LD Goodwin

LD Goodwin May 2013

I could see all neith the flowing dress she wore,
though the moon played its tricks on my eyes that night.
Curled red hair flowing like waves upon the shore,
yet could not hide her fairie wings from my sight.
All night I lay with her on the woodland floor.
We laughed and loved, though she was gone come daylight.
And each night since I've gone to the wood to find,
naught but a fairie ring did she leave behind.

*Ottava Rima: Italian stanza form composed of eight 11-syllable lines, rhyming abababcc. It originated in the late 13th and early 14th centuries and was developed by Tuscan poets for religious verse and drama and in troubadour songs.

Harrogate, TN May 2013

LD Goodwin May 2013

for Mollie (a Trochee)

A sadness in my heart tonight
must be told, then dim that light.
To never see its face again,
and feel the pain that eats within.

A tragedy befell, you see,
and stormy nights still torture me.
She fell and died while in my keep,
and now it haunts my every sleep.

Her face so blank and eyes opaque,
my heart fell hard, and then to ache.
No turning back what time hath wrought,
my constant conscience battles fought.

A fear of storms was Mollie's fate,
the night was dark, the hour late.
As thunder rumbled in her chest,
and her heart pounded in her breast.

To run and hide, but never from
the storm that was about to come.
She climbed atop a place to see,
what made this horror, what could it be.

But leashes length, a noose had made.
Fell to her death, no more afraid.
I found her hanging from the chair,
part of my soul still hanging there.

For simple errors can take a life,
trip up the stairs, slip of the knife.
I put the wrong leash on that night,
it strangled her, I took her life.

*Forgive me my fellow poets for this unintentionally dark poem. The tragedy happened a year ago and I am still trying to find some closure. Mollie was a little mixed dog that I was fostering for a local shelter. She was kind and playful, but deathly afraid of storms

Harrogate, TN May 2013

LD Goodwin May 2013

a Nonet for Rebecca

Of friends I haven't many you see.
Most don't take the time to know me.
But one reads me like a book,
and keeps me in her nook.
I feel her old soul,
diamond from coal,
let's me be
me for
me.

*A little gift for Rebecca Askew one of my favorites here on HP
A Nonet is a nine line poem, with the first line containing nine syllables, the next eight, so on until the last line has one syllable. Nonets can be written about any subject, and rhyming is optional.

Harrogate, TN May 2013

LD Goodwin May 2013

Funky Vibe

She gave me that funky vibe,
left over from her dysfunctional tribe.
You see that's how things are done,
when you are not the only one.

But I come from a different place,
Mama would just slap my face,
So how are we to coexist,
both checking off a different list?

Harrogate, TN May 2013

LD Goodwin May 2013

Take Five

The left hand works the bass,
and the right, the treble lead.
Contrapuntal melodies
for piano, bass, and reed.

Drummer sets the groove,
from the numbers on the page.
No one knows why they dig it,
when Brubeck hits the stage.

Where the one? Asks the guitarist.
Just close your eyes and play.
One, will come around
later in the day.

Over 60 years of coolness,
his timing was the rage.
We'd count it out and all take five,
when Brubeck hit the stage.

*2/4, 3/4, 4/4, 5/4, 6/4, 6/8, 7/4, 9/8, 13/4
Just some of the time signatures Dave would use for his compositions.
Timing was his signature.

David Warren Brubeck
Jazz Pianist and Composer

Born: December 6, 1920
Concord, California, U.S.
Died: December 5, 2012 (aged 91)
Norwalk, Connecticut, U.S.

Harrogate,TN May 2013

LD Goodwin May 2013

Neatly Formed and Pressed (a letter from the Flatlands)

Here, on the flatlands
I was put in my place.
formed and pressed
into their neat and presumably safe little box.
It's all they knew.
It is so hard to think of them as once children themselves,
formed and pressed.
Formed from a different time, with different conformists.
There are no manuals when we are born,
you get leftover instructions from previous pipe fitters.
Agrarian raised, like grain fed beef.
Complete with the fears and habits of bygone generations.
I leave one bite of each item on my plate,
with just enough drink to wash it all down.
I have done that as long as I can remember.
I want the whole candy bar, rather than just a bite.
Pressed and formed my Father saves.
He saves twist ties from bread bags.
He saves old welcome mats, and garage door openers.
He buys in bulk, and has two deep freezers full.
Full of freezer burn, tasteless, barely nutritious,
neatly formed and pressed portions of frozen in time Salisbury steak.
It is as if he himself would like to be frozen in time.
He is a depressionite child.
In the basement there is an old dresser that he found at a yard sale.
He painted it a hideous green,
but it has a formed and pressed neat white little doily on top.
In the top drawer there are various expired drugstore items,
some dating as far back as 35 years ago.
"You never know when you might need something in there."
Expired aspirin that has broken down into powder and smells of vinegar.
Vicks Vaporub, in the pretty blue glass jar, that is dried up and orderless.
All brand new and have never been opened.
Formed and pressed neatly in their little containers.
I watch these molders of my life slowly pass away,
becoming neatly formed and packed into their aging corner of the world,
neatly formed and packed into a stereotypical old folks home.
Forgotten, in the way, slow, aching.
Soon all they will have will be memories.
Soon all they will need will be memories.
Neatly formed and packed in their aging minds.
And then, like a comet that has shuttled through space
for thousands of years, millions of years,
they will burn out and fade into dust.
And their whole lives
will be neatly formed and packed
away,
in a trunk
in the attic,
to be opened like a time capsule,
at a later date.

*the result of a week with my 94 yr old Parents

Miamisburg, OH May 2013

LD Goodwin May 2013

My Solace

As a child
I would sometimes urinate in my sleep.
The warm wetness would turn cold, and wake me.
Ashamed, I’d take off my Pjs and crawl under the comfort of my Sister covers.
She was studying to be a teacher and taking courses in child psychology
About the time I started “bedwetting”.
Recognizing my unnecessary guilt, she told me not to be upset.
“If that ever happens,  just spoon with me and we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
I did know what that meant.
Mother would get so mad.
Of course I had no idea why I would "wet the bed",
but she did.
Our Parents would often argue into the night.
And although I did not understand any of it,
like a dog,
I felt the tension.
I sensed the discourse in their voices.
It was the same discourse they used to scold me.
Therefore, I thought they were angry at me.
The silence was worse though.
Even though their biting tone would cease, I could still feel the smoldering anger.
The air was thick with it.
My Sister was a young woman, soon to be married and out of that hell.
She was the Mother I never had.
She had a huge black RCA transistor radio and use to put it next to my bed,
tuned to a Rock and Roll station.
I never knew why she did that until many years later.
It drowned out our Parents fighting.
The music became my solace.
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam”
And soon,
I stopped urinating in my sleep.
Of course the by-product of her intervention was
that I have been a professional musician and entertainer all of my life.
Music has been and always will be my solace.
It blocks out the arguing in the world.

*thanks Sis

Harrogate, TN May 2013