Poem of the Month - June 2017

 
the sunrise spoke to me  
it uttered riddles  
laced on spider webs  
in dewy silence  
 
the forests deep  
with the wise sentient  
soldiers of old  
that keep watch over me  
 
in the oceans wide  
balm to my soul  
a cool jeweled place  
 
I ache now  
my soul talks to Mother Moon  
please tell me  
the secrets of Father Sun  
 
she smiles at me wryly  
hush child and open your mind  
watch and observe  
 
each thing in nature  
a living being  
all doing their part  
 
beauty is here  
the ferns cover  
the mossy beds  
for you to rest on  
 
a place to lie in contemplation  
nature provides for her own  
listen and be nourished  
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2017 Crimsin. All Rights Reserved  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

( Holocaust Remembrance Day )  
 
"...I should like someone to remember that there once lived a person
named David Berger." -- David Berger (in his last letter, Vilna, 1941)  
   
And what of memory    
for those unknown,    
unimaginable suffering;  
genocide so cruel    
it's denied as believable  
by a society    
desensitized to Truth.    
   
An African Proverb says,    
"Until the Lions have their day  
History belongs to the hunter."  
   
But not in this case.    
   
In this case we remember  
each faithful year  
those like David Berger  
as if we are raging  
Kings of the Jungle    
reclaiming our    
taxidermied History.  
~  
   
16 x 20 painting acrylic, oil, sumi, tears    
and remembrance on linen, 2003.    
   
I actually found a 1941 newspaper  
and 1937 frame in an old trunk in    
an antique shop that I used to back  
& frame this with.  
 

We milled around the dead woman’s estate
like vultures picking through the things  
nobody had come to claim  
 
A woman beside me bragged openly  
about the 100% Romanian wool rug she’d just scored  
while I held a sad looking stack of music CD’s  
with titles like “Romantic Italy”  
and pointed to a vintage arm chair  
we’d already loaded onto the back of the ute  
 
I didn’t tell her it smelt like pee  
I figured it would destroy the romance of the find  
and it’s hard to gloat over something beautiful  
while admitting you’ll be carrying part  
of the dead lady home with you  
to hopefully soak out in the wash  
 
We loaded half the ute that day  
with the kind of junk  
people donate to thrift stores  
or leave in the bin for landfill  
CD’s with songs so old  
they don’t play them on the radio anymore  
a Betamax tape I couldn’t play  
old knitting guides with patterns that were  
moderately out of date and could be tweaked  
for something more fashionable if someone  
was so inclined  
 
I filled a shoe box with buttons  
knitting needles, ribbons and lace  
old cross stitches just waiting to be finished  
trinkets from overseas trips  
that maybe I would keep  
or maybe I wouldn’t  
 
Yet for everything we took that day  
what bothered me was the things  
we left behind  
photo albums of people and places  
no one would remember  
a pair of glasses so strong  
they gave you a headache  
just from trying them on  
and a framed black and white photo  
of German couple and two small children  
with the inscription  
“The Stintman family  
leaving Bremerhaven, August 1953”  
 
We milled around the dead woman’s estate  
like vultures picking through the things  
nobody had come to claim  
 
© Indie Adams 2017

 
Monkey see, monkey do,
Monkey screw and then unscrew
Monkeys slip their lock and chain
Never gonna be the same

Monkey see, monkeys hear
Monkey learns to show no fear
Monkeys learn to have new fun
Watching how to shoot a gun

Monkey hear, monkey speaks
Unlike the rat who only squeaks
Monkeys learn to shout out “No!”
Then discuss just where they'll go

Monkey speak, Monkey see
Nothing is entirely free
Monkeys initiate evil plan
Learned their evil straight from man

Monkey see, monkey do,
Monkeys sniffing Uhu glue
Monkeys killing just for fun
De-evolution has begun

   
   
like the lonely tumbleweed    
we go where the wind takes us    
with seeds left behind to take root    
in the minds of those we touch    
   
we roll on never to stay long    
it isn't in our nature    
we go where called    
solitary is our way    
nighttime out solace    
   
some people grasp for solid things    
to steady them in this dizzying world    
we reach for words    
to put us on firm ground    
we hold them    
make love to them    
   
I've scorned the poetry    
that once set me free    
the thunder called    
I answered not    
the sun shone I strayed the path    
   
I reach for the poets I love    
they're not to be found    
& we roll on    
   
   
   
   
Copyright © 2017 Crimsin. All Rights Reserved  
 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

 
 
Be proud of yourself
 
Yeah, it's just one more
trophy on your shelf
likely to collect dust
 
But it is so much more
when you melt down the medals  
and pour the metal into a single
testament to your commitment:
 
being the best  
possible version of yourself
walking the spectrum of  
all the alternate worlds
combined
 
these Paradelle Universes
where we live multiple existences
repeating verses in an untold
number of variations  
 
none of which are ever perfect
nor can we retrace our steps
and edit our past mistakes
 
allowing us the luxury to fail
 
 
 
 
 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradelle
 
 

    
There is so much  
life affirming poetry    
within of you  
   
I run the scalpel  
in a single stroke  
down your sternum  
   
Having sawn through  
the deadbolts of your chest  
while rib cage is firmly secured  
I lay my hands on the best    
kept locked inside your
bone cabinet
   
thump thump  
still is beating  
thump thump  
heart of a poet in my hands  
thump thump  
treating it with all the care in the world  
   
thump thump  
as I'm eating  
thump thump  
feeling it sliding down my throat  
thump thump  
the rhythmic bass, every lyrical note  
keeping pace with the words that you
wrote  
   
 

      
My childhood was a not a scary movie      
Quite the opposite --- quiet and dull      
lived within a maze of Illinois cornfields      
     
When it came to Saturday night      
Creature Features, I was front and center      
for flicks to the imagination such as      
Night Of The Living Dead      
on Chicago's WFLD Channel 32      
     
Not that there are any particularly      
outstanding memories I can recall      

( other than perhaps my sister leaving room      
in revulsion when the zombies ate a couple    
after they burned alive in a fire and I said,      
Mmmm ... tastes like fried chicken )    
     
such Fright Fests intensely contrasted      
Nine to Five grind house of torturous      
horrors to come as an adult when life    
imitated art and we became
the walking dead      
     
Nowadays, when weekend arrives      
and sun goes down, I feel myself      
in my element --- a vampire alive  
roosting in soil of his native home      
lining a cozy coffin; embedded  
   
a deeper meaning to this poem    
there is not    
   
Consider it a snapshot---
  
a life live in black and white    
     
 

    
Not many of the neighbors  
got to see how fiercely feminine  
I was in my homemade  
Wonder Woman costume  
   
but the raincoat fending off    
cold drizzle didn't slow my charge  
into battle down the sidewalks  
in the pursuit of Liberty, Justice    
and Snickers Bars  
   
I wasn't just any Amazon either  
   
As evidenced by a long
flowing black mane
courtesy of Ben Franklin  
I was Lynda Carter  
most beautiful woman ever  
to walk the face of the Earth  
   
or fly around it in her own plane    
   
My older brother and his friends  
always teased me about my    
fascination with the super heroine  
saying on numerous occasions  
Princess Diana was a dyke  
from the Island of Lesbos  
   
It was a few more years  
before I learned what    
they were giggling about  
but once I understood  
   
I loved her even more  
   
and began to love myself  
 
 

   
My childhood went up in smoke  
when my parent's home burned  
 
For the first time in my life, they  
were noticeably at odds  
 
She had enough money set aside  
from an inheritance to purchase  
a not so new not so mobile
mobile home  
 
He would be damned if they  
paid a few hundred dollars in rent  
on a tiny sliver of land  
 
I insisted they come to a decision  
because I couldn't stand them arguing  
and not getting along in my house  
 
To make a long, miserable story short  
---mother caved, father got his way;  
they moved away in towards Chicago  
to live rent free in an old apartment  
building owned by other family  
 
He was in and out of the VA hospital
for the next five years until he died of  
bladder cancer and Alzheimer's  
 
Currently, she has lives in
a not so new not so mobile
mobile home---  
independent and happy  
for the last eleven years or so
despite the park association
raising the rent on her
tiny sliver of land  

but so far, so good  
 
There is no poetry in this tale  
to glean; only regret  
 
for demanding my parents  
get along or get out  
 
For that, I was wrong
as well  
 
I've long since moved on

You should too, Dad
  
but you are welcome to stay  
in my home for as long  
as you want  
 

they say  
the boughs that bear most hang lowest
you only see the fruit hanging low
never think of the stress on the arched back
 
trust me
ordinary is a blessing
 
no it is neither a case
of ungrateful
nor of the insatiable human nature
but an observation
 
just look
at any gifted
creative genius
struggling at
not fitting in
 
flawed is not for humans
it is a term for objects
for humans are simply
humans
with all their inherent 'qualities'
 
so to expect a human
to be flawless
is foolhardy
yet
you expect  
the gifted to be  
above failure
 
you couldn't be more human