"undergraduate" poems
I.
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”
-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window
Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death
Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone
II.
Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349
Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd
Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death
Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades
III.
“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”
-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light
Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied
With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
(For context, I went to...)
British Kindergarten in England,
French Elementary in Switzerland,
International MS in England,
French HS, then Int'l HS in Korea,
(And then completed...)
Undergraduate studies in NJ, USA,
9-month gap year in Hong Kong,
Graduate studies in QC, Canada.
------------------------------------------------------------
I have shattered my identity.
Frequently. Involuntarily.
I have undergone assimilation.
Socially. Psychologically.
I have encountered discrimination.
Directly. Racially.
I have endured isolation.
Grievingly. Impotently.
I have ill-wished on others.
Subconsciously. Unintentionally.
HOWEVER –
I have learned to be human.
Individually. Collectively.
I have discovered empathy.
Emotionally. Compassionately.
I have gained knowledge.
Culturally. Geographically.
I have acquired expertise.
Intellectually. Linguistically.
I have become a citizen.
Locally. Globally.
Perhaps we who are born and meant to move,
Are intended to, and exist to locomote forever,
Walking lands, sailing oceans, mastering the world.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
It just feels like yesterday
It just feels like yesterday , I learnt how to brush
It just feels like yesterday, I had my first crush
It just feels like yesterday, I came home late from the playground
It just feels like yesterday, I discovered the earth is round
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday, my mother waited for me at the bus stop
It just feels like yesterday , I tasted my little sister's teardrop
It just feels like yesterday, I watched the sky change colours
It just feels like yesterday, I realised about the world and us there is so much to discover
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday , high school began
It just feels like yesterday, I wanted my life to have a plan
It just feels like yesterday,I got my first mobile phone
It just feels like yesterday, I wondered what it's like to be on my own
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday, I dreamed of being a fresher
It just feels like yesterday, I succumbed to peer pressure
It just feels like yesterday, I couldn't get enough of Barney, Swat cats , justice league and Hey Arnold
It just feels like yesterday , India finally got its McDonald's
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday, I turned an undergraduate
It just feels like yesterday, studying architecture was fate
It just feels like yesterday, I was surrounded by my family and friends
It just feels like yesterday, I realised its never too late to make amends
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Injuries
My ankles are burned left and right, and my knees are probably scraped somewhere. I sit straight, not to be polite, but because my spine muscles were ripped—in a car wreck. Everyone was all right. But I still feel it when it rains.
And since I was eleven, my wrist snaps like this SNAP Every. Day.
And my cat has scratched me one too many times. Lovers see my skinned back, and the scars of my arm or the twitch behind my left eye. But no one notices my split middle finger, the one I broke in half. And I have no scar where my heart shattered in my late teens. Or on my lips from bile on that day, this day, yesterday, or tomorrow.
You cannot see the death of my loved ones from my skin, and my ears don’t bleed from broken promises. My eyes aren’t forever affected by the tears that felt like forever, and my voice doesn’t sound different because I screamed at her one too many times.
I’m not dead because someone else is dead, but sometimes my heart doesn’t feel like it’s there as my injuries reflect my body, they reflect nothing inside.
...
I read at the University of Kansas during their Undergraduate Reading Series. Read more about this event here:
http://shannonathompson.com/2013/02/11/my-undergraduate-reading/
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
When I was twelve, my older sister, Annick, was in med school.
She was dedicated and incorruptible - always studying, always.
I wanted her to spend time with me, I craved her engagement.
I was jealous and mean to her, thinking her uncaring - uninterested in me.
Now, I get it. Now days, I seem to behave like a machine,
I’m busy and unapproachable - forgetting myself in function
and I’m just a lowly undergraduate.
When I think about how hard she must of been working,
I tear up, like someone hearing a sad song on the radio.
Nov 14, 2021
Nov 14, 2021 at 6:12 AM UTC
I found a news article about the most boring day in history.
The 11th of April
1954
Literally the only thing that happened was the birth of a Turkish Academic
Abdullah Atalar
So I looked him up
“His research interests include micromachined sensors and actuators, atomic force microscopy, analog and digital integrated circuit design and linearization of RF power amplifiers. He teaches undergraduate and graduate courses on VLSI design, analog and microwave electronics.” - Wikipedia
He was boring too.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
I knew an undergraduate at college
who spent his days asleep, or drinking beer;
he never needed academic knowledge
until the day of reckoning drew near,
when, as he found his time was growing short,
he’d borrow books, or photocopy them,
and, downing frantic coffee by the quart,
he’d burn the midnight oil, till five a.m.
It puzzles me a little when I find
the ones who press conversion at the end
expecting atheists to change their mind
in panic, like our coffee-drinking friend,
with fingers crossed and hoping for the best
in case this life’s continuously assessed.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
What did Guru the Monk whisper in my ear
He said "why mimic the soul of a fool
the fool is between heaven and hell
You embrace the light
he lived in darkness
Why mimic the soul of a foul
Every man thinks he is wiser than his neighbor
his house is adjacent and both lawns merge
with his Academic Achievement;
he is still an undergraduate
What did Guru the Monk whisper in my ear?
"My sister each website has an owner
each owner has an agenda
he provides the stars
but withheld the moon.
Your soul shines through everything
you touch, say or do.
blessed my child;
"Your mama didn't
raise a fool
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.
The short answer is: I don’t know.
I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.
First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.
Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.
I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.
I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.
This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.
From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.
And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.
I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.
Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.
Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.
Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.
Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.
And then, sing out.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
This is what it feels like
on the days that feel like
lonely summer nights without you.
I wake groggily to the rays of light
seeping through your cupped hands
that play peek-a-boo with my broken windowsill.
The wind exhales chills down my spine
that inhale me to into the mattress
until midafternoon
when I can finally gasp for a drink.
When I’ve had my fill of toxins,
I can poison people in the hallways of my complex
with venomous small talk that produces
half glazed stare simplicity.
You know the one I’m talking about;
the kind of look that hangs on people
thinking about what to say
while you’re going on about
some nonsense you heard at
some place from
some pretty person.
They have a certain finish over their attention
that doesn’t quite compare to the varnish of your absence.
This is what it feels like
when summer rolls over the hills
like the ongoing thread of my oversized sweaters
on seventy-degree days
because I was always a little too good
at playing hide and seek growing up.
I feel like I get stuck in a loop sometimes.
I heard
somewhere from
some pretty person that
children don’t see scars on adults
because those people
never quite make it past getting their GED,
but here I am as an undergraduate student
mocking what little authority is left over my existence.
At the age of nineteen,
I understand that solitude is the most fulfilling companionship
I will ever browse for,
but I’ll never be able to buy us matching necklaces
at self checkout.
This is what it feels like
to cry in the middle of the day
when you haven’t paid the water bill in two months.
When I put my clothes on,
you aren’t there to watch me leave anymore
and I can’t turn around to grab your neck
and mount you again.
My lips started parting for a cigarette
when I was sixteen
and started parting for you
when I was eighteen
and now they are parting for a finger gun
aimed at the back of my throat after a meal.
I feel like I get stuck in a loop sometimes.
I heard
somewhere from
some pretty person that
I needed to be a size zero
to wrap my legs around you
and still be able to leave some room
for your opposition
when I’ve drank too much whiskey
on a Wednesday night,
but here I am as a size six
and I’m happily tipsy off your rejection
when I’m sober.
This is what it feels like
to exist off of your own
self-destruction.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 2:03 AM UTC
About 4 years into the friendship, or whatever it had by that stage become, during a chat on our Internet **** preferences
over badly-filtered Americanos
in the UCD student cafe, I said to her
" I think I enjoyed our friendship more when we used to get coffee and just laugh for twenty minutes. "
And after a half second of unusual silence from her, those pools
of ever-renewing blue eyes of hers almost incisions
into my consciousness, I added" That was pretty unique."
And then I laughed unbound, and she almost shrugged
and definitely smirked as if to say "this is where I am now, it took some time for me to realise but it's where I've always been."
Unapologetic, as only she could seem to be.
And it was, like any tryst, fling or abandoned half-romance is, utterly unique. Half on the way
to becoming something we were going to hang on to and definitely regret
and half-stopped, sulking out of a puddle,
dead damp weight created by the differences we made ourselves
for the other to behold and dismantle.
The immediate was meant for us, first the attraction, then the disgust, then the despair, then the cursing off, then round to the intrigue all over again.
She remained the great question mark of my undergraduate years. Heartaches after her were equally demeaning, but far more easily explained.
You know you've found someone irreplaceable when they tell things you really shouldn't know,
things shoved up in boxes for years, things too unformed to be really caught sounding out, in the moments after your first kiss.
And every clever undergraduate will tell you how negative all connotations of "irreplaceable" are.
And yet these are the backhanded good graces,
the immeasurable gifts that memory serves
I wear this like a wound I can find wry mirth at the very sight of,
I have learned all this from her without her ever intending
These memories are indented in a music box with an imitation sacred heart all mine
distempered by the candid lines of a girl who never wanted religion, divulged somewhere in our seat of learning.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
In some ways, I am quite certain
That I am one of the only ones
who feels this way....
A degree to my name, a certification
That I have paid my dues in the
system of education
According to this piece of paper,
In reference to the past four years
I have fulfilled all requirements
for an undergraduate degree
I am done
There are no more exams I am required to take
No more classes recommended for my
area of study
I am free
I have completed my education
Society has congratulated me, and
is ready to welcome me
In the workplace
In the field of "my" choosing
According to everyone else, I should be thrilled
I am not required to ever return to academia
Most in my position are relieved that it is over
....but not me
I see students
Backpacks filled with laptops and textbooks
Some walking alone, some with others
Some have just begun their journey
Some are nearly finished
The rest are thrown in the middle
Lost but searching
Be it for an answer for their course
Or an answer for their time, their days....
I have nothing but jealousy towards
My friends, whose days will be filled with
Courses
Exams
Textbooks
Notebooks
And all that classes demand of them
I wish so desperately to return
But for the same area of study as my bachelor's degree?
I feel lost
A lost that will lead me to the correct path, with time I know
But is it normal to feel this way?
All I know is how to be a student
And I quite vigorously threw myself into this profession
And I have succeeded....
....but must it end?
May I return to my education, my dream that I so desperately miss?
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
You
You are every bouquet left on graves.
You are the prayers of grievers. You are
the naïve spectators pretending, the tears
of those who haven’t lost. You are eyes
forcing yourself to look away. You’re the addiction
of a mother sitting on a trunk that hides medications.
You are the choice to overdose.
You’re the fear of two orphaned children,
wondering where they will be forced to go next. You
are the tragedy. You’re a simple combination of pills.
At the funeral they pray your death is like a novel, memorable yet learned from. You are like a novel. Events that end in a planned conclusion.
You are that second before the last pill, the medication,
an array of medication, a combination of medication, the last breath. You are the ***** of your husband’s soaking
into the carpet. You are a cry of a child
caused by the scare of a naïve nightmare.
The entire graveyard grieves with you.
...
I read at the University of Kansas during their Undergraduate Reading Series. Read more about this event here:
http://shannonathompson.com/2013/02/11/my-undergraduate-reading/
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
My friends are studying
to hold peoples’ lives in their hands,
to run entire companies,
to report the current happenings.
But I’m more scared than they,
for already I’m hanging by a thread.
And all I’ve got on my side...
are words.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 1:47 AM UTC
Coaxed,
Stoaked,
Citer of circumspect alley ways,
Ponderer of all circumference!!!
A lost shadow to a drawn out stage!!
Incurable nausea plants itself beneathe thine nose,
Beneathe thy finest thine Rose!!!
Thou fallen cut down trunk,
Thou Intel gatherer of recordings of political junk!!!
Thy mafiatic hardened heart's department hath closed for many seasons,
For many reasons thou art down and out again!!!
Old adversary,
Oldened friend!!!!
Undergraduate of no sporty coup'e,
No tripped up loop to sway thine interfacial structure!!!
No loving, all clutter, you inhale as you breathe,
Thou daytime innocent,
Thou nightly thief!!!!
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
An undergraduate no more
I was once a student among many
and now I am a student amongst none.
Because there is an education bubble
and it exist at universities
where thought is something
to behold as it is so beautiful.
Instead of compassion
for the trivial pursuits of enlightenment--
there is cascades of sludge
and ooze of the repetitious awnings.
They line each other's minds
as they wander the parking lot of life.
Education becomes the Sun
and just like the Sun
when it becomes
so brilliantly bright one must look away,
because in contrast to the dimming bulbs bobbing around--
the radiance of knowledge
loses all it's light
when it's time
to join the 'real world'.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
Dear white man in suits walking past
Me pushing a lawn mower
He expects me to be ignorant
He expects me to be under qualified
But let me spit facts
I'm educated, with a fierce mind
Ready to slay any man who touches mine
I will recite scripture written by old hairy
But yet wise men
An undergraduate, buying a suit and tie to fit in
With these snakes who call themselves
Politicians, I know the evils done to my race
Put fancy stores in my area to occupy my peoples' mind and force them to be like those on TV
But I will stand and serve with what I've learned
The white man slayed warriors of color
Abused beautiful queens of different races
Imposing that their way is best
Promising they will help everyone if elected
These actors need to be sent to North Korea
To experience famine
I was created of a system of self concentration
But still find ways to spread joy & happiness
I stress, stop making kids who won't stand up
To these Devils
Push children to ask questions
Graduate and make a better life
Because this life is so hard when you're just getting by.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
I don't have a degree on love, but i think you are in need of some.
Undergraduate or straight down the pyramid
You should no where to find me
No matter the position in my life
My humanity should overshadow status
If you're down for something tangible in emotion, you know where i am.
I don't play games, i leave those at Home and the field
I usually function alone but i definitely won't mind the dual wield
Combining into one consistent thought
Loosening the knots
That were placed there before
It's a challenge, but who knows what we can accomplish.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Hom-ouses
1. Allentown, Pennsylvania. A cream-colored home with reddened shutters. Age 0 to 1. Only known from photographs, the street blew up one decade later during a gas leak. The neighborhood was evacuated. No one died, but you’ll never see your first home, except for your first eyes, ever again.
2. Tulsa, Oklahoma. Age 2-3. A one-floor home with a cement tornado shelter—something straight out of the Wizard of Oz or Twister—in the backyard, right beneath the clothesline, your great grandmother, Juanita, still used to break chickens’ necks rather than wash your toddler clothes.
3. Green Bay, Wisconsin. Age 4-6. A two-floor suburban home, built at the top of a hill which iced over frequently in the blizzards. Your brother jumped from the tears, and played with your husky dog, before picking flowers for the first and only bus driver you’d ever have.
4. Atlanta & Alpharetta, Georgia. Age 7-9. You were a minority, and you lived in a brick house, built atop a mound of red-brick clay. You made your first friends—a catholic, a reader, and two black girls. None of them were allowed to see one another, so you had to choose which. You hated girl scouts—but your dad had an addiction for discounted cookies and calendars.
5. Kansas. Age 10-21. You’ve lived in four different parts, but it’s close enough to return to the house your grandfather died in (by smacking his head on the toilet) or the house your mother died in one year later (by a drug overdose) or the house your husky dog died by (drowning in the lake) or any other house someone died in, even the most recent. At least you published a book and got a cat.
....
I read this at the University of Kansas during their Undergraduate Reading Series. Read more about this event here:
http://shannonathompson.com/2013/02/11/my-undergraduate-reading/
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Death stared at me from the same recliner she always did.
Her veins wrapped around her legs like spider webs.
She poured pepper on her perogies and commentated for the TV,
“No whammy, no whammy, no whammy, Stop.”
I was too busy making plans on my phone.
“Isn’t this nice?”
Yes grandma
She used to clean her Catholic church on Saturdays.
I’d bring my toys she got me from McDonald's
and ran my race cars through the ramps filled with holy water.
She’d lay arms stretched before the alters and I’d follow suit,
but only in play. Our devotion was not the same.
“You make me so proud, my little Christian.”
Yes grandma
I’d spend nights for what must of been months,
because she lived in town where the parties were.
I was chasing tail, drugs and alcohol.
We’d both pretend she had no idea at all.
Our best conversation following a night of glassy eyes.
What we said I can’t recall.
Soon enough the pattern fell as I finished high school.
I moved away and walked new halls, an undergraduate.
It was in those halls my phone cried out and I soon after.
I drove new roads my eyes a flowing well.
We waited outside her room in vain.
I would not get see her that day.
I made a point to see her once she returned home.
She now sunk where her rear was once plump.
Her skin sagged relieved from the pressure.
Fluid dripped out her lungs the color of Pepto Bismol,
and they missed every second breath.
Yet, she was beaming, “Look how skinny I am.”
Yes grandma
I’d only see her once more, after another trip.
She slept in that same recliner as the TV played.
Wispy white hair, thin pressed lips and tired eyes.
Her head hung against her chest and I hid mine.
My sister asked if I’d like to wake her just to say hi.
I considered it, but thought better.
“No, I'll catch her next time.”
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 5:39 PM UTC
She's complex,
not complicated.
She got her undergraduate degree at Yale,
doctorate at Harvard.
Her vocabulary is simple,
practices perfect diction
behind closed doors.
Her use of three & four-letter words,
telling me the things
she wants me to do to her,
is extraordinary,
actually quite lovely.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC