Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008

He knew the ache could not be recompensed
they knew it too the moment echoes fell silent
There was already not enough love
in a world grown dark as darkest past

It wasn't the color of his skin nor dialect
or the  journey of a  thousand  miles
Not the place that he'd come from
       back when ―  left behind

             nor a heart of gold,  
      that never became a home

The colour of  unwritten silence
had  eclipsed  the waning  light
On the run from who he'd become;
     ashamed for all he was,  
couldn't erase a lifetime that felt a waste ―
               trying to untie a Gordian knot

He saw his body as an entombing barbwire cage
    imprisoning  a  wellspring  of  love writhing deep therein

Immured at arms length from the outside world
    where  the soul of a teardrop  abides  within
                         its insignificance

Shielding the  inherent  maelstrom
                          from the innocent passersby
Buried thoughtfully for the greater good of all ―
for the unsatiated dream boundless love betides

Written  artifacts  exhumed  like  ***** secrets
a lifetime of stigma's stain swept under the rug;
just whispered words written from an unfinished life
few ever really looked deeply between the twisted lines
arising from the soul of just another passing stranger

The long road begets a suffocating silence
choking out,           extinguished love inhumed
Ashes  of what once had been life aglow of light
               forevermore shrouded
          like the dark side of the moon



rivers

cannot find true rest,
all the tumult in this world,
writ both large and small,
saps my upraised arms
alternate
flexing angry fists eager to strike hard
my revived new **** enemies,
and gods inexcusable and conspicuous absence in
Barcelona, Finland and my own
Charlottesville,
and
to quiet comfort commiserating, and storing
all the pain of individual souls I've acquired willingly

and the sunset comes quiet,
trying to sooth by adding
a gentling cream of cooling breeze,
the squirrels eye me suspiciously,
sensing the amiss within,
and all perfect sailboats voyaging past,
yet none stopping at the dock
to offer condolences or solaces

my watch ticks louder

each tick,
a worrisome cursed reminder
this real life seems to be endless struggle
interrupted by small comforts of little voices and
promises that escape is inevitable

each tock,
a fresh notification
the week's approach will contain
another visit from
Hamlet's ghost,
warning of warring factions
battlefield clashing
in a chesterfield plain
between two of mine shoulder blades

constantly reminded how lucky I am,
makes me grow quiet and put pen to one side,
and try to balance accounts, using this time,
pencil and erasure

I need a break and some glue
I need reparations and a battle plan
or happily learn to surrender
and accept being a
dumb terminal,
a slave,
that doesn't ask for
peace of mind
and knock off this poet of the
no way

for Tascha

deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought quickly swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere,
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting
disillusionment


dear god, commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
**** the deity's non-responsivness,
dare not say out loud lest,
deserved fates be worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be?
disguiser par excellent, I am the original
deceiver

But I never think about

death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark, still insists can be
deferred

differed always,
diffidently, but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past

May 2015

~for Pamela Rae~

you cannot amend reality by passing a law.
if we could, then we should have one requiring society to
guarantee a happy childhood.

every **** time I propose to myself a resolution
that I am an ok poet, I stumble on to a poet here
of whom I was unaware, and you were, correctly aware,
that brings a good light into the world,
vowing to throw in the towel,
the I'm ok resolution never passes,
voted down 2 - 1;
Against:  Myself, I
In Favor: Me
which necessitates try try again
Einstein's Insanity Theorem fool
proofed.

Exclaim! what a goodly word.  
If we ex'd our claims (need, due, want) more,
walking in quiet contemplation,
we could climb on our roof (I can) and proclaim (silently)
glory glory hallelujah and it would not matter to
whom  (which diety)
we are
addressing.  

Outstanding! what a goodly word.
If I could satisfy the claims against me outstanding,
still unsatisfied, while I am yet among the living,
especially the one that are self-propelled,
that would be
outstanding.

I would rather the simple monetary motived corruption
of a dishonest businessman, than the cowardly silence
of the fools we elect to govern us, and gravely pretend
to know what is good for us. I call this,
My Theory of the Greater Corruption.

Word Salad: making crazy combinations of words,
i.e. eggplant smile, vegetable sunrise etc.
hell, I just can't make any up,
it is
cheap and lazy crafty no craftsmanship, craftwomanship
but very self/satisfying and tasty too,  I'm sure,
and authentic 100%  b.s.

The apocalypse is always nigh.
Ironically, very true.
Let's keep it that way.
neigh neigh neigh.

I write many more words than I speak;  
by a very wide margin;
this pleases me,
by a very wide margin.

complexification
(yes, it is a real word) and
glorification
rhyme because they both end in
shunned.

In heaven, the following are outlawed:
yoga, exercise, dieting, crying; denying and lying.  
the latter obviate the former.
glory glory hallelujah and hot ****

>•>
4/18/17 2:43am