Winkles.
I remember these shapes that rise above the sand,
Covered daily by the tide as it reaches for the land.
Those little crustaceans that grow around the rocks,
Like a five o’clock shadow along the beach to the docks.
No need for a hook a *** or a net,
Just pluck them by hand as they cling to the wet.
Popped in a bag and taken home to mam,
Boiled in a pan that was used to make jam.
Armed with a pin winked out of the shell,
Better tasting than the shops sell.
They were free, they were ours and they grew on our beach,
All at a height most children could reach.
No adults to call us in for tea,
Just sunny days down by the sea.
As I walk along the sand, I don’t see them anymore.
Those funny little things what were they called?
You know their name, I know you do.
If I see one I will remember to.

some times I believe,
not think,
but believe,
that there are indeed little figures in the grass,
brushing my ankles with tickles and laughs

sometimes in mid of velvet black,
can see them waving their six fingered hands
in front of the lights across the bay,
for the twinkles are different, their winkles,
semaphoric, euphoric, random but patterned

every know and every then,
could they be inside me,
inciting riots, sugar sharp pains,
in places where pain has no place purposed,
feel them lifting my-back-of-the-neck hairs,
at scary movies, making an ear itchy, why?

these elusives
are fairie godmothers,
personal angels,
hobgoblins,
shoulder sitters,
amusing muses
ear whisperers,
of new poem titles

sock stealers,
shoelace knoters,
giggling self-amusers,
ever present, ever invisible,
hat hiders, wet spot slider installers

you say you know them too?

cousins perhaps, for my elusives,
could not be here and there,
for they are:

as I write,
as I speak,
this very second
fluttering my eyelids,
those rascals,
to lay me down to sleep,
in cherishing tenderness me to keep
for they know too well,
sleep,
is an elusive of a different kind,
like peace of mind,
but they do their best,
to distract me unto rest

Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.

For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!

“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning.  What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.

“Its about 2:30” I answered.

She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.

“We're sorry to disturb you beloved.  We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t want to be put away”  she said.  “I have to be outside.”

“We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here to help.”

"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.

She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.

She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.

She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.  

"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."

Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.  

"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Its about 2:30."    

She earnestly wants to know what time it is.  

"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."

Her papers were scattered on the floor.

She had one shoe on and one shoe off.  A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening.   The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.

White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.

A woolen hat circled her head.  Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.

She looked to be in her 50’s.  She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice.  Her eyes were clear.  Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.

She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame.  Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt.  The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback.  The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat.  The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders.  She resembled a small granite headstone.

"Whats your name?" I asked.  She was reluctant to tell us.  “I don’t like my name”.

We gently coaxed her.

“Carmen” she whispered.

“That's a beautiful name.  Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”

“I know.  I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered.  “I never liked it.”

Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.  

We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat.  Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food.  She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.

I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.

“You are not forgotten beloved.  You are deeply loved.  Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.

“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.  

“What time is it?”

As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.

Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera

Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm

Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -

I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?

To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!

But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE

And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.

If only
I could put the corners of your eyes
Into words
They would be like
The skin that sits on custard
And crinkles
Or they would be
The shattering of sunlight
Over leaf-spears
That toy it apart into
Forkfuls of sweet butter
Or they would be
The winkles around the heart
Of a daffodil
One day growing,
The next dying
But always yellow

I don't much like the colour yellow
But there's a richness to it
And a glassiness
And an optimistic up-swing
That I see in the corners of your blue eyes

If only
I could put the corners of your eyes into words
Because we've all sold out
Of happy poems.

Staring off into the distance of a ***** carpet ridden with living trails of ants, a crawling black river of desolate hunger, counting days of visions, wandering naked in the lake treading water, kissing, spitting out lips and liquid
shifted in dreams
memories poke like a cactus needle open to a room of steam heat and *****
flooding with words that digest imagination and burn eyelids, a cigarette held too close to a crowning flame
incinerating eyelashes and clattering TNT onto the serene image of our drunken antics while the rest of the world is howling for us to see ourselves for the raving lunatics we are, their tired look of exasperation an exhausted mother left alone to raise a hopeless child, wicked only for his ignorance
The last speakers of the paleolithic age journey forth from the depths of the amazonian jungle to heal our souls nailed to the cross as drug dealers because ingested plants grow in the ground

I saw the most beautiful soul weep in fear against a diner booth at midnight
amid plates of burgers, fries and green beans laid on the lineoleum table with no signs of starvation or danger
yet the signs of the apocalypse resonate in all psyches because reptilian brains would rather die than change, conform than bring forth the messianic transformation of our own radical self acceptance as God
and we shun those who are insane on the streets
***** outcasts, poor filth and ugliness
human animals unfit for this society of plastic and image, a mirage over substance
I cross the street rather than look the beggar in the eye because he stinks of desperation, and tell him no no no, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I can't share with you all
MOLOCH!
The holy yell
flooding the empty headed street
we abandoned our mother and forsaken our selves to flickering images of lust and prestige, **** and *****, ****** and ***, thick wads
idolizing our own form,
the sirens of the modern age, the golden calves danced around in supermarket check out lines,
capturing us on the jagged cliffs of inattention, glories husked and barren, cultivate likes and followers sweet nicotine in the bloodstream, social media mogul reigning over a grand bazaar of ghosts in a room, talking to other ghosts in rooms of faraway lands, ignoring the living flesh in front of their twitchy eyes, cast down for a screen, forgetting themselves for a profile, a small picture in a corner, an Ignominious massacre of life cast through a digital lens, concerts meant for full expression of a cathartic moment of ****** movement, lost to a sea of hand held recording devices to remember how you didn't feel at that moment  with other people milling about as cattle who would rather document and never watch again then dance and live and be a part of the happening, look, Rip Van Winkles throwing pins with revolutionary prussian ghosts in a sleepy Catskill hollow, zombies behind wheels typing to ****, these words will not save you, they will not fill the siphon hole,
I am with you in this burning sodium night on my back in the grass of a night with no darkness
I am with you where the army of madness will overthrow the living dead and shake their working class dreams to the core with the sudden eternal war of nothingness and contemplation and silence screaming out for someone to save us
Everything is HOLY!

Throw open the church doors
think nothing of paying for poison, (as advertised)
but refuse to confront your self possessed greed because the man holding the cup is tired and desperate and I am tired and desperate

A truck hauls a horse
broken wilderness, cleaved concrete, cracked spines wretched scars,
killing anything that isn't hard, impermanent and futile, the land reclaims
but no land to ride, only the black road with its machines spewing the smokey remains of dead ancient animals
nature perverted, mobility imprisoned inside a metal box to be driven when it can run
so apt
for the potential inside coffins of daily lives
talking of dreams gutless to pursue
settling instead for the easy cruise of routine
******* our own hands

We all matter
but this world doesn't work without slaves
so take pride in your nine to five
get some ***** with that job title
and two sentence description
of how you can make the dreams come true, in the suburbs with three kids a couch and security from whatever danger lurks outside of us on TV
our own kind
murderous and malicious
homicidal tribalists
merrymaking nihilists
The fear The Fear
the light the light

I grab her hand and stare into dark eyes deadlocked on the momentary plane, a revealed saint testifying to God's truth Mary Maria, she tells me there is something beautiful outside this current mode of existence, but she's only had a fleeting glimpse

they approach me during intermission
as I sink into my chair,
a crowd of people I don't know gathered around
nobody speaking to me,
his voice startles and awakens me,
traveling fifteen feet to me, over the din of this crowd,
but not traveling an inch further-
and carrying my name,
which he could only have matched with my face
through a detailed description of the latter
and a memory not common among eighty year old men.

as he approaches I can see him better:
a few inches short than me
with a large *** belly and hair that is thinning, but still present.
His voice is strong, and his eyes are studying
but he wears a hearing aid that look like a blue tooth for an 80s cell phone
and glasses that are larger than the ones i never wear
but smaller than most of the hundred pairs in this room.
His wife stands next to him:
a small woman, filipino
with a soft, almost absent voice and a gentle smile
but eyes that show the extent of her sadness
and the mass of winkles on her forehead and cheeks
make her appear a decade or more older than she is,
that make the three and a half decade age difference between them seem to shrink.

We speak for a minute, we smile and laugh
and then they leave

What was the subject？”she asked.
“I scarcely know.
With Adam and Eve-que sais-je？

Was it a hymn to the beauty of the human form
Male and female, and the praise to nature, sublime, indifferent
Or maybe more naughty with lovely spirits, and cruel?
He extends his smile winkles and replies
It was strange and fantastic.
It was a vision of the beginnings of the world.
And the Garden of Eden that arrives to your dream often.

Yes, Beauty is the subject of my entire life,
She looked into his eyes and whispered: “especially with the painted trees”
I see about myself in every day, every season
the alligator pears, the lily plants, and whatever
with an awful sense of the infinity of space
and of the endlessness of time.

I am the subject of BEAUTY…

11-7-12

These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.

I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full *** of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a *** and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.

when I was young
the sun always shone
in the summer

the sky was a paint-by-numbers colour
blue thick and solid
always there

the grass was the green
of a dragon’s back
long and populated with insects

birds sung
from morning to night
the air was fragranced with roses

days lasted for ever
sleeping with sand between my toes
dried salt on my skin

we collected winkles for supper
running back up the hill
shells clanking in the bucket

shelling peas on the back step
popping them open
with our thumbs

I know in my heart
it rained sometimes
but it never mattered then

A time progresses change always occurs
Noticing what wasn't there before
Winkles on the forehead
Youth slipping away
Hair of black a white hair stands out
A wild life takes a toll on an aging body
Bags form under the eyes
Cheeks wrinkle when a smile comes way
The mirror doesn't lie
Seeing different from once was remembered
The aching body changing over time
From limitless to limited
With age comes wisdom
The experiences fade with time
The moments that remind of a better time
Happiness is not a time line
All the time of life makes elders more refined

Crossing that border. Hope that we don't studder. Or ponder. What's the next step?
The screech from a cracked window. And the memories flood again. Going to serve the poor. A piece of glass. The separation of life and death. He took it all. And He first loved me. With eyes of compassion He bore my cross and set my dry bones free. Gave me wings to fly. All the glory is for Him, who has healed all my scares. And helped me breathe again.
Return to the dirt. Opened eyes. The light inside. Truly see them. The smiles and waves. The little hands and ***** faces.
The pure hearts in a darkened place.
Waking up to praise His name. Walking bold with our hearts a flame.
We find peace in eyes of the old.
Freckles and winkles. Little laughs and curios glances. Questions. Oh questions.
The ruins and faded stains of graffiti, the crumbles of trash and the dust keeps you sneezing.
The heat on your back, am I going to be fine? Trust in God. With all my heart. My soul. And mind.
Moving forward. Can't turn back now. These wings are meant to fly. Preach with our mouth closed and sing with new hope.
Heart begins to beat. One body. One stride.
Let's be His hand and feet and keep our heads high.

Anderson Cooper has a beautiful face.
His mouth a respectful parallel line,
his eyes a beacon to alert us of incoming disaster
one where bombs erupt behind his wide shoulders
one where smoke clouds his view.
He is a shield of false hope
“Everything is alright” and
“this has gone terribly wrong” cover his brow as
winkles, reasonings, excuses, all over

Anderson Cooper has a beautiful face.
His lips quiver slightly as he raises a lingual gun
to the opposing side
only to lower it moments later with
a look of surprise that graces his cheekbones.
He is a weapon of mass destruction
a solid reflection lies underneath the mirror
one side of the body a beckon, the other a halt

Anderson Cooper has a beautiful face.

Laying here emotions take over .... trying to devour the reflections of you
My eyes, searching, wanting, and deleting ....

With a heart so full awesome rapture,
alone with these I own
I draw close to my inamorato,
I dream ...

Desire comes with transgressions
the body trembles, my chin starts to quiver
and a lone drop is shown
my eyes and mouth close inviting
winkles form without surprise
waterfall of tears flood my soul
a cry for love, is overflowed
so much to give and and none to take ....

I treasure the real love
that bounds my soul
my eyes see it all,
his affection was mine,
my heart was in his hand,
ohh to have the love from him
once again ...

No Romero or Casanova for me
with words of love to turn the head
noooooo, I will come with open embrace
to the one i truly love ....

My reflections of you .... I will wait till my dying day ...

Debbie Brooks 2014

She carves a note into my heart,
Sharp B.
It hurts a bit but then I see
her name and what it
means to me.

With her knife she winkles me,
off the settee and again I can see
her name,
Sharp B.

Life is her key, she
makes music in me
and it's more of her name
I can see.