Untitled. Poem About "My Place" & the Newtown Shootings.

The day before the Newtown shooting, I wanted to write a poem about my favorite place to escape to when life was getting away from me, or just to be alone, or whatever. I was also listening to my favorite band play a concert in NY over SiriusXM radio. And well, it's kind of hard to write a poem about a calm place when you're listening to a live punk rock concert. I thought I would write it the next day. And well, obviously, I didn't. I was itching to write it today, for whatever reason. It's set the day of the shooting but all else is very, very real and accurate.

Yesterday I listened to my favorite band

sing “All I Want For Christmas Is An AK-47.”

Today I watched in horror as 20 children

were gunned down with an assault rifle.

I read an article last week that stated,

“Atheists don’t deal well with death.”

I threw up in the in the shower today.

I guess crying and puking in the shower

is an okay way to deal with death.

I wanted to write about

my favorite get-away place yesterday.

Today I just want to be there.

It’s at its best in winter.

Then it’s quite, unless you count

the wind running through the trees;

I don’t, I like that sound.

Down a hill along a gravel road,

a little walkway across the water

to a wooden dock. I can sit

out there for hours.

Just me.

I can look out on the lake, and only see a

fisherman or two. No one

to deal with or worry about.

Calm, things make more sense.

I wish I was there today.

I wish I could make sense of today.

Jazz Club

For dVerse Poets prompt tonight!! Hope I did it right :-/ !! Was discussing jazz with a friend last night, then came the news that Fontella Bass (Jazz singer from St. Louis) passed. So this poem seems appropriate. I first wrote a poem in this style back in college, about drugs & being high all the time. I think my professor was more concerned for me that I realized at the time. He encouraged me to write a poem in this style, but NOT about drugs. He was a jazz lover, I think (hope) he would have liked this poem.

 

Jazz Club

I.

bold and brassy

the trumpeter’s tune

is blown into the night

mixing with

shimmering cymbals

wood clashing

                         onto metal

flirting with saucy saxophones

            sensually flowing

l o n g and piercing

through the air

and accompanying bass

repeatedly pumping

                                 out         the       rhythm

complimenting cool

quick

beats of the drum

hit the backbeat

                          and go

                                     Go

                                          GO

II

I sit back

in the crooked

wooden chair

watching my brother bop

                                         his head

lost

in the music

I am buzzed

too many beers

blue smoke

t

 w

i

  s

 t

   s

around my fingers

as I pump my

                      cigarette

                           in

                      time

                                to

                           the

                                     bass