"ches" poems
heart up
(skips; j
umps)
breath cat-
ches on
e t w o t h r e e
.hair (tugs)
hands twist i
n frenzied locks;
slip s t g r o u g h.
(sleep escapes you:
dreams pur
g
E.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
* I am not a poised person
| Nor am I a delight to hear
| But I am a truth warrior
|a knight for deeper meaning
|and a contender for reality
|So I speak my restless mind
|on the matters that matter most
\ and for this I am sutured.
| my mouth sewn shut
| by the red and yellow tape;
|political correctness
/ diminishing the truth
|until nothing is ever said
|And I weep
. Silent tears
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC
We all went back to sleep to finish a dream,
To be something,
To hold what we always touched and missed,
To exist
We see ourselves in the movies
We are heroes wanting to fly back in time to make things right,
To stop Nazis,
To turn off the radio and unite Hutus and Tutsis,
To show Kount the diabolic sign above his Christ,
We want to tell Bathory that pictures don't age
To tell Elizabeth that she will destroy herself in rage
We want to sacrifice ourselves for history to make this world smile
We love and hate Solomon at the same time
We want Jihad to go back to America
We are Ches screaming to the world that arms and ammunition factories need wars
We are Mohammads trying to restore the peace
And we all want the World Bank to set us free
How are we different?
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
AS DEW IN APRYLLE
It is as if
he has fallen
from the end of
the 15th century
into this
present day.
A Friday as it
happens.
And falling from
century to century
he has lost weight
the flesh fallen from him
so that
Simon Sadd
(“Sadd by name…sadd by nature!”)
arrives at this
particular now
nothing but
a bag of bones
with a skin
that no longer fits him.
As if…as if
he had once been a fat man
and Time had
thinned him…tamed him.
And so it is
I bathe him
sing songs for him
recite for him
carols, poems, hymns
anything
that lets him escape
even for a moment
this nursing home.
My voice carries him
back to his Norfolk childhood
where his mother
bathes him
on some forgotten Friday
in the once upon a time.
Soap stings his eyes
then and now.
“Moder ‘ud give us
such a ding on the lug.”
He laughs as if
she were there.
“Cor blarst me...stop yer blarin!
Such a sharmin’!”
he scolds himself
with her voice.
Then she’d hush me with…
“I SYNG OF A MAYDEN”
“I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.”
I finish it for him.
“My heart alive…how does
a yung feller like you…no dat!”
“He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.”
“You must have high learnin’
bor!”
He, for his part,
creates a world of words.
I enter entranced
into his voice
where a ladybird
transforms itself into
a bishy barneybee!
A woodlouse
becomes a Charley pig.
A jasper
is a wasp.
“Ahhh look a King Harry
by the Lady’s smock!”
And when I look
the goldfinch has
already flown away
into the lost years.
The Canterberry Bells
still…so still
“…as dew in Aprylle.”
His mind a “bishy bishy
barneybee…”
“When will yer weddin’ be?
he says softly to himself
“If it be a ‘marra day..."
I towel him dry.
“Tairk yer wings an’
floi away!”
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
the words we
wrote on our
slitted pieces
of paper wer
e all lies and
i hope that w
hoever pulls
our old batt
ered notebo
ok out of th
e dusty ches
t in the man
or falling ap
art that we r
ulled with p
aper hats an
d painted na
ils knows tha
t our love wa
sn't really me
ant to be.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC