All my poems just sit waiting
unwritten impulses of some things
midway between my brain and my eyes

to get one I sit back in my Barcalounger
and pretend my head is in an MRI machine
with the laser scanner looking

I pay the closest attention
silently mindful
of how much I think and feel
about what I see

and then a poem says
you never saw that feeling
you never felt that vision

you just keep running
from one stimulus to another
like a person who cannot write

you need a bigger Barcalounger.

Bernie frames the TV
between his feet--
left hand remote,
beer bottle balanced
by his right—
clicks through half-time shows,
clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer,
a death-ray secret weapon,
clicks just to do it, an idiot’s
smile faint on his face.

he sees only noise

Emma tends her stamps,
perched on the plain board chair
she upholstered herself—
its arms worn, warm,
warmly welcoming—
her back to her husband,
her life as wife and mother
coming to a languid close.

she tastes some regret--
yet spicy with passion--
where life has had its way with her.

The rug’s bright stew of colors
can’t hide everything
children spilled
when they were young--
juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears;
little dreams,
tiny heartbreaks,
minor crises
ground into the weave;
all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs,
blood and sweat and nightmares congealed
into solemn patina--
I see protects it from time.

These solid objects—
stout, no-nonsense chair
wearing gouges, marks,
discolorations of use
and years like badges;
fat, chunky, cigarette-burned
BarcaLounger, drunk
from drink spilled
on every surface,
handle supple
as a young girl’s wrist,
swirling a territorial aura
around its microscopic
sphere of the universe;
and the rug…
unassuming, proletarian,
handmade and honest,
each scrap of fabric
chosen by the weaver’s hand,
now useful again,
reveling in redemption—
these solid objects
invade,
infuse,
invigorate
otherwise empty space,
squeeze meaning from the world
around them,
same as the hand of the artist
sculpts love from her heart
to give them life.

The children have moved away
Old friends are dying every day
Stamps no longer can be licked
There is no way to interdict

The Jets are losing again

There's something brutally honest about
A dog in heat ******* your leg.
I'd like to explore this theme with you,
But I can't right now.
I just got home from my
Nightly walk inside the gates
Of my over-55 lunatic asylum,
And I gotta get this down on paper,
VERBATIM.

I'm wearing sandals tonight, unlike
This morning's power walk in Skechers.
I'm strolling around the turn
At the corner of Don January & Lee Trevino,
And look clearly into a curtain-less,
Shade-free living room. BAM!
Poleaxed, gobsmacked, am I.
She's sitting in a Barcalounger,
Spotlighted by a pole lamp.
Naked, her legs spread &
******* herself.
Stunned dead in my tracks, am I.
By this time she's standing in her
Open doorway, calling to me:
"Hello Dere!"
She is a silver-haired sireen,
A granny Marty Allen.
"Take me," she demands.
Sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake,
But there was no mistaking that invitation.
"Wait right here," I say.
"I want to go home, shower &
Brush my teeth."
"No , you idiot," she answers.
"Take me now."
"I want to be ravished by a brute,
***** by a savage,
A mountain man from Boulder."
I assume she means Boulder, Colorado.

Now, I can't promise that this is a
Daily occurrence at Del Webb Alegria,
"For Active Adults"
But it happened to me.

Walking home I see a crowd.
Some neighbors admiring the
Asian couple's landscaping prowess.
For weeks they've been pulling off a
Green grass to drought-tolerant
Xeriscape switcheroo.
"Bravo!" I yell. "Nicely done!"
Finally, I am home.
Exhausted, I flop down in
My over-stuffed leather armchair.
Pen in hand. Notebook open.
From across the room,
My dog sidles over
A glazed look in his eyes.

WHAT WE TELL OURSELVES

there are sad things we can accept as fact or shrug it off
as our little voice whispers, depending on which small voice
is talking to you;  so picture this, as you think it through
in a house on a quiet street, lined with fences and trees
is a woman sitting on her barcalounger alone, on this last day
of the year, she is feeling unloved, still it doesn't have to be
as we all make choices daily- that's what we tell ourselves
still she cannot accept the fact of why her?-she ponders this,
with a cigarette glowing through clenched lips, she takes in
a long slow drag as the stifling silence completely surrounds her
all this time; so we surmise, it comes down to guilt of conscience there must be deeper things going on; we cannot get into her head, as she carries this around like an afghan shawl, it's her bitter pill- which she takes daily in a shot glass on a table by her side- steeling herself to cast away ghosts that appear from each year past- and all that it represents, will it be enough as the clocks ticks down, she can see the new year coming into view as she takes in a deep sigh, preparing  for the inevitable, she steady's her nerves for what lays ahead, she has no one else to blame, she accepts this as her norm

by Michael Perry