarth Ave, one of which was the awkward-looking, heavy-duty special hazards truck. In my part of the city, the post-industrial third-wave ***** river valley, you never know if the grease fire that started with homefries in a frying pan in an old woman’s kitchen will escalate into a full-blown mill fire, the century-old wood floors so saturated with oil and kerosene and ****** and manufacturing chemicals and ghosts and god knows what other flammable **** that it lights up like a fifth of July leftover sparkler, burning and melting the hand of the community that fed it for so many decades, leaving scars that are displayed on the local news for a week and are forgotten in a few years’ time.



The night was windy, and the day had been dry, so precautions were abundant, and I counted two more trucks on Fones Ave. One had the biggest ladder I’ve ever seen. It was parked on the corner of Fones and Wilmarth, directly across from the entrance into the forgotten dead-end where the forgotten house was burning, and the ladder was lifting into the air. By now my two roommates had come outside too, to stand on our rickety, wooden staircase, and Jeff said he could see flames in the windows of one of the three abandoned houses on Rosewood, through the third floor holes where windows once were, where boards of plywood were deemed unnecessary.



“Ay! Daddy!”



My neighbor John called up to us. He serves as the eyes and ears and certainly the mouth of our block, always in everyone’s business, without being too intrusive, always aware of what’s going down and who’s involved. He proceeded to tell us the lowdown on the blaze as far as he knew it, that there were two more firetrucks and an ambulance down Rosewood, that the front and back doors to the house were blocked by something from inside, that those somethings were very heavy, that someone was screaming inside, that the fire was growing.



Val had gone inside to get his jacket, because despite the floodlights from the trucks imitating sunlight, the wind and the low temperature and the thought of a person burning alive made the night chilly. Val thought we should go around the block, to see if we could get a better view, to satisfy our congenital need to witness disaster, to see the passenger car flip over the Jersey barrier, to watch the videos of Jihadist beheadings, to stand in line to look at painted corpses in velvet, underlit parlors, and sit in silence while their family members cry. We walked down the stairs, into full floodlight, and there were first responders and police and fully equipped firefighters moving in all directions. We watched two firemen attempting to open an old, rusty fire hydrant, and it could’ve been inexperience, the stress of the situation, the condition of the hydrant, or just poor luck, but rather than opening as it was supposed to the hydrant burst open, sending the cap flying into the side of a firetruck, the water crashing into the younger of the two men’s face and torso, knocking him back on his ***. While he coughed out surprised air and water and a flood of expletives, his partner got the situation under control and got the hose attached. We turned and walked away from the fire, and as we approached the turn we’d take to cut through the rundown parking lot that would bring us to the other side of the block, two firemen hurried past, one leading the other, carrying between them a stretcher full of machines for monitoring and a shitload of wires and tubing. It was the stiff board-like kind, with handles on each end, the kind of stretcher you might expect to see circus clowns carry out, when it’s time to save their fallen, pie-faced cohort. I wondered why they were using this archaic form of patient transportation, and not one of the padded, electrical ones on wheels. We pushed past the crowd that had begun forming, walked past the Laundromat, the 7Eleven, the carwash, and took a left onto the street on the other side of the parking lot, parallel to Wilmarth. There were several older men standing on the sidewalk, facing the fire, hands either in pockets or bringing a cigarette to and from a frowning mouth. They were standing in the ideal place to witness the action, with an unobstructed view of the top two floors of the burning house, its upper windows glowing orange with internal light and vomiting putrid smoke.  We could taste the burning wires, the rugs, the insulation, the asbestos, the black mold, the trash, and the smell was so strong I had to cover my mouth with my shirt, though it provided little relief. We said hello, they grunted the same, and we all stood, watching, thinking about what we were seeing, not wanting to see what we were thinking.

Two firefighters were on the roof by this point, they were yelling to each other and to the others on the ground, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the sirens from all the emergency vehicles that were arriving.  It seemed to me they sent every firetruck in the city, as well as more than a dozen police cars and a slew of ambulances, all of them arriving from every direction. I guess they expected the fire to get really out of hand, but we could already see the orange glow withdrawing into the dark of the house, steam and smoke rippling out of the stretched, wooden mouths of the rotted window frames. In a gruff, habitual smoker’s voice, we heard

                                      “Chopper called the fire depahtment

We was over at the vet’s home

                He says he saw flames in the windas

                                                                                                                                                We all thought he was shittin’ us

We couldn’t see nothin’.”

A man between fifty-five to sixty-five years old was speaking, no hair on his shiny, tanned head, old tattoos etched in bluish gray on his hands, arms, and neck, menthol smoke rising from between timeworn fingers. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drew a hearty chest full of smoke, and as he let it out he repeated

                                                “Yea, chopper called em’

Says he saw flames.”

The men on the roof were just silhouettes, backlit by the dazzling brightness of the lights on the other side.  The figure to the left of the roof pulled something large up into view, and we knew instantly by the cord pull and the sound that it was a chainsaw. He began cutting directly into the roof. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, wondered if he was scared of falling into the fire, assumed he probably was, but had at least done this before, tried to figure out if he was doing it to gain entry or release pressure or whatever. The man to the right was hacking away at the roof with an axe. It was surreal to watch, to see two men transformed from public servants into fingers of destruction, the pinkie and ring finger fighting the powerful thumb of the controlled chemical reaction eating the air below them, to watch the dark figures shrouded in ethereal light and smoke and sawdust and what must’ve been unbearable heat from below, to be viewing everything with my own home, my belongings, still visible, to know it could easily have gone up in flames as well.

I should’ve brought my jacket. I remember complaining about it, about how the wind was passing through my skin like a window screen, chilling my blood, in sharp contrast to the heat that was morphing and rippling the air above the house as it disappeared as smoke and gas up into the atmosphere from the inside out.

Ten minutes later, or maybe five, or maybe one, the men on the roof were still working diligently cutting and chopping, but we could no longer see any signs of flames, and there were figures moving around in the house, visible in the windows of the upper floors, despite the smoke. Figuring the action must be reaching its end, we decided to walk back to our apartment. We saw Ken’s brown pickup truck parked next to the Laundromat, unable to reach our parking lot due to all the emergency vehicles and people clogging our street. We came around the corner and saw the other two members of the Infamous Summers standing next to our building with the rest of the crowd that had gathered. Dosin told us the fire was out, and that they had pulled someone from inside the gutted house, but no ambulance had left yet, and his normally smiling face was flat and somber, and the beaten guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his messed up hair, and the red in his cheeks from the cold air, and the way he was moving rocks around with the toe of his shoe made him look like a lost child, chasing a dream far from home but finding a nightmare in its place, instead of the professional who never loses his cool or his direction.

The crowd all began talking at once, so I turned around, towards the dead end and the group of firefighters and EMTs that were emerging. Their faces were stoic, not a single expression on all but one of those faces, a young EMT, probably a Basic, or a Cardiac, or neither, but no older than twenty, who was silently weeping, the tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks, his eyes empty of emotion, his lips drawn tight and still. Four of them were each holding a corner of the maroon stretcher that took two to carry when I first saw it, full of equipment. They did not rush, they did not appear to be tending to a person barely holding onto life, they were just carrying the weight. As they got close gasps and cries of horror or disgust or both issued from the crowd, some turned away, some expressions didn’t change, some eyes closed and others stayed fixed on what they came to see. One woman vomited, right there on the sidewalk, splashing the shoes of those near her with the partially digested remains of her EBT dinner. I felt my own stomach start to turn, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

                                                                                It was like I was seven again,

                                in the alleyway running along the side of the junior high school I lived near and would eventually attend,

looking in silent horror at what three eighth graders from my neighborhood were doing.

It was about eight in the evening of a rainy,

late summer day,

and I was walking home with my older brother,

cutting through the alley like we always did.

The three older boys were standing over a small dog,

a terrier of some sort.

They had duct taped its mouth shut and its legs together,

but we could still hear its terrified whines through its clenched teeth.

One of the boys had cut off the dog’s tail.

He had it in one hand,

and was still holding the pocket knife in the other.

None of them were smiling,

or talking,

nor did they take notice of Andrew and I.

There was a garden bag standing up next to them that looked pretty full,

and there was a small pile of leaves on the ground next to it.

In slow motion I watched,

horrified,

as one of the boys,

Brian Jones-Hartlett,

picked up the shaking animal,

put it in the bag,

covered it with the leaves from the ground,

and with wide,

shining eyes,

set the bag

on fire

with a long-necked

candle

lighter.

It was too much for me then. I couldn’t control my nausea. I threw up and sat down while my head swam.

I couldn’t understand. I forgot my brother and the fact that he was older, that he should stop this,

Stop them,

There’s a dog in there,

You’re older, I’m sick,

Why can’t I stop them?

It was like
Chloe Sayre Jan 2013
Elephant
Wise, good-humored
Loving, playing, existing
Teach me your ways
Larger-than-life
Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.


And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.


It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.


Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...
JB  Mar 2015
Hawaii
JB Mar 2015
Karaoke night on Tuesdays was, until recently,
My only release
The half-hour drive across Lake Ponchartrain
And into New Orleans
Has become at least a weekly ritual for me
Last time I went, I saw a friend there
One who I made a few months earlier

I sang a song, and then sat down to talk to her
Catching most of what she said, but not all
My mind wanders as it always does

Somehow we start talking about dating
And soon I'm planning with her a trip to Baton Rouge
To meet her single friend
Asking her to be my "wing-woman"

But then I realize she is a little incoherent
And I have to repeat things to her, and she seems confused
She says, "They made my drink a little too strong"
And soon she is in a drunken haze
A few tears come down her face, and I sit silently for a minute
Unsure of how to comfort her
I ask if she needs to step outside; she nods

She follows me out the door, arm in mine
I slowly move outside, making sure she doesn't trip
And then we sit, and she cries
And soon I find out she is mourning the distance between
Herself and her boyfriend

I tell her about my closest experience with a long-distance relationship
About my Brazilian friend who could've been more
But then she moved, and we fell out of touch
This friend seems humored through her tears at the story

"She moved to Hawaii?" she says. "Yeah", I reply.

"Hawaii?"

I nod. We talk some more, our conversation moving into
Our mutual love of stargazing
She looks up at the cloudy sky and mentions the light pollution
And the lack of stars in New Orleans

"Hawaii?"

I tell her about the stars across the lake, where I live
And how, far enough north, you can see all the stars on a clear night
And then the DJ for the night calls her up to sing
And we go back in, into the loudness and enclosed chaos of the bar

She sings, nervous, stumbling through the songs and holding onto
The stripper pole in the middle of the little stage
She finishes the song, steps down, and we go back outside
And we sit down and talk a little while

"Hawaii?"

An acquaintance comes out and says he ordered onion rings for us
I ask if she needs a ride home, even though I work the next day
And she does too
The acquaintance says he can give her a ride
Since he's unemployed for the time being
So we go back inside and wait for our onion rings

I get my acquaintance's phone number, and ask him to text me
When he gets her home
And then I tell her to text me the next morning
To let me know she made it to work alright
She says she will

On my way back home, the acquaintance texts me: "She's home."
And the next day, at work, I get a text from my friend
Thanking me for listening to her
I replied back that it was no problem
And then I go back to finishing my closing shift
Bitter Heartache May 2014
How do you do it?
Make my heart beat so?
A rhythmic thump-thump,
speeding and reckless at the thought of you.

You dance in my mind
playing in my memories,
The simple things,
seem like so much.

Remember when you offered my a bite of your food?
I refused;
but what if I hadn't;
would we laugh,
and look into each others eyes.

Remember the time you touched my face?
Almost an accident. Almost.
I wish your hands had grabbed my face and pulled my lips into yours,
but your fingers only grazed my cheek.

Remember when you tried to teach me your job?
I watch your hands shape the pizza dough,
stretching and rotating it.
I have never wanted to be a ball of dough more in my life.

Remember all the laughs we've shared?
I wish I could feel those laughs in your chest.
I want to be the air in your lungs.
Breathe me in and out again.
Hold me in an air bag, and breathe each laugh.
Save those breaths,
and the beautiful fog they make.
Save them for me,
years later I will open the bag and release them.
Only a memory of the person they once belonged to.
A shadow of the life they once sustained
But it is enough.
They kept you alive, and humored me.
And I only wish they could breathe for me.
Into me.
All around me.
Give me life.
Give me existence.
Press your mouth into mine and breathe.
Pump my lungs,
and awaken me.
Save my life with your breath.
Your laugh,
brings me life.
Your laugh,
is all I need.
JLB  Jan 2012
All Right, Alright?
JLB Jan 2012
I hadn't heard from you in a while, so last night I humored the notion of you, intrigued.
You asked me how I was, high off your *** on Vicodin.
Drunk off my *** on red wine, I admitted I wasn't doing
So well.

So, well,
We spoke for a while, and I admitted a lot of
****.

Well, ****.
More than you bargained for,
I'm sure.

So sure,
You called me out on my mistakes like you always have:
Telling me that I was far too lovely,
To be so ******* lonely
That I would waste such a beautiful side of myself,
In so willingly giving so much of myself
Away.


And in a way,
I know that you're
right;

And I can't just pretend I'm
alright.

I need to buck up and make all things
right.

Holy ****, what a night.
g clair Mar 2014
have you ever felt shot into space
with nothing to hold to without any trace
of the one who was always around
who could laugh really hard and without any sound

and you fear that someday he will see
that you're mind is a strange one indeed, yet it's free!
to be up in the air and then down
hear that music that plays like a carnival sound

and it's something that's deep in your soul
from the day you first met he's been making you whole
cause he won't let you feel afraid,
fix you up when you're ****** and knows his first aid

Five of us kids to take care of
and all within seven short years
Leno then Beano then Bonzo then Labo then Damo
all laughter and tears.

It seems that we share the same feelings
about our ol' dad, and it's said
much better to share them while we are alive
than to wait until after we're dead.
  
and so I will write about Daddy
and because I am long with my word
my poems I will say can go on for a day,
and a night or so that's what I've heard.

To Tony, Loretta would cater
she cooked for the man who would date her
they married and so, and what do you know
three children would come along later.

Born October two four, nineteen hundred
and twenty eighth year of our Lord
at home, the first child of Tony and Rhetts
baby Vinny, was cut from the cord.

This sweet little Vincent Morrone
raised up in by my Nonna and Tony
quickly stuck in his ways, from the start of his days
and could size up the truth from a phony.

He grew up in old Jersey City
where he polished the width of his witty
had a sister named Claire who remembers him there
dear old dad, handsome lad, and she's pretty.

Their brother was born sometime later
our sweet uncle Jerry Morrone
Handsome and good and well liked in the hood
got those genes and that same funny bone.

 After Highschool, staff sergeant in Air Force
guiding take offs and landings, his post
Four years of St Pete, put him smart on the street  
and he left for the likes of our coast.

He was offered a job down in Jackson
elementary dear Watson, it's said
he would fall for another young teacher, a screecher
whose sassiness got to his head

He married our mother, that's Jacquie
they really were some kind of a pair
she knew he was smart, liked his looks and his heart
and respected the good that was there.

So five days a week Dad would teach
and he liked those nine months of the year
but he lived for the summers at Jenkinson's beach
where that salt water pool was so clear.

in a torn old white sweatshirt and plaid shorts
he was sharing a Bud at the fence
loved his mower and pool, and that backyard was cool
much more like a park, you would sense.

we know how he hated the gurlic
and that onions would just make him hurlick
my mother would never use any such thing
he could drive her to sing like Steve Urlick.
( did I do that?)

No qualms about eating cold hotdogs
and cheddar in chunks from red foil
liked his eggplant cut thin, and his gravy could win
a blue ribbon, the secret? No spoil!!

Could deliver a joke like Bob Newhart
or a pun just for fun was sublime
he was always aware, but for crowds, didn't care
unless it was harmony time.

Best one on one at a party
but the life when it came to his cracks
made small talk okay, but preferred just to stay
to the side and be watching the acts.

Old Spice and that weekender stubble
did his thing and his speaking was soft
he was never a man to cause trouble
but he'd tell you when something was off.

McDonalds and corn on the cob
smoked a pipe, did not curse, and was never a slob
though I know he was not always neat
he was clean, never smelled, never spit in the street.

taught us never to take wooden nickels
and he loved a fresh jar of those kosher dill pickels
drove a large Orange bug in the day
with a driver side  SPEBSQSA

he wiped off my face with his thumb
that he'd lick first to clear away jelly and crumb
and he'd always be there in a pinch
if I needed his help, he was there, not a Grinch!

He was always the Good Humored one
bought us Ice cream and took us to places for fun
an occasional "word to the wise
you've cashed in your chips
and don't hand me your lies."

and the one who would walk me not once
but twice down the aisle of heartache and gloom
as a wife I have failed, a dunce
yet dismissing that elephant out of the room.

and tried not to laugh at my lot
at my barrenness, troubles and all of that snot
took me back to this place for some peace
never charged me a dime, not a landlord with lease
but a man with the mercy he knows
he understood sometimes that's just how life goes

and suddenly everything's changed
I am fifty two times around, feeling deranged
and it's not because I need a crutch
feeling lost in this world  
which I've lived in and such

but that I have been shot into space
having lost what I loved, it's my dad's loving face
and I'm here in the house that he bought
it's the one where we loved and the one where
we fought

and I cried here at length at the table
feeling shot into space, as if I am unable
to cope with the loss of my dad,
with the loss of his smile  and the voice that he had

and the place that he had in my life
in my heart....in my head...in my mind...So I climbed
to room where my dear daddy slept
and I laid on that bed and I wept and I wept
feeling shot into space I recalled that man's face
and I reached for the  tissues he kept in that place

and in one second flat, as I blew
from the nose of his likeness,  I knew and it's true
I was beamed back from space
into someone's embrace
and believe me, as if my dad knew...

For my father was known to be punny
always quick with the wit, such a honey
he would tell me to write, for it was his delight
that his children were his kind of funny.

I am never to think I am odder
for I am what I am, my dad's daughter
I hear distant strumming and now my dad humming
the theme song from Welcome Back Kotter.

http://youtu.be/5VlGyMG0ksg
My dad was a teacher and enjoyed music, jokes, puns, crow sounds, barbershop harmony, golfing, wearing certain colors which made him look good,  his own family, grandchildren, crossword puzzles. spy novels, movies. hotdogs, eggplant parm, radio talk shows, good food at the same restaurant, the Chapter House. Singing Barbershop harmony a tear jerker song or movie, peace and quiet. mowing the lawn and working in the yard, his car, a little whiskey sour or a cold Bud in the summer. BBQ out back. Football. Baseball. Ice cream. root beer floats. smoked a pipe ( the smell of sweet pipe tobacco still reminds me), applesauce with cinnamon , apricot jam, my cookies.  etc.
Tim Isabella Nov 2015
Depression is an ugly Christmas sweater your mother bought you, but you never want to wear, but never want to get rid of, either.  It's not her fault, as much as you tend to blame her for it. It's not anyone's fault, really, but *******, that thing is just ******* atrocious and not very-well humored. You do your best to keep it buried and hidden, no one can know that you have it, it's an embarrassment and now, because of it, so are you. It'll be in the back of your mind, in the back of your drawers, the whole time. Any time someone mentions Christmas, you'll rub the back of your head 'cause it'll come to mind, and flood with it hundreds of other terrible memories. Almost everyone has one. Those that do, understand the importance and the significance of it, but those that don't, will always look at you funny. Wonder what the hell you're doing. Set that Christmas sweater on fire while you're still wearing it. Act casual. This is normal. Everyone stops and stares, but no one offers or tries to help you. Soon you realize that it's no one's job to. The only person in the room with a fire extinguisher is you. Are you gonna put it out? Or are you gonna let the whole house burn down? Suddenly the flames are out, and no one noticed them but you. Funny, the sweater is just fine. You can burn it, stain it, cut it, slash it, destroy it in any way you can think of, but it will still be just fine. Everything will be just fine. Tell yourself "everything will be just fine." Tell everyone around you "Everything will be just fine" This sweater will make you a liar, but even when, and especially when, you don't believe it, tell everyone that everything will be just fine, because it has to be. They can't worry about you. You want them to more than anything, but you can't let them know they should be worried. They should already know. They should already know. When they ask you "what's wrong" or "why the long face," you honest *******, you lie to them. You lie to their face. You look up and you tell them "Don't worry, everything's just fine. Can I have some more eggnog?"
JJ Hutton Jun 2010
the thick frames surrounding
my prescription perspective,
are the curtains to the ceaseless show.


the same charade everyday.


it's a 4-15 minute drive from my apartment to the campus.
4 minutes if the dark-humored, aliens that control stoplights are kind,
15 if they are looking for a laugh.


my feet hit parking concrete outside of classrooms.
it's rhythmic yet mundane.
but it's a game we all play.


i fall into line, the slow parade of apathy,
that leads us to lectures each day.


the professors project views of wicked youth,
we like white, pull-down sheets,
sport whatever image they insist,
so easily.


it's branded boys
and
tanning bed-inspired girls.
it's blind acceptance and
weightless regret.


i want to change lenses.
pull the curtain,
and start all over again.
Copyright 2010 by Joshua J. Hutton

— The End —