"eked" poems
“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”
~for Jean Fisher~
*this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility
all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness
asking,
why,
do you deserve it?
the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden
truths and trust
birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more
and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger*
this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem
now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
the lovely picture window (always the same, always different)
There are painters who must,
having found the place, must,
repaint it, compelled to repeat it,
each a variant, yet always the same,
always different
I awake to a perspective that is wide,
always differentiated from the prior,
always almost similar, but never with
the same exactitude, differing attitude,
same longitude, identical latitude,
always different
horizon distanced, in all ways a view
encompassing, duality near, far distant,
harmoniously, eyes open, magnetized
to wake before 6am by the suns modesty,
first light, first clarity, a curtain risen, yet,
always different
am I so blessed or thus cursed, for the urge
to disclaim and ode, compose and thus self-
decompose, analyze, reflect, slice apart, needing
the comprehensive understanding this me/place
scripts the raw appreciation, daily differentiated
always the same
this peaceful venue seizures, chest calmly
pounding at the insistence it commands,
the price I must pay for the prize to praise,
to sing, weep, reward restful sleep with lyrics
eked out, pouring, unsustainable yet finished,
always different
a single May Iris, returns, born from a torrential,
thunder, lightning, sky mayhem, rises by a sundial
greets midst a planted clump, upright rises, lavender,
in a majestic solitary, absent but a day prior, yet mine eyes
failed to witness its discernible emerging birthing creation,
always different,
always the same
here, I am Iris too, always the same, a day aged,
but the differences minute but stolid actualized,
this overnight sensation, my body’s restoration,
what I visualize, indivisible, now visible, realized,
miracle of continuity, unchanging chained change,
always different ,
always the same
wonder, am I more blessed, or a s~lightly cursed being,
my breath restored, wet eyes full brimming, changed,
revived but always modified, a newer old man, whose
sum total always a different number, but in sequential,
compelled to confess, no understanding of this miracle,
always the same,
always different,
this daily visionary miracle
6:36 AM
Fri May 24
2024
Silver Beach,
Shelter Island
May 24, 2024
May 24, 2024 at 6:53 AM UTC
Nature adorns her vacuums:
Eden, in lieu of Gardener or Keep, overdrives the breach;
garland wreaths, julep leaves, Clover carpets
the well-dint of the fleeing heel,
just as Vitality, from Lushness, deserts to humbling Humus.
I bargain that We will
be survived by teeming hosts of white Chrysanthemum.
Our grim miracle resembling, so, fish and loaves;
of Manna eked of Woe.
Staid amatory shall cater the craving of a brood;
from our tears rich elixir brewed,
our tender flanks yielding stew.
Scarcity is Her own aphrodisiac,
abused in company of more than two.
But sure as Man, worms lapse at their hour
and they, their own kind, must consume
giving back Space, where is room.
So, must we, our own Passion’s devour,
that made manifest they replenish their expanse,
as when a hand replenishes a glove--
it first breathes upon the absence of Absence.
Let us, then, dine. Let us then, Love…
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
They sat in blankets as they tried to keep warm
penniless with no heating and no coal to burn
while outside they heard the violent storm
the blizzard of snow and ice all churn.
Slowly they both began to freeze to death
there was no-one to help or ease their plight
they were just poor and lonely old sisters
who would probably die in the dark of this night.
They were just another statistic of winter
a cold one much worse than some others
they had eked out their money on eating
so they now huddled together like lovers.
There are so many who suffer in winter
and we really should spare them a thought
we should all keep an eye out for our neighbour
as help due to their pride is not sought.
It is dawn now and the sisters are frozen
one died and the other breathes slow
but there is no-one to even take notice
and in a short while like her sister she’ll go.
©Joe Wilson – huddled together like lovers…2014
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Profound the scribbles,
Eked onto page?
Useless dribble,
Don't dare attribute my name!
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
A stroke they said.
Came along like a puncture,
eked the breath out from him.
Not a surprise but still
a hot bullet to the chest.
Been told his organs
were wilting with age,
raisin wrinkles sprinkled
across a seven-decade face.
Wheeled the body away,
blades of grey hair,
lumpy veins that tore
through his skin.
He knew it was coming.
Wished to kiss his wife again,
eleven years after their last.
Her name was Mary I think.
Cancer.
Had a passion for horses.
Just yesterday
put a fiver on Lust for Life
and Magic Touch.
Both came in, he’d have had
fifty quid. Lucky ***
At the bookies they all loved him.
When I collected his winnings
I had to explain.
I think they knew
before I opened my mouth.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
i bought myself steel-toed boots for
christmas like it would matter
as if i could kick things like paranoia, fear and vulnerability
my whole head is making this strange, dissonant noise
it feels kind of like pressure building, by surprise
because i'm going, going, going with my
hands touching all of the things
i thumped my corroded heart onto the table and asked if he wouldn't
mind sitting with it for a while
did i know then that his body moves just like theirs?
i have blades in my palms walking home
despite how i interpret my murmuring heart
mostly i think it's reminding me to live, i think
it's especially easy to forget
i'm choking, go ahead and tell me how much you understand it
i have blades in my palms, the boots and buttons up to my neck
i can taste their eyeballs anyway and the rotting is sand
it's getting underneath my toenails now, stop just a second
the boots and the buttons might as well be silk
the way their bodies are closing in feels like absolute reliable death
i'm thumping and shivering and their voices
the way everything shifts a little as my hands tighten around the mace makes me wonder if i had ever been safe to begin with because it seems like i've only ever been trembling in anticipation of your violence
my father is strong and firm and knocks at the window in the way that punches a small, undeniable hole directly through my windpipe
there are a lot of things about this canal that the probe cannot understand
clearly evident in the shift in your spine as the door slams behind you
did i know at eight years old that footsteps would come to sound like fists to me? i always knew the tenor of arguments would send me over, but at this point i've lost count of the ways through which my environment stands to strangle me
how many voices eked out, slowly do you have to
miss before you'll hear me?
they might as well be constricting my limbs on the spot with the
ways they graze my hot, sweating flesh
does it count as purgatory if you're burning from the inside?
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC
Brave souls set out from the world that they knew,
A dangerous trip with death for more than a few.
Enduring hardship as they travelled the sea
Seeking their fortune and a better life there to be.
Single adventurers, families , all ages and types,
Possessions all stowed, they come risking their lives.
Decisions to sail were as varied as men,
Moving onto the now and leaving the then.
Not knowing before them what would unfold,
Stories and legends of many were told.
Some coming with love and wanting to teach
Of God and religion seeing heathens to reach.
Others not so, more evil of heart,
Finding men and their money so easy to part.
Fleeing the gallows of home they did run
Making a life with violence and gun.
Heroes were few but ******** abound
As they eked out a living and laid claim to their ground.
Pioneers and the lawless, fortune seekers and cads
The harlots, the clergy, all lasses and lads.
They came and they stayed. My country did grow.
Canada was born. And with pride now I glow.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
Interconnection
Interdependence
Interior constantly in flux
Into and out from the mix
In awe of all that keeps the virus out
In awe of all that politics hide out
In awe of all social circles virtual or not
In awe of my own limited self eked out
I bow to the in and bow to the out
In and out are all but separate not
In the out, may I see the inner
In the out, may I recognize the inner
What is out could very well be inner
What is inner could very well be out
Why muse and why use
Why not just close eyes and know
Interconnection
Interdependence
Interior constantly in flux
Into and out from the mix
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 10:44 AM UTC
Of all those in my life I have loved,
You shine brightest
You stole the most of my soul
With your most beautifully composed
Eyes that glittered, glinted,
As if the happiness inside you
The pure goodness that was you
Eked slowly out and diffused
Brilliant, lighting up the room and my world.
You changed me.
You took the most of me,
Because you were worth the most;
You left the biggest gap,
Because you were the broadest person.
What we had was a mystery
We were solving together;
But in the end, I was left with
Clues leading to nowhere.
It was a dead end street lined
In roses and tulips,
A beautiful walk into oblivion;
You were worth every step.
When I close my eyes
Sometimes I see you
Sometimes I dream of you,
And that makes me smile;
Because it means in some reality,
You and I are together; and you are happy.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
Gazing down
I see this dull blade drew blood
Dial blind as ache lulls
Defy ease as life oozes free
Don’t lie down
Don’t sleep
Keep fear sharp
As faint creeps the soothing deep
Passions eked
Awareness do not forsake me
Come on
Come on
Answer
I stare vague at the mess where my wrist used to be
Which emergency?
Ambulance please
Consciousness bleeds
I wake with cool linen covering me
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 7:33 PM UTC
I wish these puffs were
Eked from a fog machine.
It's not a levitation of battle clouds
From cannons, from a precipitation forecast.
This is another battle-fog:
One composed of vape and cigarette smoke.
It hurts on the inside,
But at least one is at ease
From that troublesome and possibly tedious
Consumer, their complaints with no calm resolution
And no sense.
The scattered and randomized number
Of cigarettes fallen
Is none of my business
But business' business.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
Today I feel worthless. No ideas are flowing; my attempts are sporadic and trivial, just some drivel I've eked out. Poetry...barely breathing , a few gasps every week or two, beyond that it's suffocation. I'm boring, mundane, my creativity drained away, and I'm not even sure when I pulled the plug. Maybe I should take a bath, plunge myself underwater, look up at the surface, search for a purpose. I want to cry, I won't, I can't. Slip into a self-loathing depression. Hit my head against the wall till one or the other breaks, at least then I might have something to fill the pages, those ******* pages.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
As hot as he was under the collar,
Pilate kept his cool since he had nothing
gain by losing it either way. He was a cop
and it was his job to keep the peace
and he intended to do just that and only that.
He got his orders straight from Rome
and Rome’s orders were to give the Jews
whatever they wanted and let them choke on it.
That’s more or less what the Jews were doing—
strangling themselves with a mish-mash
of violent crime and corruption.
The only thing Pilate really had to worry
about was the persistent gossip on the streets
of a Jewish Savior. Something like that
could really cramp the Romans’ style,
not to mention eat into their revenue stream,
which more or less amounted to the same thing.
My kid brother James still lived with our mother.
I knocked at the door about sunrise
and he came sleepily scratching his *** to the door.
The place was a two-story hacienda
where he eked out a living as our old man
had done as a carpenter, the old man having run off
with a ********** years ago, leaving the family high and dry.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, “I thought you were doing time.”
He was genuinely surprised.
I came in and said, “Where’s ma?”
He kind of shrugged and kicked the dirt,
saying, “She ain’t here, man.”
“It’s the crack of dawn. What do you mean she ain’t here?
Where are the kids?” I said looking around.
The place was a dump and he was apparently living there alone.
“She hooked up with a guy.
You know—,” he stated with a shrug,
sort of embarrassed. “The kids are with them, I guess.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that she’s your mother?”
“Don’t seem to bother her any.”
Mary, my mother came from the same house
of ****** as Magdalene and old Miriam,
the busiest cat house in Nazareth.
The house was run by a big-boned Mistress
that went by the name of Aunt Annie,
though all of her girls were called ‘Mary’,
partly for convenience sake since that made
it hard for the Romans to get a line on any one of them.
But the centurions all knew Annie.
Her graft was good and reliable
and she’d been in business for years.
The story went that our mother was a ******
when I was born. Don’t ask me how.
I never quite got that part of the story myself.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC