Miss Lena Raven and Other Poems

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Miss Lena Raven and Other Poems Page 2

by Thomas M. McDade


  He was a hit

  and could have charmed us

  into believing Dickens

  had read Light in August.

  Then he ‘fessed up –

  worked in advertising!

  Look, it was 1972.

  We held the deed to

  Yoknapatawpha County

  yet that jingle man

  was forgiven

  like a bad debt

  we felt ourselves

  already owing.

  Good Suburban Soil

  Slow burning

  roadside

  mulleins signal

  with a dim

  yellow flame,

  poor,

  compacted soil.

  Consider also

  Queen Anne’s

  thigh high lace

  beside butter

  and eggs

  that wink

  like old neon.

  Chicory caps

  the mood:

  petals a blue

  men wish to find

  in women’s eyes

  they are fool enough

  to skid to stops for.

  Sunrise shovels and picks

  disturb shoulder earth:

  suburban transplants

  that never take

  to the straight

  and narrow.

  Siren

  A fly buzzing a nicotine-glazed bulb

  as if it were an overripe pear

  lures me back to a stormy symphony

  where rain rims a tent like glass

  beads veiling a lamp in a medium's

  drawing room.

  The power fails, lights flare

  and die, but my lover's touch

  is a rare filament.

  I'm on an island now

  convinced the drops tapping

  my window like a wooer's pebbles

  are the same beads

  that circled the canopy.

  I walk the bluffs watching the wind

  exhale her crystal form

  then shamefully break it into drizzle.

  Dizzy and shivering, I am soaked with her.

  Struggling to reach a shabby bar that’s blurry,

  suspended over the harbor, I drink her

  drink, Creme de Menthe.

  Humming Debussy, I entertain her

  under twin rows of track

  light and many hours trickle down

  before her last dampness disappears

  and a fly buzzes my glass

  as if the sweet pool were her remains.

  At the window, I find that my rainy medium

  has deserted me.

  In the harbor masts are jerking

  like violin bows.

  Charlie Donn

  Neither the serpent

  nor the butterfly tattoo

  established true identity.

  The popular goateed face

  of Buffalo Bill made it

  official after the Halifax blast

  killed Charlie and nearly

  two-thousand more.

  My father vaguely

  recalled the disaster.

  Having attended a Wild

  West Extravaganza

  in his youth he was more

  excited about Bill.

  I recalled the Cummings poem

  about that showman, ending,

  “how do you like your blue-

  eyed boy Mister Death.”

  But it is Charlie celebrated

  in the Maritime Museum:

  brown hair, full set of teeth,

  all his body art described.

  HMS Picton was his ship.

  His service belt encased,

  coiled like the serpent

  that once hissed on his arm.

  Some visitors imagine

  the butterfly flapping

  like the lips of Mr. Death

  worn thin.

  "In the Year 2525"

  Childhood memories of my brother

  Dan, nine years younger are few.

  I do recall Hurricane Carol

  the month before

  his birth and that can be termed

  prophetic judging

  from his turbulent life

  that ended early.

  As adults we often spoke

  of youth and an incident

  he mentioned stuck with me.

  Once in grade school he was amazed

  how a teacher turned a future one

  hit wonder climbing the charts

  into a mesmerizing lesson.

  After that, I often kidded him,

  "That tune with all the years,

  who the heck sang it?"

  “Zagar & Evans,” he'd reverently

  reply as if they were saints

  before breaking out a smile.

  But no 2525 chance for my brother

  since he failed to find enough

  kick to trudge

  the 111 days to 54 –

  the age matching his birth

  year and that destructive storm

  yet sometimes I play with time

  and the cool and calm

  school teacher is coaxing

  Dan into staying

  by reprising the Zagar & Evans

  class and turning it

  into a two hit wonder.

  Alive

  At age seventy-one

  I still talk about the wild

  ones of my youth

  who vanished

  just to reappear

  as survivors in a

  parent’s obituary

  scattered across

  the country

  like colorful

  pushpins

  in a manhunt map.

  Sometimes obit

  photos go back

  in time.

  Younger than I

  ever imagined

  their reckless

  offspring

  would ever

  live to be.

  Rustic Living

  A filing cabinet drawer is the oven

  squatters use to cook

  Thanksgiving dinner:

  turkey and stuffing,

  pumpkin pie, the works.

  It’s the last of the banquets

  authorities say,

  enjoy, eat hearty.

  All tents, shacks and lean-tos

  will soon be demolished.

  Country living,

  ranching and farming jobs.

  Sell your bounty at autumn fairs!

  Learn to worship God’s great

  outdoors as he intended.

  Dumpster diving,

  garbage snacking,

  breakfast vodka,

  shaving by Zippo light,

  things of the past.

  But when the chill

  in the rustic air

  collides with memory

  and sunrises and sets

  lock in a shade

  of cranberry and

  “in and out” baskets

  spied on a desk through

  a window look

  perfect for dinner rolls,

  it’s easy to lament

  that keeping

  a ex-Accounts

  Payable drawer

  at a steady 350°

  is a city knack

  to use or lose.

  The Whitest Heat

  I want to know everything

  from minute one

  but my recall is but a stub

  of sneaky fuse badly in need

  of expert repair.

  So, charging the past like a centaur,

  I return to a familiar burning myth

  to share the stalls of memory

  mares, their crimson manes tangled

  hints of my history

  sparkling lies for all I care.

  So skillfully grafted

  my previous trips,

  I’m a fireproof raider
/>
  galloping into the whitest

  heat of remembering.

  Then a stretch of arm

  as if a trick rider

  in a wild west sho,

  I grab a globe of asbestos

  yarn from Satan’s rosy cat

  to try to set a brand

  new trail that’s just

  another fuse flaring

  as swiftly as a bead

  naked rosary.

  Extra, 1976

  Having a smoke

  between cars

  on a train

  from Nice to Rome

  I watch ostriches

  gallop through

  a grove of lemon trees

  and pencil a note

  on the title

  page of Kerouac’s

  Mexico City Blues.

  I recall a snapshot

  of him, age 31,

  a brakeman’s manual

  in his pocket, East 7th

  Street, New York, 1953,

  cigarette to his lips

  and I imagine a director

  had shouted, “Action.”

  Approaching Carrara,

  I picture him on a set

  leaning against a marble

  statue in the Vatican

  instead of the wall

  in a Gotham photo.

  The train slices

  a green field,

  a girl drops her

  lover’s hand to hold

  a camera on me and,

  and for my part,

  I quickly fill

  my lungs and pencil

  a credit for her.

  Dance Lessons

  Tall figures dancing and oblivious

  to the surf-puddled sand were mirror

  images of a pair lithely waltzing

  in a dimly lit window beyond

  the boardwalk reminding me

  of what an old woman once said

  in a dark smoky lounge:

  “Your dad was a hell of a dancer,

  God rest his soul and his feet.

  Too sad this jukebox is dead,”

  she added, returning to the bar,

  a youthful spring in her gait,

  that was mine as I approached

  that beach mansion door after

  witnessing those couples

  stepping so stylishly.

  Nudging open the door as if I’d lived

  all my days there I strolled

  to the ballroom where kindly moonlight

  sneaking through rain-chiseled alleys

  on dirty window panes revealed black

  footprints covering the hardwood floor.

  On hands and knees I read dance names

  where you’d expect “Cat’s Paw.”

  As I stumbled off every lesson trail

  as if studying with Arthur and Fred,

  I thought of that old lounge woman

  pictured my father flat in the ground.

  How happy I’d been

  that jukebox was on the blink

  as dancing wasn’t part

  of my old man’s legacy.

  At four in the morning I staggered out.

  The seashore lovers were gone.

  Kicking off my shoes I rested

  my clumsy feet

  in the refreshing pools late

  of romantic dips and whirls.

  I moved this way and that

  as if a little kid playing

  in his father’s learned shoes.

  Tubes

  A feeding tube

  seems the only link

  left to the world.

  None of the old

  music her kids play

  to try to spark

  a hint

  of response

  works

  so they are

  happily fooled

  by the wide-eyed

  and alert motion

  when they slip

  on her reading

  glasses

  and bingo

  the four

  years of

  fading away

  erase

  and for an

  instant family

  feedback tubes

  like her

  catheters are

  in place.

  Like Magic

  The Blackstone

  River was the first

  channel I chose

  for Dan’s voyage

  to Narragansett Bay.

  I tossed ashes

  at angry falls

  for flow enough

  to assure

  a proper

  send-off.

  I launched more

  of what was left

  of him from

  a railroad trestle

  we used to fish off,

  into the waters

  of the Ten Mile

  for a backup.

  All the time

  in the back

  of my mind

  the trite phrase

  found on

  the label

  of many

  a box, bottle

  and can:

  “Just Add

  Water.”

  Snow Beat

  An outrage of spring snow

  meringues the forsythia

  as mockingbirds and robins

  are crazed mapmakers

  plotting wild getaways

  with star stitched tracks

  to make some sense of it.

  Making slush of highways,

  towns and bridges, I lay waste

  railroads, cities – even states.

  Sometimes when a foot falls

  precise, heel on heel

  but slightly off to right

  of one that’s dropped before

  I stamp slender

  asphalt hearts.

  Every step is a beat;

  I’m morning’s plodding pulse.

  Call me too

  Father Time, my beard growing

  longer as flakes gather

  like albino bees, silent as petals.

  When the birds line a maple limb

  like strikers, I turn

  my foreman job over

  to rays of oncoming sun.

  What Sets the Sun

  It's not

  the ring

  of forsythia

  acting

  the dancing

  wind's

  shimmering

  skirt hem

  or buxom

  peach

  trees

  sequined

  in pink

  that set

  the sun

  leering

  but ivy

  resuming

  its climb

  up the

  shagbark

  hickory

  like a

  Rockette's

  stocking.

  Sabbath Contraptions

  Five and change

  for a hundred

  Sunday supplement

  tulip bulbs.

  To sweeten the deal

  six grape hyacinths.

  I remember

  a Sabbath contraption

  that fit any wall socket:

  made building or house

  a giant and grand

  TV antenna.

  No more screen blizzards,

  all channels with ease.

  It failed

  and the bulbs seemed

  too runty to pack

  the thrust to spear

  the ground

  if they survived

  squirrels and moles,

  they’d grace the earth

  likes spindly ears

  of TV reception relics.

  But if they do blossom

  likely they’ll entice

  gangs of deer

  as well as their Sunday

  supplement photos attract

  checks and money orders<
br />
  Luncheon

  A man who used his utensils

  European style – knife ever

  Active for even an omelet

  Occupied my eyes

  As my ears caught the words

  Of a woman who spoke

  In a refined manner about

  A friend who had not known sorrow –

  Didn’t suffer a pimple

  Until she was twenty-six

  It was eighty and muggy, mind you

  When a wild springy haired

  Bearded gent sporting a thermal

  Vest and an overcoat entered

  And lured a glance

  He gulped hot coffee black

  I watched him walk past

  The window with four bundles

  Neatly tied and uniform

  I pictured both a helpful husband

  Preparing the garbage

  And a loving father

  Wrapping birthday gifts

  Also a sailor robbed of sea

  Roaming the world

  Recalling fancy knots

  I imagined the woman

  Of belated sorrow

  With her head on the artful

  Carver’s platter

  Pimple dispensed posthaste

  As if it were an errant

  Caper and the insulated

  Man packaging it neatly

  Not to be opened

  Until a conversation lag

  At the next cocktail

  Party when folks feel

  Locked in greatcoats

  Temp eighty degrees and

  Rocky drinks

  Are bubbling like lava.

  Litter

   

  As if it strikes them

  as too good to be

  ever true

  goldfinches darting in

  and out of tall brush

  ignore a mound

  of fresh bird seed

  in the corner abutting

  the self-storage sheds.

  A spent home pregnancy

  test lies by a weedy splendor

  of chicory blooms as blue

  as eyes and negligees

  is rampant even in

  the slimmest of asphalt

  crannies and the poorest

  of surrounding soil

  in this parking lot

  I walk mornings,

  fitness less a goal

  than wool gathering.

  One large discount

  store survives,

  the other once a tad

  classier languishes as does

  Praise The Lord Gifts

  and a Hallmark Store.

  A condom,

  tenure as trophy

  long ago done browns

  on a truck starved stretch

  to a loading dock,

  a latex lesson

  in litter longevity

  but hardly as effective

  as the rubbers

  in memory  --

  a girlfriend

  rolling sacrificially

  as if bareback

  might be too good

  to ever be recalled

  as true.

  Grandparents

  Lisa sits outside

  her cardboard box

  that used to house

  a Hotpoint range

  watching pigeons

  picking over

  carriage horse

  droppings.

  She remembers

  her grandfather’s

  coop of racing

  champions.

  A woman in a fog

  bends straight-legged

  as Lisa’s grandmother

  weeding her garden

  but she collects

  crusts the birds ignore.

  Lisa tells her friend Chiffon

  whose breasts are bulging

  out of a daisy print dress

  like newborn infant heads

  that grandfather’s pigeons

  are as white as wedding gowns.

  Her grandmother grows

  hollyhocks as tall

  as basketball players.

  Doorstop

  When my shovel finds a rock

  in earth tilled

  and sifted a spring ago,

  I think of one

  I failed as a kid

  to excavate

  a hundred miles east

  of here.

 

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