daily one looks and looks
to find the daily poem
so judiciously chosen
for the daily poem's nook

unsuccessful
one's search has been
it's as though
the daily poem
has just sauntered off
the computer's screen

one's radar finder
cannot seem to reel
the daily poem in
nor catch a trace
of its keeping tin

no way you could know that
I have driven US 80, when
the Pennsylvania Turnpike
was considered a legitimate deathtrap,
and 80 was a god-send

shuttling back and forth tween
Cleveland (o/k/a The  Burning River City) and NYC,
in the crappiest weather man
could just about tolerate,
and 84 was just an
incomplete dream then,
so we one day,
could skip that idlewild,
Passaic, New Jersey,
back in '69

indeed the Pocono deer that
came through the windshield,
luckily, legs first,
after smashing the radiator,
that I dragged by hooves
to the side of the road,
still well recall, for that
was the first time I touched a
living thing dying in my hands

when I broke my arm in
Tannersville one summer night,
they drove me to the big city,
Scranton,
woo hoo,
cause the break was bad ,
they need to operate,
so they left me there,
w/o any anesthetic,
in the hallway(!) till morn
and a "see ya later kid,"
how they did things in a tough place
known as central Penna.,
which now I think of
semi-fondly as the place where
a piece of me was left buried
and I am still alive to swell tell

but people were tougher back then,
even me, a city 13 year old boy,
cause I had dreams of  girls,
wonderful girls, who had powers in their bodies
that could do things to me in the Poconos forests,
that were unthinkable (for them) after crossing
over the Hudson River,
and that was plenty
anesthetizing

so dem my bona fides,

and Now I Will Write
just another overdue thank you
for Balise, who writes
with a coolest heated blazing detachment,
and then at the very end,
IN ALL CAPS,
smacks you on the head
via the heart

writin'  
of
this n' that,
Mass and men,
worshipping a river called the Lackawanna,
the bleakness of a not quite grimy poverty,
(I worked in  Republic Steel warehouse)
that made grey a bright color,
and the sun was invisible from October to May,
in a world where people PROUDLY,
clung to their guns and religion,
(you arrogant out of touch Harvardian snob,
Mr. Obama prima donna),
you had to see it to believe it

of
herons and beer cans,
of parents and pain,
so exquisitely,
that I would gladly
drive to Tannersville again,
right now,
if I could, if I could,
yet learn that skill under her tutelage,
which by the by, is why some call me
still crazy, still crazy, after all those years,
crazy from a balise,
a wintry blizzard heating the readers eyes, and
who reads my footnotes
and thus
only this woman,
knows, better than she ever realized,
where his undulatin' poems come from...

Walking down a wooded path
tall flowing trees all around,
I came upon the river’s edge
and sat down on the ground.

Sitting at the edge of the river
I stare at its ongoing flow,
I start to give it all my pain
a release with each little throw.

My hardest pain is fear
that I’ve had from so long ago,
of never feeling good enough
that’s dulled my inner glow.

It eats at me like a cancer
each and every day,
the fear of never being good enough
and again being thrown away.

Years of disappointment and abuse
only being property, nothing to love,
but always trying to make things right
so everyone else could rise above.

I throw this fear out into the river
sit back and watch it pass slowly by,
I wrap my arms around myself
feel the release, let myself cry.

I throw out all the other pains
betrayal, heartache, loneliness and more,
I watch them drift gently way
these last tears will be left on this river shore.

Noticing as each and every pain
slowly floats down the river away,
I observe at a distance
as they fade into the suns sparkling rays.

Walking down a wooded path
tall flowing trees all around,
I came upon the river’s edge
and was surprised at what I found.*
~
© 2017 Brianna Love/SA/DBMA

Mary Winslow and I have just published a book of our poetry.  It's called Dea Tacita and is available on Amazon.com.  My email address is jeffardster@gmail.com if you want to send praise.  If it's not praise, the addess to use is deadendmail.com.   :)