"fortieth" poems
I’ve got fifteen years tied in knots
of green and brown and I have
decided that it is time for a change
of scenery. So I climb onto the roof
and pretend I am a chimney, spewing
smoke of blue and grey and lung cancer and
voggy Hilo mornings. A helicopter
circles overhead at an altitude of 805 feet, its
searchlight catching the neighborhood
lying spread-eagled on the living room
floor, brutally desecrated and left
bare-bones to die. I am a catalyst,
an instigator, a cynic with a palm tree.
Today I read an atlas and find
naught but “A Hui Hou” scrawled across
the pages in black pen. I burn the
book, the bridge, and the old tires in
the backyard.
On Saturday it rained and the floodwaters
took my bicycle.
Sometimes I sit by the roadside reading
Bukowski with hibiscus in my hair and
Indiana in my eyes. Hunting dogs
clash with rescue dogs at the house
with the stop sign. The moon falls
from the sky and engulfs the mynah
birds and the plague. The floodwaters
recede and leave a jigsaw puzzle
on the slopes of Mauna Kea. “I am not
afraid,” I say, “for I am only gravel.”
I play the eight-bar blues on Fortieth
and sing songs of drugs and missed
connections. I am hit by a truck and
a little gold car, but I proclaim myself
immortal as I am flattened to the pavement.
I am the Ki’i Pohaku beatnik, and
I write of nature and nurture and
the never-ending rain.
Someone has painted my walls blue
and my hands grey. So I pack my suitcase
and run down the highway for
seven thousand miles and all I see
are mistakenly-numbered houses and
blank maps and dead neighbors
from families I used to know.
There are torrents of rain now,
forming puddles in the forest.
I know the reason. It is twelve
in the morning.
The neighborhood grows obscure.
We are demolished.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
crawl around on your floor
searching for clothes
that will change you
rearrange your hair
for the fortieth time
i've just realized
this is how i express
my social anxiety
i look at my face in the mirror
and all i want to do
is cut it
pretty sure this isn't
healthy
help
me
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
our mothers tears fill a hospital ward
as a doctor summons the Chaplins call
last rites administer to this tiny newborn
thrice in five days you're destined to fall
born with a hole in such a delicate heart
yet no doctor nor cleric could recognise
this was to allow the world seep through
a shining eighth wonder of pale blue eyes
held on the sill outside a neonatal room
i saw with my soul a love birthed anew
dad he promised that you'd be home soon
there to the years of childhood we grew
the time had come for mam to say to me
sister was different in other ways as well
not for you was destined a desk at school
nor books would you read nor stories tell
innocence of the pure and purity of truth
special she said born of down syndrome
and yet would i never once see you down
for your smiles to me evoke only wisdom
now as you pass over your fortieth year
my sister i cherish all that we hold dear
for you are a family's jewel in it's crown
raising a world from love handed down
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
but it wasn't just losing you
it was losing out on all the memories to-be
like your mother's fortieth birthday
your baby cousin's first day at school
your uncle's wedding (i'd already picked out my clothes)
it meant missing you at my graduation
and you never seeing my little sister grow
never tasted the fresh morning brew my dad makes
or listening to my mom recite
losing you wasn't just losing you
it was losing everything around you
and in a way,
it meant losing myself too.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
I saw an ad in the local paper
A reunion for the class of 54
I decided I would attend
I’ve never been to one before
It should be grand and lots of fun
So I rented a tux and black tie
Put new batteries in me hearing aid
Bought a wig and polished me eye
I emptied a bottle of old spice
Did me toupee nice with brylcream
I soaked me teeth in steredent
Then gargled with some Listerine
I soon arrived in splendid form
Smelling my very best
It was held in a hall at an old folks home
A place called the shady rest
It’s the fortieth year and it’s very clear
Every one is out to impress
Even the Janes that was always plain
Wore their most elegant dress
They came round with name tags
But didn’t have one for me
Then suddenly I remembered
I was in the class of 53.
©Hazel
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
It was said that anything could change in a blink of an eye
That life could evolve, why not give it a try?
An average human being blinks twenty-three thousand and forty times a day.
That could result to twenty-three thousand and forty revolutions by the way.
So I started to stare at the mirror, to wonder and think.
Why not observe and see what’d happen if I blinked.
Would my life revolve to the way I wanted it to be?
Would I become like the celebrities and the people I conceived?
I tried blinking once. Not a single thing has changed.
I’m still looking at the person that I’ve always despised.
Whose life can never, and I mean ever be arranged.
The kid who always ends up crying and mortified.
I tried blinking again. For the second time.
I realise how ugly I am. How cringeworthy my face is.
If there’s a scale, I would be zero for attractive basis.
No offense(If I’d offend myself), I look like I’d commit a crime.
For the third time, I blinked again.
Veins started to grow, giving in to the pain of my complains.
Fogs started to cover my ugly reflection.
The thorns injected me with doses that affected my complexion.
I started to feel weak. I started to hold on to the wall.
I wished that this could stop in a blink.
The mirror started to be covered with ink.
I’ve always learned to hold back for the fear that I’d fall.
For the fourth time, I blinked.
The mirror started to have cracks. I tried to stop it.
My blood dripped from it like an ink.
It made a shape that looks like a target.
I blinked again. Fifth, sixth, seventh to the twenty-three thousand and thirty-fifth time.
I blinked again. It’s all the same, each time it happens it just gets worse.
I blinked again. Losing all the words in my head. Losing the letters to build a rhyme.
I blinked again. I started to feel numb, realising that nothing really mattered.
I stared at the broken mirror. Realising each edges.
I’ve never really looked “human" in a broken mirror.
I remembered Him who payed for my wages.
At that moment, despite of the broken mirror, I started to see clearer.
I closed my eyes. Longer than what a blink should be.
I felt His touch. His healing, running through my veins.
I felt him. And his name is Love, who broke all my chains.
For the first time, with closed eyes, I could see.
For the last time, for the twenty-three thousand and fortieth time.
I blinked, staring at the mirror. The cracks started to disappear.
I smirked and felt the change. The change that I’m now whole with the Great I Am.
Nothing more, nothing less. It’s the love of Love I’d only fear.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
among all the virtues I believe honesty is paramount
the utmost top rung fruit on the sundae cherry topping
lie to me and say you do, I will give a benefit of a doubt for you,
until you bleed me dry
i cherish honesty, in that benefit i will call your dealer
pay him , give you money for food,
sit by watching while you **** him off
call your boss with your excuses
But I will believe in you
up to the point you stabbed me
in the back for the fortieth time
then I will die bleeding
worshipping the ground
you walked all over me on.
I am stupid.
Gotta give it to relentlessly
stupid though.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
Written on June 22, 2009, the fortieth anniversary of Judy Garland's death
40 years later:
She continues to leave us
in a loss for words.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Behind autumn's tears
Innocence longs for summer
And days of sunshine
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
The creek of my neck
A head tilt to the side
Movements oddly jolted
I’ve become zombified
The day you walked out
My vision was lost
I swore I’d not talk
Whatever the cost
My heart ceased to grow
And took along my soul
Refusing to remember
Or to grow old
But my fortieth year
brought something brand new
No longer felt sadness
attached to you
My whole world changed
The day you returned
A love that grew
A love we both earned
I’m hurt you are leaving
But this time I know
You’re not leaving me
You just have to go
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
Without warning, the house lights dim. Conversation stops mid-word, and instantly all eyes are on our orchestra, impeccably matching in black tuxedos and gaucho pants. I can no longer see my smiling friends in the crowd, just a sea of dark, empty faces staring back at me.
The yellowing, torn pages on my music stand read “Symphonie Fantastique -- 1st Bassoon” in bold lettering. “Watch!”, “Play out!”, and other enthusiastic reminders litter the margins. Behind me, the timpanist quietly tunes to D, preparing for the fourth movement, March to the Scaffold, containing one of the most well-known orchestral bassoon solos of all time. “Play it like a pompous king laughing as a criminal is led to the guillotine,” our short, Italian conductor insisted one day in rehearsal. Next to the fortieth measure marker, a doodle of a stick figure in a crown laughs.
I stare at the black scuff marks on the glossy stage floor as the orchestra swells around me. All too soon, the timpani rolls from underneath the angry violin pizzicato. My cue. I breathe in deeply.
first solo
heartbeat in time
with racing eighth notes
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
You met him just like others before him, he was rough and very very raw.
You detested him, saw him below your level.
He wormed his way into your heart and became part and parcel of your being.
He had nothing, no life, you breathed purpose into him.
He used to crawl, you became his legs.
A blind fellow who had no vision, you gave him sight and reason to live.
Just as a fish can't forget to swim,
just as a donkey itches to bray.
His past at times calls him and he relapses.
Two backslides you forgive, then warn him.
Just like a bad *** that doesn't forget to ****
You argue with him on his fortieth relapse.
Being the human being you are, a child like him.
You call it quits,
Like a river drained of its water, like a night stolen of its stars. Like a farm without its produce or a bee without its sting,
he is.
He tries to stand, you were his feet. Opens his mouth, your were his voice.
He tries to think you were his brain.
And looking at his heart, he has none.
And that's how to **** a man
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
on the day that marks
his fortieth year
a doctor informs him
that his arthritis is worsening,
digits more like twigs,
mashed potatoes for knees.
the news is no surprise,
more expected mail.
when the band begins,
the cymbal sizzle
like vegetables in a pan,
crow horn squawk,
he places the mouthpiece
between his chapped lips
knowing that any day
could be the last day now,
so he thinks of Coltrane
and blows, hard, all he’s ever known,
eyes of a gaggle of strangers,
ping-pong ***** in the dark.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC