"squabbles" poems
*Let me be captured by the night.
Engrossed in the conversation
between the stars.
Syncopated twinkling like...
thousands of fireflies
trapped within sealed jars.
Let me be enslaved by the moon.
As I drink her glow in
greedy insatiable gulps.
Crestfallen...
Her beam with an agenda...
As the landscape she sculpts.
Let me be ensnared by my solitude.
But I hear crickets...
Chirping and chipping away at my
bastion of dreamstate.
Persistent calls
I try to shun
that never abates.
Let me be trapped in my thoughts.
So I could harness...
And immortalise them in
indelible careless scribbles.
Erecting and...
Rebuilding them from the
rubble of conflicting squabbles.
**Let me be overwhelmed
by the mess of my being...**
Let me wallow
Then emerge strong from this
decrepit state of mind.
Let me breathe heavy from my
punctured lungs.
So I could heal in time before
true solace
in this dark,
I would find.*
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.
Remember uploading in Facebook, the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels
The tsunami of saliva which the tender yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.
Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby
When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came
You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough
Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel
Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca
phoo
For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca
Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’
With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing
Daddy
Super daddy.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
.
**•i only ••• weep for
the path of my brethren•when we turn
to bloodshed to settle petty squabbles•
the rage ••• in our
hearts could
not be more brazen•
for we have ground all we-
've built to dust and rubble•the tears from the fau-
cets of many only trickle•the drips could never douse
the flames we've stoked • we play with lives as we pit
them to a gamble•the hei- nousness
within us that we've carelessly
... invoked•**
•
••
•••••
•••••••
••••••
•••
.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
My mum is so beautiful
My mum is so kind
My mum is so sweet
I love my mum so much
My mum gave me life
Thank you mum you gave me
a lot when you had 6 other children to see too you done it on your own thank you mum
Am sorry for all the fights and squabbles.
I thank you for giving me a roof over my head and comfort when I was weak. Love you mum
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
There is something about this
House in Hackensack...
It attracts people...like a magnet.
They often gather here, and
They are welcomed any time.
Eyes and souls surround,
Even strangers are drawn to it,
Like bees attracted to the flowers.
Reunions are looked forward to...
Even short chats and visits
For some coffee or wine
Are always welcome.
This house....
It makes people want to come back...
It's not just the food,
Or the help it offers...
The comeliness of the place,
The people that live within...
The noise... ever-present,
The shaking of the stairs, when the boys
Chase, tease each other...
The squabbles, replete with tears...
Cabinets are real heavy,
With weight-y stories to tell...
The bedrooms, so inviting, where jokes
And giggles underneath the covers
Could be heard till late hours of the night...
All gather in the kitchen,
The hub in this house...
Family, friends...even new guests
Do not go to the living room...
They walk straight to the kitchen.
There, where the home scents
Exude warmth,
Fragrant with home-cooking.
The long dining table says it all...
A different kind of music
Plays every time
And invites everyone
To stay for a while and relax...
It beckons each time...
It whispers...
"Go, find your corner...do your thing,
You'll be okay..."
And so, the cozy sun room became
A favorite spot in that house,
Where beautiful poetry bloomed
At any hour during that whole month.
From out front, along the street,
Circling around to the backyard,
Then back inside...
It has now finally dawned on this clouded mind,
What that "something" is...
This house, metamorphosed
From an old, kind of cold Victorian, to a homier,
More comfortable modernized domicile...
Now radiates with love, warmth and kindness,
The energy emitted by the family living within...
The people are the crown and the charm...
They are the smoke coming out of the chimney...
The A U R A of this house, standing proud
Along Catalpa Avenue.........
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
You’ll find them in all such establishments,
(Be they graceful small-town former Victorian homes,
Or cinderblock edifices mindful of some campus multi-faith center)
Sitting in the basement, cheek-to-jowl
With moldering burial records and banking statements,
Yellowed newspaper clippings, faded prayer cards
Small squared-off boxes hastily tabbed together,
Ostensibly temporary containers which have acquired
An unintended and wholly unwelcome permanence.
The whys and wherefores of their subterranean placement
A mixed bag of foible and outright foolishness:
Unresolvable squabbles concerning possession and burial,
Families that skipped out on the bill, leaving mom behind,
Cases of outright not giving a good-goddamn.
And so they remain, in lieu of repatriation and redemption,
To sit for something akin to perpetuity in some cases
(Members of the profession resolute in their respect
For the dignity of life,
Though their sincerity enjoys less unanimity)
While others wait for mass burial
Once legal niceties have been satisfied,
While still others, in care of firms not so scrupulous
About crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s,
Are flung, albeit somewhat surreptitiously, out the back door,
The remains to take flight if the grass is dry and the wind is brisk,
Otherwise to be left to the vagaries
Of curious birds and creped soles.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Everyone's lying
But nobody is listening,
Coins glimmer and shine;
The truth still glistens
At dawn over crop fields,
Sunlit canopies.
Nature prevails
To show us our failures,
Yet, mankind squabbles.
The death toll rises
And nothing ever changes;
We don't have the time.
Keep spinning the wheel,
The sunset brings shade.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Im focusing my energy elsewhere as best I can, but I keep thinking of El Torpedo.
Trapped there between dimensions like that; It's no fun. I've been there.
It's no fun at all.
I generally don't get involved in petty squabbles between lesser beings;
But, this particular situation bothered me greatly.
Is it because I'm lonely?
I'm too lazy to be lonely;
So, that makes no sense.
I can't even enjoy my coffee for want of piece of mind on the matter.
That's where I draw the ******* line.
My haven, it will not be disturbed this way.
I had to do something.
Something that required effort;
Asking favors from entities I don't particularly care to visit with.
I've never felt this.
Why do I care all of a sudden?
A question for which I currently have no answer.
I really should've paid more attention to the goings on,
but I was distracted by thoughts of Sacred Geometry
And dreams of Fibonacci...
Here is what I think I know so far:
El Torpedo thought she killed The Artist.
So did everyone else.
That turned out not to be the case.
Killing the Scarecrow, I can understand.
It would make perfect sense to me- but, I'm not the Artist.
She works differently.
She takes her time.
This was a crime of passion, she was in a hurry.
She didn't sign her work
That is unheard of; it doesn't happen.
El Torpedo is alive.
The Artist didn't plan this; it was happenstance.
They interrupted her;
She punished them.
Ghost was opportunity (I'll explain),
Torpedo was mercy (How mundane).
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
If God exists
He or She knows All
Is Everywhere
And Everywhen
And lives beyond
Space and Time.
For so it is to be a God.
She is far too great
To concern herself
With this grain of sand
Lost in the vastness of our Multiverse.
Our words can’t hurt Her,
Maybe make Her smile at most,
Even as we take Her name in vain.
Our petty squabbles
Are but fights
Amongst the ants.
She Loves all Life,
Though some be sacrificed at times
For the Greater Good.
I ask you all
To open your mind
And see us through Her eyes.
She cannot want us
To martyr ourselves
Or **** those who are different
In race or creed.
She will not give us Heaven
If we sacrifice our lives
To **** Her creatures
That she made
With such magnificent grace.
Above all else She is a Loving God,
Cherishing ALL that Lives.
Forget the ancient histories
Of warring and strife.
NOW is where we are,
And now is the Time
For Love.
Paul Butters
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
Our lives are like ocean waves, born of a celestial entity among a diversified sea of possibilities. Direction and intensity set at birth with a future blurred by the endless horizon
Some waves wander alone, losing momentum as they are gradually ushered down by Earth’s gravitational pull before tragically coming to a rest among the blue abyss, destination never realized
Others are born of the unseen violence and upheaval between tectonic plates battling for dominion over the volatile landscape deep beneath the surface. Knowing no other way, they perpetuate the violence that created them, destroying and consuming everything in their path
Yet some join together, superimposed into a harmonious union that multiplies their strength and propels them forward until it’s waters gently meet the shore in an actualizing marriage of journey and destiny
Storms often boil up out of nowhere, dismantling adjacent waves. While a select few resist the onslaught, instead gaining strength and vitality. Like a conductor bringing a symphony to crescendo, the roil pushes these waves further than others in pursuit of their destination
This dynamic tapestry of new beginnings and violent ends blend together as one, eroding and shaping the land around them as they work out their daily squabbles. Heads barely above water, they continue onward towards the horizon blatantly disregarding a future for which they create
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
Oh, Joseph, we love this fine and ritzy party
No, through the poppy fields we rode a cart, see?
I agree, but at that time the lake was dry
There were castles and spires and dragons this high!
Joseph, what a very, very good party.
--At times, I find there are never parties
But it has been so long since this trip I’ve started
So long from home, with the pain of thought-wandering
Wander, wonder if the dead sit so pondering
In their solitude.
What time find men to thought-wander when dead?
Where seconds breathe lifetimes, bleed red
And when will thought-wandering cave in my head?
The stammered squabbles of parties bled
Out into my hearing.
--Oh, I simply cannot believe the things he says
My dear, did he philosophize about his pauper days?
Lord, how she would twist and turn the conversation
She’d laugh and cheer and nod, all to appease him
Do you hear them now?
--In no earthy place could one ever find such a cracked imagination
Go, and thought-wander the depths of my empty nation;
You’ll find a few dismantled towns, a statue, gold;
A statue of me, built by me, where parties were held
Even there you won’t find it.
Perhaps, if one could find, some lonely corner
With shadows and planks in the heart of the world
Where the dead would sit and the dead would ponder
The fuss and precision of their last friend, the coroner
There you may find it.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 9:37 PM UTC
Qualified Abstinence
I’ve decided - though not wholly -
As of morning’s bath - to put on hold
The daily custom, habit’s viewing -
NCIS, Dr Phil - suspecting as I do
That they are doing me some harm
Engaging, charming
as they are.
Mind as thought and mind as stomach,
Turn to worry, churn with fear
As states of things in world and home,
Play out the clearer,
Signs maturing in their chaos,
Ever growing, ever baiting;
Making brilliant, analytical dear Phil
Ever more mouth-watering.
Well-loved NCIS plays its part,
Portraying nations torn apart
With ever cleverer technologies
And cleverer–type baddies
Getting ‘theirs’ from even smarter good guys.
If then, strong enough to not back off,
The morning TV staying off,
Then maybe, only maybe
This old belly
Can restore its tranquil peristalsis,
Family squabbles turning babble to a kiss.
Phil, dear Phil, continue to be wise and kind!
NCIS’ cast: brave, cuddly and seasoned -
Flag unfurled, continue to engage yourselves
In world salvation!
Stationing my thoughts in action,
I must leave you both
To carry myself into truth
As cellular Arlene conceives, perceives,
Inherently achieves it.
(If, of course, l don’t fall back into the -
(crude, ill-mannered rude word) shit!
Qualified Abstinence 7.20.2014
Pure Nakedness; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
arlene corwin poetry.com
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
I'll tell you now, girl, I've never been good at expressing my emotions. I run my mind around and around in circles, seeking solace from the lullaby of loneliness I hear every night before bed.
I'll tell you now, girl, I'm not your stereotypical tough guy. I'm not going to start squabbles for the sake of excitement, or purvey pain like the pimps and the players.
I'll tell you now, girl, I'm not the most confident man that's ever sauntered down these streets. I have a fragile ego, one that breaks like brittle little bones nearly every evening. The few things I take pride in seem insignificant in the face of my follies, fallacies, and failures.
But I'll tell you now, girl, you keep me alive through the worst life throws at me. When the world is whirling and I'm weak and wasted, I wish for a woman to withhold my wild ways. I beg for the beauty that will battle the back breakers and bum-bombs that burst in my brain. I sing for the siren of all things sweet and **** of salvation and accompanied solitude.
But I'll tell you now, girl, you don't exist. The joyous and gentle girl I describe within is mere myth. A myth, but a mystical morsel of my mind, one I shall seek till I'm sickly and saggy. A soul that sends shivers down my spine every succulent second they're in sight.
I'll never stop my search, fantasy female. When I at last locate you, love, I won't let you leave, and I won't leave you limp and lifeless, from lures and lies.
I can only desire your deliverance, dream dame, and I leave my heart on your fireplace hearth, hoping to hold you.
For an instant.
For an evening.
For eternity.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
Tis anesting, such sweet sparrow,
hath thou fleed from an icy grip,
tis springtime's warming blow,
that melts such waters, now to sip.
Tis some tunes, of squabbles in
thy nest, a gentle tugging snack,
of tasty worm, a hearty din
that chicks, with joy attack.
Alas, poor nesting sparrow,
thy chicks and you will flee,
when there comes the cold and snow,
then, I wonder where thy be.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:29 AM UTC
Graphic holographic photographic
useless plastic blacklights
that sit
popping balloons ***** spilling
everywhere, at least partial
it comes and goes
sitting, comparing mustaches, reminiscing
woodland conundrums meaningless exchanges of time
passed
squished in a sober automobile
full of drunks meaningless squabbles
squished seven in where seven belong
belligerent drunk, joyously sober
drunkenly sober?
either way i am
am i
i am
here for now, although we all know the impermanence of time, the moment
stupid words thrown on a page
to serve what purpose?
what good does any of it do?
words connect emotions
sorrowful stories of serene sounds
uneffecting interacting with all
endless expanses of open feet walk without
soles? souls? either way the have no base?
sitting on couches watching beaten cats dogs children
the night is getting late it's clear now
and i sit thinking thoughts that never leave my mind
and smile
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Do they value quietude
as we do?
passing through their cul de sac
with the same red blood causing through
our veins ?
The cold stone buildings are arcane
clematis seemingly choking.them.
A wider sentence permeates.
The nightingale squabbles with the swallow
and all is not as same it seems.
How peace was wished for
but the inhabitants are loathed to admit
an underlining struggle re emerges.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Envision the acceleration
Of your heart and mind
As the truth is delivered
Upon you, replacing
Your salvation with a
Glimmer of thought
To inspire you to
Reimagine an existence
Without the excess of a god.
Time, energy, and motion
Becoming interwoven as you
Refocus on a new existence
Where you don't *******
Squander away your time
Worshipping false idols
Warning you against
Worshipping false idols.
When armed with a thought,
The creation of a
Revised world isn't
Such a foreign concept,
But an attainable reality.
Strive for a redefinition
Of the corrupt system
For in action, change
Can be forced on
The unwilling establishment.
Abandon the petty squabbles,
Brother against brother
Over an imagined salvation
Leading only to extermination.
Realign your thought process
And adjust to a world where
Brother allied with brother
Fight for the freedom
From class division,
From monetary idealism,
And from religious ideology
Picture an existence
Where we no longer divide
But combine to form
A unification
Of revolution.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
briano alliano performs at neptune cafe
hi dudes and welcome to neptune cafe, and today i am performing some great numbers for ya
here is the first song, titled i am working for the future
you see i am up here playing a song
trying to get things right, oh yeah
the song is some old fashioned song
that nobody likes , but this sums up my voicers
trying to say, whether my voices are true or not
i hate being someone people hate
i get up and i say to the mic, please leave me alone
i am a person, just a person, who never put a foot wrong
you see i take my medication, because i want to get reformed
please, respect that, please like this, don’t call me a loser
just because i take medication, the only old fogie in me mate
is i take medication, i want myself to be reformed ya see
i want my evil me of the 80s and early 90s dead, never to be alive again
please buddha, allow me to my past
youj see dad tried to help me, when he called me a fool
i think he was trying to show me, what can happen io me, if i fought the young dudes
you see, i tried to fight it out with dad, but i now know that was wrong
please don’t hassle me about that, i really wanna be reformed
dad didn’t deserve what i put him through, but he was a stubborn man
especially when i was trying to make peace, i know i say sorry then fought again
you see dad and mum got cranky over spilt milk, i can’t handle this
i think dad was having fun pushing me on to bed
yeah, it was the only way to get me to learn about his ****** authority rule
i know i’s schizophrenic but i was training myself in my room
i wanted to be famous, but i went about it the ****** wrong way
i wish wasn’t so fucken stubborn, because it was obvious i was reformed
ya see, when dad put me to the test, i felt like fighting, but i decided to calm down
you see all i did was spend my money, i was celebrating freedom
i was an adult, baby, but not the nerdy kind
i don’t really appreciate being treated like a nerd or a little kid to a tease
dad should work on betty campbell, to show us what he saw in me
cause i was trying to be a COOL BOY, ya know, not necessary to a fight
i was sick of being the kind of kid to always be well behaved
i wanted to muck around with mate, but i realiy ****** well **** my pants
dad never helped me, but he tried, so i have to be the **** **** kid
till the day i move out, and that drove me crazy, i hated me and dads squabbles, it was fucken CRAZY
dad took advantage of my schizophrenic behaviour, all because i preferred music than the fucken army
and now, dudes, i will chuck a methane smoothie on dad to rid his old fucken hag
like i am teasing the old fucken hag, here is your methane smoothie, right in your head
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
At times I confess,
The follies that are part of me,
The bane of being human,
Force me to find recluse in solitude,
Away from the squabbles of mortal men,
Who fight for things immaterial,
Spurning things that they should endevour to have.
Alas, it shames me not,
That solitude at times,
Rejuvenates some hidden part of myself,
A resevoir refilled, replenished.
I spend my time alone,
Listening to the solitary wind,
Or to the beats of some bard’s song,
Uncovering meaning in both.
But I must admit there are times,
When I watch lovers entwined in a casual embrace,
Or a child’s loving gaze at his parent,
And realization strikes me.
Although I like being alone at times,
The wine of loneliness bitters my withered soul.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
It's strange how I could fit so much in a shoebox. A shoebox made for a pair.
There is this specific shoebox I have tucked underneath my folding bed.
A relatively new one, with its glossy lid and blunt corners.
I can name its contents by heart.
A letter dated September 27.
Two pairs of tickets to movies.
A priceless photo of you as a kid on horseback.
Six receipts I managed to save from places where we've shown our true colors.
Nine bus tickets.
One valentine's card with a doodle I'd frame in the Louvre for everyone to appreciate.
A list that says ten things but actually has twenty. My favorite one being "I love that you love me. I cannot even."
Two poems.
Five photographs of us, two of you, one stolen, most with teeth, some wacky.
An ice cream tin. I can still taste the pistachio and see our smiles while we shared and fought over who gets the tin.
A notebook holding a sacred bucketlist, boxes unticked.
This box is small, but it keeps a lot more than that.
It cradles a semi-epic backstory.
It possesses a playlist inaudible to all, except for two people.
It confines a few arguments, little squabbles, and maybe a tiny bit of resentment.
More than that, it is abundant in affection, concern, last-minute cuddles, kisses given and taken.
I won't deny it, I'm a sentimental person.
I've been keeping and snatching little parts of you and placing them in plain sight around me.
Where I can see them, see you, when I flip through my books or open my wallet for change.
But now you're gone, hidden from view. Diminished inside four corners, right under where I sleep at night to forget you.
It's strange how I could fit so much in a shoebox. This shoebox I made just for you and I.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
As I walked down, on my way
back from Camden Town- some sights I saw.
The squabbles on the streets,
the dancers with two left feet-
I saw the smokers blow rings,
upon cobbled stones surrounded by courts-
like kings.
Then the rain came pelting,
yet the old lady kept belting.
Out her soft tune.
The cats came to listen,
but the rain kept on glistening
till shelter was found.
What a day to go missing-
even if the downpour's *******
on my way home from Camden Town.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
Before the time of man before his petty squabbles,
When great deeds once were done and giants walked the land,
The mighty of the heavens walked freely where they might,
And the heavens and the earth resounded with their fights.
But power is not always strength nor are the strong the victors,
For strength can never overcome the wisdom of the clever.
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 12:53 PM UTC
i.
Such is their reward, then,
This graceful bridge bisecting the lake at Bemus Point,
Not far from the spot where Bishop Vincent
Parsed the geography of the holy land,
Narrow beaches fronting a higgledy-piggledy of cottages,
Most comfortable but staid,
Though the odd McMansion grotesquerie
Has sprouted here and there,
Courtesy of some frozen-food magnate in Buffalo
Or casino second-in-command from Niagara Falls
(Those more famous waters, apparently,
Insufficient to slake ones thirst for the gaudy)
In any case, likely no more than admired from afar
By those generations of boys
Who, leaving their spot on the line at Crescent Tools
Or fields rife with bumble-striped heifers,
Never returned, drill press unmanned, corn crib unattended.
ii.
You’d been on those waters once, however,
Spending an afternoon both bewitching and idyllic
On a dock fronting a relatively humble beach bungalow
(A friend of a family friend or relative’s place,
The whos and whys lost to the manila folders of recollection)
With a girl of ten, perhaps twelve at the outside,
Beautiful in an untrammeled manner,
Or at least primarily, unconsciously so,
And you remember her having green eyes
Which utterly belied description
(Though that was all long ago,
Such reminiscence likely no more than the rheuminess of memory,
And you have not returned to that shoreline since.)
iii.
Such daydreams are perilous, on many levels,
At seventy miles per hour even more so,
And you shake yourself back to the present
While approaching yet another bridge
(Humble span noting humble beginnings)
Honoring the region’s most famous daughter and her husband,
Who did indeed have much ‘splaining to do,
As you proceed eastbound toward Salamanca
(Wholly owned by the Seneca Nation,
Those non-native descendants of Mertzes and McGillicuddys
Paying rent and fealty to the tribe each year)
And thence to the slump-shouldered hills
Which shelter the sauntering Allegheny,
The pines thick, green, inscrutable,
Beyond our everday squabbles,
Answerable to nothing but time itself.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC