AND THE WORLD WAS AS SIMPLE AS SNOW

You are like. .  .all
the dark shops of my childhood
where you enter with the little ****** of a bell

and the world blossoms

into a myriad of things colourful to sell
stacked in impossible & impeccable order

all yelling shining glinting wild & glassy

and the cash register singing with the hard earned money
and the little ****** of a bell lets you out again

into a world
excited with the falling of  snow

& the palpable approach
of  a Christmas when Christmas was Christmas

and the world
was as simple as snow.

*

It is a love poem for my sister Junie...the YOU ARE LIKE. . .and then I am taken up on the wings of memory and she's alive again and I am 7 and always holding her hand as we go to buy my Ma 4711 eau de tiolette and my Da Old Spice aftersahve. I always got them these presents year after year in the time of my childhood..It took me 6 months to save up the money for them...and I would look longingly at kids ******* ice lollies in the depths of summer but save my little pennies 'til they grew into pounds and Christmas approached slowly and silently but I was always ready for it...and I would go with my sister June up to a lovely old chemist all polished wood and brass and glass...the little bell creating the wonder and with its ****** right on cue the snow would fall and I would hold my lovely sister's hand forever and ever and never ever let go...the delight was in my sister and her love and this is what the poem is all about....Christmas is just the backdrop to my always remembering her so. I can still feel her hand.

I hope you wore a sweater,
in your favorite shade of blue.
It gets cold in late November,
(it gets darker faster, too)

I hope the shoes you wore fit snugly
(even if your socks don't match)
I hope your last day wasn't ugly,
I hope the pain was over fast.

I'm sure you felt your sadness deeply,
I'm sure you felt your heart ache too.
When you took a walk when all were sleeping,
in your favorite shade of blue.

I wonder what it felt like,
to pick the perfect tree.
To end your painful heartache,
snug shoes on dangling feet.

But my most pressing question,
that I would ask of you,
is where did you lose your earbud?
(you're wearing one, not two)

They moved you to the metal table,
(the one that tilts down at an angle)
They cut the sweater off you too,
your favorite one in midnight blue.

They make their notes:
your weight,
your height.
They check your shoulder width and write:
"He will fit a standard casket"
(they carry on with their assessment)

"Rope indentation - on the neck
Eyes and fingers - blue and red
Socks mismatching
Nike shoes
One earbud gone"
(that's all I knew)

Tell me why'd you take that walk?
I know the road ahead looked bare.
Tell me how you chose a song.
Did you brush your teeth and comb your hair?

Did it happen on a school night?
(your file says you were in 12th grade)
Did you tell your mom you loved her?
- with your mind already made.

So to the boy with just one earbud,
I'm sorry this world felt so wrong.
I hope you're in your favorite sweater,
and you're listening to your favorite song.

with just myself. Lying in a red hammock
curled up under a cornflower sky, with a book
to read as a cardinal flies by.  Or walking
in the woods among the ferns and the trees

I find tranquility. The chattering song of
the jay, the stillness of a breaking day. Women are
critical and glib, drooling like babies wearing
a bib. Green- eyed and petty. Raining on me

like colored confetti. Friendship is overrated,
leaving me lonely and weighted. The babbling
of a brook I'll take than that of a woman. Time is
a gift not to squander. Thoughts are words

to sit and to ponder. Women spread them like
strawberry jam, rolling out of their mouths
like a broken dam. Like the sun and the moon
I'm a solitary man.

Small on the skyline,
This beautiful ship I’ve launched-
Testing the waters and her seaworthiness.
I stand on shore and strain to see
The sun glint off her sails as they unfurl,
It won’t be long before the horizon
Reaches out and takes her from my sight.

And yet she circles back again,
To the safety of this harbor
Where the ocean gathers calm and still.
But I know the tide is freshening
And the wind is for adventure.
I long to let her glide away but
It hurts too much to open up my fingers,
So I heave and pull on the mooring rope
Striving to keep her next to the pier-
Proud of the way she rides the swells-
Thrilled with the cut of her mainmast-
Excited with visions of where she can go-
Still I’m reluctant to bid her bon voyage.

For I have no ticket - this isn’t my trip,
I’ll have to be happy with postcards
From places mundane and wildly exotic-
Hoping she’s not out at sea too long and
That killer squalls don’t find her.

I’ve built her well - she’s sound and good.
There’s great common sense on the rudder.
The maps are laid out in orderly rows
And her spirit holds steady the sextant.

The tugs on the rope are outdoing my fingers
And I’ve had to begin to let go.
I must save some strength to lift hands in farewell
And keep vision clear through the teardrops.
        ljm

There are miracles when I open my eyes.
The smile on the cat, the taste of strong coffee.
A Beethoven symphony while I taste dark chocolate.
I exist in the present, next week is nebulous.
The touch of my baby's cheek against mine
defeats the demons and destroys chaos.

I suppose I'll be in a Nursing Home one day
  drooling all over myself
And still plotting revenge on this world for
  having wronged me so,
Or maybe I might just be dozing, probably
  having another nightmare
I might find myself on a train somewhere and the conductor he suddenly
  announces
"Next stop Dementia City
After that it's Alzheimersville"
I'll awake with a start
And then...then I'll see her... this beautiful
  vision just walking in
Elderly like myself but still so ladylike
Still so lithe and graceful
I'll tell my Nurse to quickly get my false teeth
And my good wig
And my walking frame
And to give me a couple of those heart tablets
I'd think to myself "I knew she'd come... one
  day"
It'd be one last chance for Love... one last dash for Love.

So moving slowly but determinedly across
  the floor toward her
I'd probably get a pain midway
And then keel over
She'd not see me, she'd have her back turned
  to me
The Nurses they'd be showing her to her
  room
She'd be walking away
I'd try to call out but the words they'd get all
  garbled and stuck in my throat
I'd try to reach out to her... reach out like
  she's some mirage in the desert
My last gasp... my last gasp for Love
But...too late...
Too late, the Hero.

      The ACCUSATION

Your verse has offended the Muses. The blame
Must be laid on your poetry: limping and lame
As it drags itself over the last crippled line;
A dead-end for your readers (but you missed the sign).
Your scrawling has challenged the unwritten code
And it’s far more than meaning your readers are owed…
We need RHYTHM with ORDER and measured RESTRAINT;
More range in your palette might help you to paint
Us a picture where color and nature, enhanced
With the music of syllables leave us entranced.
But instead, all your verbiage has put us to sleep,
For your lines are as shallow as Boredom is deep.


       The ARGUMENT

Rhythm is ORDER and order is key.
It is only through measure that music is free
An offense to the Muses, depressing to hear,
Is a verse without rhythm, insulting the ear.
Lyric STRUCTURE brings LIBERTY. Freedom gives life.
Free verse?  Oxymoron—and morons are rife.
Confessional slop . . . yes it’s free, like a prison;
But MEANING grows clear in the service of reason.


       The JUDGEMENT

Your poetry’s up for the yearly review:
Mostly sighing and dithering. Sorry, it’s true.
Your muses are clueless, so send them all packing.
Your modernist drivel is found to be lacking
In context, coherency, substance and wit.
Upon careful re-reading, the Verdict: it’s ****.
As regarding the rambling verse you call “free”,
A real Muse, unimpressed by your English degree
Would imprison your lines and then throw out the key.

Since the US war-machine needs my taxes
to bomb poor people who live far away,
Since few people in my overweight low-info uncivilization
know or care about that,
Since plebeian culture has permeated
and is now acceptable throughout society,
Since I have no influence or control over these factors
to change the outcomes,
Since God is sovereignly ruling and reigning
over all aspects of everything,
Since our leaders do not care
about the stability or well-being of the masses,
Since polarization intensifies every day
as we become a decadent empire,
Since poetry is the epitome of uselessness
and art is reduced to commodity,
Since pharmaceutical corporations
want to keep people drugged and passive—

Therefore, I will cease to worry about outcomes
that are beyond my ability to change,
and I will pay my taxes, for the time being . . .

Word wranglers wound up together, in an
Exchange at a hotel.
One said this, others said that...
And many a champas gulped and guzzled in between giggles and gazes, as
The past was pulled, kicking and screaming, into the present.
Was it a gift?
Were past pains put to peace?
Or did it awaken promises long forgotten,
That was once under the authority of the surgeons' scalpel.

Shakespeare once wrote, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Solomon, in Proverbs, posed that the power of life and death is in the tongue.
Words create worlds, whether written or spoken: they liberate or load us up.
This power is with us every minute of every day in every hour.
Will I write new words with my weapon whence today?
Will blossoms bloom in your heart or weeds strangle the hope in your womb?

Death always steals the show,
But it is joy that revives it.
Entering within, re-wiring love,
Breathing new life, with new words;
Remembering promises of a powerful and plentiful future.
Declaring death dead and life to be lived.
Declaring love released, and again risking heart-fully.