"marblehead" poems
WE CONSIDER THEM VERMIN--
these visitors
to the rotting corpses of our loved ones.
But what if
they’re only there to say
hello?
And when’s the last time you paid them a visit,
anyway?
Well let me tell you something:
the maggots and
worms
know where we're going.
Billions of years, billions of ancestors,
busily moving
through their lives in
isolated
blips--
They’re just data now.
And did John the Amoeba, feeding on sunlight, ever think
that somewhere down the line
his great-something-grandson
would be a poet?
A doctor?
A teacher?
A football player?
Did he ever think that his great-something-grandson would
sit in his room
and listen to
the Mountain Goats?
To be honest, probably not.
Grandpa’s a stranger.
He got sick when you were young, but you
could never
remember
the name of the disease.
But it all came down to the fact that he never recognized his own grandchild—
he was an ancient basket case whom you loved
because
that’s what
you were told
to do.
You were 13 when he died,
and his passing gave you an excuse
to be sad,
which worked out pretty well because
sadness
was the most stylish emotion
at Marblehead Charter
in 2007.
Grandpa won’t be there on your wedding day.
He’ll be with the vermin,
saying hello.
But you won’t mind—
you still love him anyway.
Because one day
you'll be in his place
and your grandson will be getting married
and you won’t be there,
but he'll still love you anyway.
And somewhere down the line,
you’ll be someone’s—something’s—John the Amoeba.
And you know you would be proud.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.
We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o’er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
An easy entrance, night and day.
Not far away we saw the port,
The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead;
And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again;
The first slight swerving of the heart,
That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
And sent no answer back again.
The windows, rattling in their frames,
The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
All mingled vaguely in our speech;
Until they made themselves a part
Of fancies floating through the brain,
The long-lost ventures of the heart,
That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
They were indeed too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
1.5k
I'd like to take you to the beach in Marblehead,
When the summer nights are warm.
Take you out to dinner,
Show you the riches of my homeland.
Then I'll hold your hand, walk you to the sands,
Where we can be hidden from the world,
Hidden enough to dance amongst the waves.
Spinning, dipping, gliding across the grains,
Hands on your skin, lips on your own.
When we tire we can retire,
Down on a blanket, I'll cradle you,
We can watch the stars fly by.
Maybe I'll get to watch you,
Dance another groove.
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC
Midwest highway
sting of cold air in my veins
a rush of hope
desire flows
im happy wild and free
I ran into a house
metallic snow of my design
escape me to this day
ill find myself
where and when and why
I live for life
i guess you'd say i cant stand living
organized the boredom here it takes me back
too ******* far too wide
I miss the broken seashells
cracking on the rocks
overcast sky and shrieking gulls
hacking away at my own eyes
forget the life i left behind
i miss my island
miss my tide
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
I will not be disturbed by this mother of three.
I will ignore her Cheshire makeup,
her matching white tennis club outfit,
and her wild dreams of a life on Mars.
I will do this because she is what I am not--
she is a ghost,
while I am free.
I see her in the stratos,
I see her in the sky.
I see her in the people,
I see her in my mind.
I am made of crooked a l p h a b e t soup and
I have seen the mother of death and rebirth and
understanding.
I have faced her in her milk cart prison,
and I have dreamed of her shining yesteryear.
For there is more than alphabet s o u p in the can.
There is a flood of m e m o r i e s reactivated by the
breaking of a
mental dam.
Now I see that I am aging swiftly and poorly,
for my years have escaped me,
and have long been forgotten.
Farewell, Stanley Elementary School;
So long, Marblehead Charter;
I remember you in J e w i s h tones
and chlorine-crusted c h a i n l i n k fences.
But a f r e s h s u n
s l o w l y r i s e s, my dear,
and I k n o w
that I m u s t
become
a peacock
once a g a i n.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC