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 May 2020 Splashes of Surreal
L B
In my mind
They bloom always
...along the fence
of Mr. Chauncey's yard
who cut and bundled them
for us to give to Mom

And suddenly
purple has a fragrance
I can see...
and another name
that follows me
forever
infusing home
Insisting on it— everywhere  

...though it wavers
in the years
in clouds of Lilac bubbling
Memory's palest purple
amidst the golden-green

...I am a child again
running down the hills of May
dizzy
in bee buzzing
Floating
in the lush warmth
and parachutes of fluff—
Next year's dandelions aloft
in the ends of this year's spring

Turning ferns to wings
twisted into tee shirt sleeves
We fly by sheer will to do so
Pretend to hide our nests
in forest of the lilac
Soon I will bring them in the house again, so I can drift in the fragrance and wake to it, filling the room.
 May 2020 Splashes of Surreal
L B
Good Friday 2020
_____

The wind groans with reluctance
Sends April snow in squalls—
a tossed and careless shawl
worn long and tired with this Day
No glimpse of sun
A dirge of snow surrenders on the grass
Winter making one more pass
among us
gray with grief

Due east of Rat Island

alone

Appropriate in name
Appropriate to this, the day

surrounded only
by the jealous surf
with hateful waves
surrounded by the howls of “crucify!”
“He is not ours!

They are not ours!
We are not ours!”

Send them all away
They belong to the island
to the ground
from which they came
Not for us to cry and claim

Their abandonment

Wooden boxes fill the
trench—
A Babi Yar
of our own doing
so it seems
and yet again...
Golgotha

In the bitterness
of heart there is

an island--

Hart—I think they call it
Both a prison and a graveyard
of NYC

A place “despised and rejected”

rejected of men
an island of sorrows...
and acquainted with grief....”

      “...I see myself an ancient Israelite.
       I wander o’er the roads of ancient Egypt
      And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured
      And even now, I bear the marks of nails....”
                                   --Yevgeni Yevtushenko

...inscribed on the palms of His hands....

Again—

There is an island
where scores of the forgotten lie
He knows them all by name

Today it binds my tongue
with bonds of sadness
It has traveled in the tides
of time to find us

Our Babi Yar has come for us
to take us to Hart Island

Unmarked
Unloved
Unclaimed
_____

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:BabiJarravijn.jpg…

New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio acknowledged that more people are being buried at the city's potter's field, but stressed that only the bodies of the unclaimed would be buried there.
I can write this one I
got this one

I know the guy quite well

smoke curls from his lips
the same ones that

blow

night after night

a dented horn
sunglasses

black suit
and funeral shoes

it seems I'm caught in a loop
hearing that same old

haunted refrain


Whit Howland © 2020
Impressionistic Pulp Jazz  poetry.
I steel myself for the familiar
--the dark cylinders
of half-smoked cigarettes,
I can feel it in my lungs.

"Magic begins with blood," you said.
"Don't get stuck on a dream."

That could never be.
I dream of someone new each time.

"For me, I'm your sorrow
calling in your dreams.
For me, I'm your shadow
howling in the streets."

My hands, they close
around the throat,
until that whispered plea
becomes a silent sonnet.

"You'll be happier in your grave."
I spelled out my secrets
in the language of the flowers,
with petals mixed in with my tears.
Please let the words of these blossoms
be heard more than my story to tell.
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