Thursday, December 27, 2012

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

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
beats of the drum
hit the backbeat
                          and go

I sit back
in the crooked
wooden chair
watching my brother bop
                                         his head
in the music

I am buzzed
too many beers
blue smoke
around my fingers
as I pump my