"placemats" poems
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.
But I was talking about the picture.
The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.
Right, the picture....
It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.
But, the picture....
It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.
The picture...
It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?
I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
"Get seven plates"
"Seven knifes ,spoons and forks"
"And Seven napkins and placemats"
Setting the dinner table was an awful request,
but now I take it as a gift...
For the number of plates are less, and less every time that I'm asked
The glasses aren't being used as much,
It seems like we are using the same three glasses every time
And the drinks In it are all the same
except for the ones that are sitting in the cabinet,
There already filled with the memories that happened at the dinner table,
seven years ago, When I was asked...
"Get seven plates"
"Seven knifes,spoons and forks"
"And Seven napkins and placemats"
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
down the stairs, where the creak-feet of descent
will silence a cricket in the room; there with couch
and the bookstand, oak and glass....
sedate features; the odd bust of an Inuit matriarch-
staring at your blouse like it were forged
in blasphemies and trade winds.
down there, where we keep the cat riveted to the headlights
of our armored car.
in the seam
the coffee table is strewn, right down the middle
with old magazines and straw placemats.
a stain that never fades,
stands in the garden of cigarette butts and dog-eared -
post-it notes
to a glass scarecrow.
a mound of bric-a-brac
and fingerprints.
it's sticky
where two people
made the love
that made the mess...
but it's hollow where they never met.
and you can see the carpet through the permafrost.
our lens
immune to domain.
free to see the whimsy
in a spot of bother
about a broken
heart.
down where the television skin is the thickest. our ironic muse.
just a spritz of cultured sabotage,
and the good sense to go mad
without disturbing the peace....
the same peace that almost -
cost us the war.
at the very least.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
this is is the curse summer has gifted me:
ninety days of subway stations and
over-zealous music tastes and
yearning for some different faces while
ignoring them in all your places
placemats dripping in spilled drinks and
way too much for one to think and
saying yes to too many suggestions
whilst ignoring all of the important questions
drummers with harsh words and nice eyes and
a dad with no clue how to apologize and
feeling pitch black in a field of light and
why haven't i showered since sunday night?
it's plants you grow that always die
and stupid books about stupid lives
but you're at the library almost all of the time
and you still lie awake just before the sun can rise
its how meditation lies
and all reciprocation has died
it's your own foreign tongue and
a longing for anyone
it's your word against yours since
no one cares to listen and
summer seems to have gone on too long
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
I can't remember what the placemats on my kitchen table used to look like,
Or why you hated the word "cauliflower" so much.
I can't recall the arrangement of your irises,
Or which side of me you thought was brighter.
I don't know what your voice sounded like anymore,
Or why the things I want to care about are the things that everyone else keeps telling me don't matter.
But I won't ever lose the way the pitch of your voice rose when I upset you,
but never the volume,
Like a wave fighting too desperately
Against an all too familiar current.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
It’s a bar like this:
Smashed in Bud lite cans, Hennessey bottles half emptied.
Cable TV, static at high volume,
Re-runs of Seinfeld and
Occasionally the game.
Men in sweats, men in tuxes, men in rags,
Men in company jackets.
Bonded and connected by their mutual friend Jack
And their ex-lover Brandy.
It’s a bar like this:
Bartenders sniffing coke, pouring
3 parts orange juice, 1 part ***** 2 parts water.
Posters hanging with ******* girls and
Kate Upton.
Smells of defeat and destruction emanate to the street,
The sign swings crooked, uncared for, untouched.
Broken in windows, lined with blackened wood panels
Creatively decorated with graffiti
Lightbulbs act like lightening bugs,
Never illuminating on command.
Plumbing rattles, toilets overflow,
One woman stands alone.
It’s a bar like this:
Two men swear and hiss,
Breaking a table in two.
Chairs part like the red sea,
Bets are placed.
Occasionally, some stray wanders in,
Testing out the waters,
Coughing up nicotine and tar,
holding his door frame crutch.
Scratchy hand towels and oily soup,
Sink bowls re-rusted.
McDonald’s bags liter the stained tiles,
Enjoying rat company.
It’s a bar like this:
Over enthusiastic boss hiring
Sixteen year olds,
Blondes only,
No criminal record.
Eviction notices used as placemats and
Electric bill coasters.
Been open since 1975 but
Even then
it was a bar like this.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
you love him more than me
but how many nights have I spent
my eyes laden with sleep unslept
an electronic glow as bright as the sun
so you wouldn't feel alone?
you love him more than me
but how many times have I stopped
my voice curled in my chest
patient as a monk
as you ordered your thoughts?
you love him more than me
but how many times have I paused
my heart a staccato 12/8
as you made yourself comfortable
against my side?
you love him more than me
but how many times have I offered
helping you by handing
small things for organization
so you could finally be at peace?
you love him more than me
but when have I looked around a restaurant
taking note of silverware
of details and of placemats
to be sure that he'd be comfortable?
you love him more than me
but when have I listened aptly
nodding and agreeing
even if he's wrong
simply because he needs the control?
you love him more than me
but when have I laid beside him
curled into his shape
uncaring if my arm went numb
because he was my solace?
you love him more than me
but when have I held my heart
a live beating creature leaking pain
in cupped palms
and offered it to him?
you love him more than me
but when have I removed myself
full bodied, kicking, screaming
from his presence
just to offer him peace of mind?
you love him more than me
but when have I harbored hurt
refused to let it show in any way
steeled myself against the softest comments
because I know he didn't mean them?
you love him more than me
but when have I panicked
when have I trembled with nerves
when have I breathed a sigh of relief
because our tangled fingers felt like home?
you love him more than me
but when have I debated
posting poetry that tells more
than my words ever could
for him?
you love him more than me
but a thousand reasons more
and a thousand reasons less
could not explain the falseness
of this accusation
you love him more than me
but an entire poem written
for the sole reason of explanation
could not console the damage
left by this punch in the gut
you love him more than me
but if years of friendship
months of words and inside jokes
could not show you differently
what will a few words do?
you love him more than me
but I haven’t-
but I’ve-
but I-
but-
you love him more than me
Okay.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
I think I’m a ticking timebomb, every day that goes by my anger grows and grows, never diffusing.
Theres no one else to be angry at but myself. As weak as an eggshell, breaking at the slightest impact. If i were a color i would be scarlet, filled with rage and a roaring fury that only gets worst when spoken to.
My body is as tight as a coil, springing up in defense at every little thing. impatient and tired of the apparitions that keep moving through the walls of its brain. I want them to leave but i get lonely without them keeping me company.
I ask them to hold my head up, their transparent hands gently cradle me. rocking me into an absent lull. They bring me down but lift me up and i can’t live without their memory, They make me into who i am.
i ask them to hand me the ladder whenever i get stuck at the bottom of the pit. I should’ve learned my lesson, sometimes they pull it up instead of lowering it down. They make me keep grasping for more light.
I ask them to eat dinner with me occasionally, i tell them i want to hear their voices again. i leave out extra placemats for them incase they ever decide to join me. I’m left hoping and staring at empty seats, reminded that they will never come back. They make me stomach food again.
I ask them if it hurt when they left. if they feel my tears whenever i cry. i am met with wide stares and carefree smiles. left to wonder what they found that makes them happy. they make me feel again.
I ask them to love me despite what disasters i make for myself. i don’t have to hear their voices anymore to know that they do.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
There,
he wonders if there is
too much cream coiling in
tendrils, swirling.
He peels the cup from a large penny-stain
and sups at sweet heat, too sweet,
too sweet.
If only it was of the richest brown!
Bitter and scalding - and it becomes!
Clearer and clearer it becomes
in porcelain mug, creamy.
And the world would be most wonderful, then.
The world would be wonderful
once more, again, the rain would once more dance
again, just as the coffee
must trace young
delicate rings on
placemats and the upper bits
of lips-
but the rain outside is heavy and stale, and the stains
are leaking, leaking pennies
Still, he stares into his coffee
sitting plainly on the table
and thinks.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
Dancing with snowflakes
Dancing Feet with the rhythmic winds...
Holiday Seasons...
Sweet love and sugar cookies and cakes.
Memories of a childhood of such moments
caught in my mind's eye like a live newscast
Brings forth future chuckles
as future broadcasts span across the globe
Like a fine wine..
Such gets sweeter when age adds to the formats
to elder's ages
growing in strength and numbers
Here we go...toasts to the cheers
of these sovereign time placemats.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
Move slow and you can hear my bones creak
I am that old wooden rocking chair in your grandparents home that you used to go to every Sunday,
And every Sunday you used to set the table even though you never liked it much,
Five fragile dinner plates in your tiny palms spread across the placemats
Soon five turned to four and Sunday dinners were more quiet,
If you moved slowly enough you could hear your bones creak
When we didn’t talk you could hear the clock tick
The grandfather clock stopped ticking awhile ago but it’s a decoration now
You grew sad when you would count the plates and your thumb would slip down to the fifth one and slowly back up to the fourth,
Two chairs sat in the living room
only one being used,
The rest of us sat on the off white couch with flowers that had been sewn in, and the rough beige blanket that was laid across the top of the couch would scratch our necks if we laid back all the way,
That old wooden rocking chair pressing into the carpet imprinting it’s legs there forever, no one sits there anymore.
Four turned to three and quickly to two,
Two passed on and the other was removed
Four years go by and the house was sold, but the memories will never vanish
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC