"officialdom" poems
It had been one of those enervating days,
when officialdom and red tape paperwork
had ****** the yolk and marrow leaving only
a dullness that yawed the ghost ship of her frame.
She decided not to cook, as much as
payback for her ordeal by proper channels.
And so to the "Toilet Bar", cafe of choice
for malicious villagers, though rarely women.
The men folk hardly stared upon her entrance,
by now they knew those leopard skin boots,
that packed a wallop they grudgingly took
stock of, then returned to their cheese and wine.
This was her quarter of salt cod with cream,
prepared by owner Paula and daughter Carolina,
the only other women tolerated amongst the chairs,
that smelled of tar and testosterone.
Lacking collars three tumbled to the stony street,
drunken mechanic, one armed plumber, peg-legged sailor,
the kerfuffle amusing her, their wicked aunt.
Another Lagoan night that shimmered out to sea.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
This fragile body hosts an infinite soul
whose human form may not be whole.
What may appear a tragic rift
is in fact a precious gift
to those whose spirits are attuned.
Extending our own body and soul
to others is what we truly know.
Often outside walls close in
with loneliness and credit cards spread thin,
as advocacy with officialdom weighs in.
But nothing will change what you do,
for this is what carers know.
Each body hosts an infinite soul.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
She slumped by the archway of the Chapel,
Forlorn, beaten in fact;
She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh,
(Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings)
To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux
Purchased from a women at a small shop table,
Who’d had the grace not to haggle over-much,
Knowing full well why someone would make such a purchase.
She’d hoped to lay it at her brother’s marker;
He’d been lost at Omaha, likely before he’d set foot on the sand
(She’d no ideas of such things at the time,
Death being a thing that happened to rabbits
Their old shepherd chased down in the back yard,
Or dolls beheaded courtesy of her younger brother)
But the plot number given to her with such confidence
By the young adjutant from the War Department
Had a name wholly unknown to her
(Where the information was bollixed she had no way of knowing,
Not that officialdom would be any more help to her,
With so many sons in Scranton,
So many husbands in Hamtramck,
So many fathers and brothers in the same boat)
And so she sat, overwhelmed with the distance she’d come,
The magnitude of her failure and its implications,
And the whole **** burden of simple humanity
When she was approached by an older man,
Who clearly resided nearby
(Why he was here less evident—the hush of the venue, perhaps,
Possibly some corporal he was indebted to).
He’d understood her predicament in an instant,
No doubt a scene he’d witnessed scores of times before,
Laissez-le sur un monument funéraire,
He crooned, patting her forearm
Ce n’est pas important, and he sauntered away.
She’d considered heeding his advice,
But she remained hostage
To some vestige of latter-day Babbitesque can-do,
And so she soldiered back toward the endless rows of marble,
Stretching out in endless parallel lines
As in some middle-school perspective perspective drawing
Without borders, without end.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
zeitgeist
yuppiedoms
xanthic
whatsits
vibrate
unabashedly
toothsome
salutations
requiring
qualifications
pernickety
officialdom
nagging
malestroms
leaving
kindness
jaundiced
imoliated
horrendous
gargoyles
feign
empathy
disastrous
calamity
boodles
atonement
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
We drove
to the funeral directors,
Nat, Gabs and I,
to pick up
Ole's ashes.
We walked from the car
to the building
across a forecourt
in silence,
it seeming surreal,
yet all too real
as we approached together.
A woman met us
at the door,
a well fed,
plump one.
Can I help you?
We've come
for the ashes
of my son,
I said.
His name?
I told her.
She showed us
into a room
and we sat in silence.
The small room was built
for solemnity: sad music
was piped from speakers
on the walls and the décor
was dull, yet fit
for the sad occasion.
We waited,
looking at each other,
looking away.
Part of me expected,
unreal, yet
somehow real,
for Ole to walk in
in his black coat
and hungry bear gait
and say:
Fooled you all
that time.
But he didn’t
of course,
just the music
and an air
of heaviness
and deep sadness.
The woman returned
with a small oak casket
with Ole's name on
the brass plaque on top.
She handed it to Nat
and gave me a form
that had to be filled in
before Ole's remains
could be interred or
the ashes scattered;
another piece
of officialdom in death,
as if nothing else mattered.
We said our thank yous
and gazed at the woman.
She had a look
of sadness,
a solemnity,
but she had no tear
I could see, but why
should she, I thought,
she didn’t know young Ole.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC