"convalescing" poems
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
The time must come when
we put aside recipes untried,
socks unmended, old fabrics
too pretty to be used -when
the bottled nuts and bolts
-the springs, the locks
unused -waiting,
wait unused
-the memorabilia of hope,
the rusty steel of life.
The time must come when
cease to lie -lotions,
Elixirs de Leon -when we
fail our bite to the night-soak
and think not -care not, of that
breath that does not count anyhow
-when reason mirrors wrinkles
-undreams romance.
-hooked rugs of might-have-done,
school albums, what not become,
leather bottles, convalescing sun
-and the quieting ice.
When I read the Sports/
Society page, I ask myself -them,
'How will you go down?
-willingly? -with,
if not a Bang, a Whimper?
-if not with, without
the Apotheosis of Drug?
(-from http://www.condition.org/ )
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
The book encouraged me to
*‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’*
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.*
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
All potency for pain and pleasure binds,
Confined to freely ebb from causal shell;
Then, urged by current convalescing mind
My heart parts way with what decaying, fell.
What if the sapling's ardor fails to flower,
So choked from light by canopy of old?
From bitter yield, I've winnowed only sorrow;
Love's fruitless growth has left it bare and cold.
Quickening, each pattern passed holds lessen -
With way now cleared, I remain resolute:
Dreaming of trunk's branches' fruitful blossom,
I make the means for chance to sweetly root.
Though Nature bounding, I still wonder why
Life, bourne by grief, seems made to die.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 7:13 PM UTC
She believes
in picket fences and two-story castles
in geometric hedges and manicured lawns
She relies on window blinds
and the convenient camera
that remains slightly out of focus
She spends her days
applying adhesive to china pieces
and polishing away revealing cracks
She spends her nights
nurturing splinted dreams
and convalescing hopes
So when he says
"I love you, it will never happen again"
She believes
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Many friends gorge
during holidays,
stuffing stuffing in their mouth space
forcing fried flightless birds in their face
along with assortments of steamed greens
guzzling fermented bubbles of hops or grapes
until engulfed in the glazed-eye coma nap
as their bulbous bellies slowly bouey back and forth.
Before passing out, some might remark about convalescing a food baby,
to which I've often wondered
if said baby is born when they take a ****
Is it still a food baby or has it grown to a **** baby?
Why don't they nurture said **** baby so it can grow
and get into a ****** school and then a **** job?
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
For just one second in time, I saw your face.
I saw the cracks and crevices, the moles, the laugh lines.
I saw the feeling held within your expression, your tough, gaunt expression…but kindly.
I saw written there, an understanding, an appreciation
…and a beautiful accommodation for my gentle infatuation.
Marshalg
Convalescing with the leg up.
21 November 2012
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Behind Sister Bridget's
black habited back
one legged Anne
gave her a one fingered
up you sign
the nun unaware
walked on down
the lush green lawn
the girl with burn scars
on her arm and leg
mouthed
I'm going to tell
but her wide eyed stare
betrayed
she never would
just a maybe
-if-I-had-the-nerve
gesture
hey Skinny kid
Anne said
in lowered voice
hand to the side
of her mouth
as she'd seen spies do
in war films
or on TV
how about we sneak
into town?
the Kid impassively
shrugged
his narrow shoulders
buy you some sweet
if you'll come?
that decided it
and he nodded
and as the nun
walked down the lawn
chatting to the other kids
who were convalescing
from sicknesses
or burns or accidents
Anne and the Kid
sneaked off back
towards the big house
now a nursing home
for children
she on her crutches
he following behind
looking back
towards the lawn
and once inside
they ventured out
the side door
along the path
by the hedge
and down the side road
that led into town
pass traffic
she crutched along
the Kid bringing up
the rear
her one leg treading
the paving
the stump swinging
silently
beneath her skirt
and the Kid
catching her up
walked beside her
and she said
got to get out
of that **** place
with all those
other kids
and those holy nuns
with their tall tales
and frustrated dreams
the Kid said nothing
he was thinking
of the night
she wanted him
to scrub her back
in the bath
or that other time
when he helped her
from her wheelchair
and accidentally
touched her tight ****
by mistake
and the WHAT THE ****
of her words
and the secret feel
had him wandering
outside
his safety zone
like a child at night
finding themselves
in the dark
all alone.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
I was asked today
after the reading,
(you know that time
for question and comment
poets either love or dread)
‘If you had only read
one poem, what would it be
I wonder, what would it be?’
‘Now?' I said,
‘Yes, now,’ she said,
being a tall woman,
in a silk-blue frock,
glasses pushed well back
into golden hair flecked grey.
I didn’t think.
I knew, and
as it was one
I knew by heart,
I dived right in.
*I was ill
convalescing in fact
when I read this book*
On Poetry
. . .
Does that surprise you?
I had no qualms,
no fears at all,
it was only when
those final words began
to disappear across the hall,
that hall of banners floating
in a fan-fuelled breeze,
I knew no right way
to say those final
italicised words:
*Poetry forms in the face of time
you master form you master time*
You see that couplet
wasn’t mine.
I’d only borrowed it
to make a point,
a point I could not make
in my poor words.
‘Nice to be quoted,’ he said later
as he brought his tea to my table.
‘I know exactly what you mean:
Christmas cake, penquins and the moon . . .
Hmm, just so,’ he said, and smiled.
‘Oh, I did like your poem
about the parrot on the beach.
I’ll read it to my girls when I get home.’
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
All potency for pain and pleasure binds,
Confined to freely ebb from causal shell;
Then, urged by current convalescing mind
My heart parts way with what decaying, fell.
What if the sapling's ardor fails to flower,
So choked from light by canopy of old?
From bitter yield, I've winnowed only sorrow;
Love's fruitless growth has left me bare and cold.
Quickening, each pattern passed holds lessen,
With way now clear, I remain resolute:
Dreaming of trunk's branches' fruitful blossom
I make the means for chance to sweetly root.
Though Nature bounding, I still wonder why
Life, borne by grief, seems grown to die.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
most normal nights it's about something stupid or other, like my mother's tendency to cry when I visit her
like my inability to find something I could stick with for all of adulthood other than writing terrible anecdotes on existentialism
like the look of abject disappointment on my father's face when he found out I was getting dropped from school again
like the whole of 2015, where I spent all year convalescing behind a bar counter, convinced I could save peanuts for a degree
like when I watch motes of dust wrestle in dim light and tell myself it's just a phase
it's just a phase
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
I'm a resonant body,
made love to the man I hope
comes around in my dreams
and his torso distended and separated
kissed his stomach before his legs became
driftwood and slabs of black marble--
his house was carpeted in grass with
rivers running through them
and I stood half-naked at the
stream with a makeshift fishing
rod, folding spotted paperclips
into hooks, there were no doors
but you came around the sunlight
as if there was, stepped through the
air and stood beside me--and the fish
came to you one after the other
until I accidentally dropped the wire
and it floated downstream to the front
entrance,
where is my heart?
in the misty moors
burnt off by noonday
convalescing in mossy burrows
trying so hard to make sense of
the people that become bales of hay
matchsticks and empty cotton shirts.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
Poetry is a healthier alternative
To picking fistfights with strangers
(*OI. THE **** YOU STARIN' AT?*)
Or stalking your gigs
While groping the knife
Tucked into my waistband
Because convalescing in silence
Is still better
Than having quack doctors and faith healers
Crowd over your body
Touch, rub, probe, poke
With their grubby fingers
Write you illegible prescriptions
Charging you a king's ransom
For 'professional advice'.
*You just need to get out more.
Fresh ***** is the answer!
Pray. Have faith.
Geez, you're not over it yet?*
It would've been better
If I just kept my **** mouth shut
And kept up the facade
A walking picture of health.
I don't need your ******* platitudes
Your uncomprehending stares
The drivel you proudly spew
Like how you so lovingly ladle out swill to the homeless
Assured of another mansion in heaven.
**** you.
This is not a soup kitchen
And I don't need your pity.
(And condescension does not save you.)
Convalescing in silence
Is still more logical
Than rallying people
To eradicate sickness from earth
By arresting viruses
Putting them on trial.
A virus does what it does.
It is in its nature,
Like how stray dogs bite
And how ****** ****
Poetry is the best choice.
It's active non-action.
Reflecting
While the seasons change,
The fullness of time comes,
And news of your impending demise arrives
Of when your moral destitution
Finally catches up to you.
And by the time it comes around,
My youthful ignorance will have bled out a bit,
And I will receive the news
With a smile, a cigarette, and a new poem.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC