Snapshots-A Collection of Poetry
Page 3
dead
Will there even be a photograph
Of the man who lived
Way back when?
The Question
Are you a flicker of light
At midnight,
Or a kiss for Auld Lang Syne?
Are you the mast and reef
Of a sailing ship,
Or a mountain to be climb?
Is your name engraved
In the Book of Life,
Mentioned on a page,
Or footnote?
Are you the charcoal rubbing
Of a forgotten grave,
Or the warmth of a
Father’s coat?
A byte in the Blue Ether
A seer, a seeker,
A whisper of a scream
Caught in your throat?
Have you left your mark,
A signpost in the dark,
The fire in the hearth,
Or at least,
A spark?
As the shadows grow longer
Are you left to ponder
The unanswered questions
In your heart?
The Hamster and the Tree
Viewing yesterday
Through the eyes of today
Brings no new insight.
Regrets for action taken
Based on inadequate information
Or insufficient maturation
Are as directionless
As a hamster
Running on a wheel.
Remembrances are distorted
And twisted
Like the gnarled roots
Of the ancient tree
Driving ever
Deeper and wider
Wider and deeper
With no thought
As to what it knew
A hundred years
Before you were even born.
The Bus Stop
Drinking coffee
At the bus stop with Caleb
“Is it cold out there?”
As the cars drift by
A procession of light
Under grey sky.
“Where did the bus go?”
She’s late today
Which is better than early,
Easier to stick to the routine.
“I have a bump.”
Flashing yellow lights
As the bus pulls up
“What’s that noise?”
And Caleb is safely aboard.
I’m back in my car
Sipping my coffee,
Warm and bittersweet,
Like the memories
Of other mornings
Other bus stops
Under a desert sun
And the knowledge
They’ll never be that young
Again.
The Lesson
I tell him-
You have to support them
Just so,
With one arm,
And hold them securely
Against your chest,
With the other,
So they feel safe.
Be careful with that one
He’s squirmy,
And the other
Is already almost too big
To pick up.
It seems
Every time you turn around
They’re bigger
More independent
And you marvel at what they’ve become.
Kind of like someone else
I know.
The Job
Today’s assignment
punch the time card
is to read pages
grab a quick cup of coffee
sixty through seventy-two
out to the assembly line
in your green books and
tighten a bolt here
do questions one through twelve
a little splotch of grease there
on page seventy-three. There will
lunch time. Hear the whistle
be a test tomorrow and then
back to work. Day in, day out
all the same.
The Art of Looking Forward
He’d quite lost the hang of it
Over these many years
The art of looking forward
Faded like a childhood drawing
What with alarm clocks
And staff meetings,
The bi-weekly
Paycheck and bills
Draining his bank account
Just as fast as
He could fill it.
The obligatory week off
When he could afford it
Wondering
How he would afford it.
The seasons turning
Like the waterwheel grinding
The grain into meal.
And one day
When the verdict came
And the sentence was handed down,
He remembered the sleeplessness
Of the night before
An event he’d been looking forward to
When he was just a boy.
A Final Reckoning
The ledger has been audited
Credits and debits cleared
And the books
Closed for the year.
The figures on the scorecard
Have been tallied
The names
Of the winners and losers
Written precisely
In permanent marker
Prizes, wagers, and side-bets:
Paid in full.
The armies of the field rest
Some more than others
The diplomats and politicians
Sign treaties
In the blood of the victors
And the vanquished.
And somewhere
Somewhere
An average man
Breathes the last
Of an average life.
Life in theTrailer Park
Rusty on the outside
And greasy on the inside
His tongue
Like a swollen animal
Dead on the roadside
Baking in the sun.
The assembly lines
Of General Dynamics
Working overtime
In his head.
The latest hangover’s proof
An empty bottle on the floor
And the whore
In his bed.
The ghosts
Of a million smokes scream
Hallelujah!
In the hacks
And the phlegm.
The best part of waking up
In this tin can
And having to do it
All over again.
Smoke Break
He steps out the door
Into the institutional
Orange-yellow glow
Of the sodium light
Struggling
To hold back the night
Surrounding the loading dock
Where they collect
The losers of the fight
Between death and life
Inside
For a moment of solitude
A brief interlude
A pack of smokes
And lighter
The crutch and comfort
He’s known longer
Than most people
He counts as friends
The ritualistic dance
He knows will kill him
In the end
But grateful
For the respite it provides
From the battle
-Futile he thinks-
Within.
A Point of View
Standing on a cliff
Staring at the other side,
It’s not the distance in between,
But the depth of the divide.
Live to work-work to live
You get ahead
With a little drive
Give all your money
To someone else
Never any
To put aside.
Live to work-work to live
With an empty wallet
You wonder why
When everyone else
Is satisfied
The job is done
You’ve been retired.
Standing on a cliff
Staring at the other side,
It’s not the distance in between,
But the depth of the divide.
At this point in life
It’s yours to decide,
Take that last step
And maybe you’ll learn to fly.
A Different View
He has flying saucers
In his eyes
And porn on the television,
Joystick controlled,
Fast and slow motion,
The clock on the wall
Saying everything-
And nothing at all.
He delves deep into the pattern
Of linoleum beneath his feet
Marveling at its resemblance
To running water over rocks and
Cars flowing in the streets,
A depth and motion
Lost to him previously,
His straight-jacketed mind
Locked
In the cell of conformity,
Now blown apart and
Displayed on a page;
The Draftsman’s rendition
Of the concept of age.
During discussions
With his reflection
He gains clarity
In the disparity of
Endless loops of repetition
Where reasoning is derived
From simultaneous decisioning
And casual indifference
To the nihilistic absurdity
Of the Human Condition.
In the end order flows
Like the fog that begins
As wisps then envelops
The Golden Gate Bridge,
Reasserting its dominance
Since reality is perception,
But the sight once opened
Dials up the reception,
The ability to show,
The difference in normality,
And the various exceptions.
Maybe Mayberry
He wonders when the bloom
Came off the rose
When civil discourse
Became glassy eyed fanaticism
Or clinical cynicism
Flags of faith
Planted on position and
Discussions devolved
Into monologues
And run on convictions
Each trying to
Drown out the other and
Maybe Mayberry was a fiction
But was there never
Really a time of
Innocence and reflection
Black and white faded
Reception on the television
When he was young
And impressionable-
Seeing the world
For the first time.
Old Adages
A penny for your thoughts
A pound for your troubles
Gotta make due
With what you’ve got
Even when the price doubles
No such thing as a
Free ride
Free lunch
Or a short cut
No one ever got rich
On a tip
Or a hunch
Keep your nose to the grindstone
Son, even if it means
You’re never home
Because life is what you make it
For those you leave behind
Their memories
A steady paycheck
Even if all they ever wanted
Was a little more time.
The National Debt
It’s all a matter of perspective
The mirror image reflective
Of that which churns beneath.
Rationality is mostly reflexive
Groupthink within the collective,
The meaning drowned out
In the speech.
Self interest wears the mask of reason,
Dissidence the color of treason,
Anathema
To the nationalistic individualism
That we preach.
Truth is in the mind of the beholder
Experience the currency of the older
Being spent on the fallacies
Of belief.
A Series of Questions
Do I have to be religious
To count my blessings?
To be thankful
When my cup runneth over?
Is it okay to play
To sin and sing
And appreciate every day
And every moment
I’ve ever been given?
Knowing there are those
Who feel
They’ve never received a thing?
Is it tempting fate
To laugh at death
And say
You’re too late
Because I’ve already learned
What it’s like
To live?
The End
Green to grey to white
As bright as the darkest night
All rolled up in the shade
Of a tree on a summer’s day
While the sand blows
By the sea as the waves pound
The sound of a billion cars
On the streets with
Fresh cracked ice
And hot liquor in the glass
Overflowing on the bar
Poured down parched throats
Hoarse from the songs sung
Out loud and alone
In the crowd and words
On the pages burn
With the ferocity
Of lessons learned the hard way
The mind churns and vision blurs
The difference between
The last breath on earth
And the one before it.
A Note From the Road
The coffee is good and hot
No cream for me please
Just like the taste of coffee
In my coffee.
The highway runs
Just outside the door
Taking us next
To who knows where.
Seems I’ve been traveling forever
Going nowhere in particular
But enjoying the ride.
Sometimes the best you can hope for
Is a good cup of joe
On the road
To wherever it leads us-
Next.