Submissions by dfwtinman
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
65 yo and I have taken up the pen (key pad) after a long hiatus. My focus in writing now is on having a clear intention and then realizing that intention.
SELF POEM
Published
19th May 2016 6:26pm
19th May 2016 6:26pm
Spectacles
Far as I know, losing a second pair of eyeglasses
isn't a crime; worst case it's a mortal sin.
I'd been awaiting my penance all day.
Still, the beating came as a surprise.
Mother met Dad as he walked in the door,
serving him her anger like an hors d'oeuvre.
Mother then hustled me into the living room,
there to have a "talk" with Dad.
There was a mask of anger on Dad's face.
I became instantly alarmed.
Usually, Dad was the calm one.
Doubtless he felt Mother's eyes upon him.
Dad was sitting cross-legged on...
isn't a crime; worst case it's a mortal sin.
I'd been awaiting my penance all day.
Still, the beating came as a surprise.
Mother met Dad as he walked in the door,
serving him her anger like an hors d'oeuvre.
Mother then hustled me into the living room,
there to have a "talk" with Dad.
There was a mask of anger on Dad's face.
I became instantly alarmed.
Usually, Dad was the calm one.
Doubtless he felt Mother's eyes upon him.
Dad was sitting cross-legged on...
543 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
17th May 2016 8:21pm
17th May 2016 8:21pm
The girl and the ghost
Today, breaking with tradition, I noticed her.
She offered me an anemic closed-lip smile.
Her eyes flickered, but beheld nothing.
Some sad song sang through her bones.
At age 11, she was an irenic soul.
Chamber rooms brimmed with her laughter.
She often rode her horse at breakneck speed.
At age 18, her suitors were many.
I found nothing of that once charismatic colleen.
Conversation only pained us both.
She strived to be a ghost.
I could guess at the source of her pain.
...
She offered me an anemic closed-lip smile.
Her eyes flickered, but beheld nothing.
Some sad song sang through her bones.
At age 11, she was an irenic soul.
Chamber rooms brimmed with her laughter.
She often rode her horse at breakneck speed.
At age 18, her suitors were many.
I found nothing of that once charismatic colleen.
Conversation only pained us both.
She strived to be a ghost.
I could guess at the source of her pain.
...
596 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
30th May 2015 9:13pm
30th May 2015 9:13pm
The Rains of Texas
Once, you didn't need to be Jesus
to walk across the Trinity River;
but that was before the deluge came.
Once, a Spanish explorer claimed discovery of
"La Santísima Trinidad,"
but that was long after the native peoples had settled the banks
of the river they called "Pahnichoba."
Once, traversing the stream's 710 miles
took far more portaging than paddling.
But then came a hundred-year rain.
Now the "River of Canoes" is overlain
by a burnt sienna...
to walk across the Trinity River;
but that was before the deluge came.
Once, a Spanish explorer claimed discovery of
"La Santísima Trinidad,"
but that was long after the native peoples had settled the banks
of the river they called "Pahnichoba."
Once, traversing the stream's 710 miles
took far more portaging than paddling.
But then came a hundred-year rain.
Now the "River of Canoes" is overlain
by a burnt sienna...
729 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
16th May 2015 11:01pm
16th May 2015 11:01pm
Pond Creek
Even by grade-school standards,
the assignment seemed simple enough.
We were to "stand and deliver" our heritage.
A wry grin broke over my father's face,
"son, we're Appalachian, from the East Kentucky coalfields."
My mind raced to the Hatfields and McCoys,
comic and unlearned figures in American culture.
My Aunt Neva had other ideas.
She told me of wondrous nights
around the campfires of Pond Creek.
She spoke of poets and musicians,
theologians and mathematicians--
an Algonquin Round Table...
the assignment seemed simple enough.
We were to "stand and deliver" our heritage.
A wry grin broke over my father's face,
"son, we're Appalachian, from the East Kentucky coalfields."
My mind raced to the Hatfields and McCoys,
comic and unlearned figures in American culture.
My Aunt Neva had other ideas.
She told me of wondrous nights
around the campfires of Pond Creek.
She spoke of poets and musicians,
theologians and mathematicians--
an Algonquin Round Table...
729 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
16th May 2015 7:36pm
16th May 2015 7:36pm
at a glance
music locked in memories long interred
as if within an echo chamber stirred
reflected visions etched upon a lake
linger then dip below the windward wake
dimly play these songs to this aging ear
dusk lighting dreams that to the darkness veer
as if within an echo chamber stirred
reflected visions etched upon a lake
linger then dip below the windward wake
dimly play these songs to this aging ear
dusk lighting dreams that to the darkness veer
687 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
10th May 2015 9:32pm
10th May 2015 9:32pm
mother's day
our chevy station wagon
morphs into a suburban rocket
hurtling up cherry drive
toward school
rage gives Evelyn
a heavy foot
if the rocket jumps the curb
our simple lap belts
will never be enough
to keep us together
five children give Evelyn
more than she can handle
mother does not recall
making unwilling astronauts
of her wide-eyed passengers
who themselves cannot forget
failing health gives Evelyn
a clear conscience
there is no one
worthy of this anger
the...
morphs into a suburban rocket
hurtling up cherry drive
toward school
rage gives Evelyn
a heavy foot
if the rocket jumps the curb
our simple lap belts
will never be enough
to keep us together
five children give Evelyn
more than she can handle
mother does not recall
making unwilling astronauts
of her wide-eyed passengers
who themselves cannot forget
failing health gives Evelyn
a clear conscience
there is no one
worthy of this anger
the...
803 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
23rd Mar 2015 00:48am
23rd Mar 2015 00:48am
Crossing
come eventide
a man crawls
on his belly
toward the Undiscovered Country
near this unforgiving border
no lilies bloom
no wagons wait
on the innocent
he closes his eyes
recounts his steps
to this barren place
this land of poison promises
in town, a woman kneels
crosses herself
downs both blood and body
and prays she has faith enough for two
a man crawls
on his belly
toward the Undiscovered Country
near this unforgiving border
no lilies bloom
no wagons wait
on the innocent
he closes his eyes
recounts his steps
to this barren place
this land of poison promises
in town, a woman kneels
crosses herself
downs both blood and body
and prays she has faith enough for two
827 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
4th Nov 2014 7:10pm
4th Nov 2014 7:10pm
the learning curve
five sets of small bones
five prisoners of pestilence
atop a stoney hill
in the shallowest of graves
beneath the plainest of markers
I climbed that hill with grandmother
to her siblings buried there
her lips moved softly
but I could not make out the words
fifty years passed until once again
I climbed to that stoney landing
I cupped an ear in the wind
and privately my lips began to move
as voices rose to meet mine
five prisoners of pestilence
atop a stoney hill
in the shallowest of graves
beneath the plainest of markers
I climbed that hill with grandmother
to her siblings buried there
her lips moved softly
but I could not make out the words
fifty years passed until once again
I climbed to that stoney landing
I cupped an ear in the wind
and privately my lips began to move
as voices rose to meet mine
698 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
23rd Sep 2014 7:39pm
23rd Sep 2014 7:39pm
disremembering the dead. Old version
Dead of a massive heart attack."
Never merely heart attack.
I imagined the doctors saying
those very words to my mother.
Massive.
Fifty.
Father.
Dead.
I have warm memories of him.
Mother swears I don't.
"You're confusing photos with reality."
Four.
Fondness.
Mirth.
Memories.
Lately, my memories do not answer
when called. They are tardy things.
...
Never merely heart attack.
I imagined the doctors saying
those very words to my mother.
Massive.
Fifty.
Father.
Dead.
I have warm memories of him.
Mother swears I don't.
"You're confusing photos with reality."
Four.
Fondness.
Mirth.
Memories.
Lately, my memories do not answer
when called. They are tardy things.
...
583 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
23rd Sep 2014 7:36pm
23rd Sep 2014 7:36pm
Rejectamenta Rising
Fanny the flibbertigibbet
flung her flapdoodle
while Simon the scaramouch
surreptitiously soiled the samovar
The drought continues
flung her flapdoodle
while Simon the scaramouch
surreptitiously soiled the samovar
The drought continues
532 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
30th May 2014 10:13pm
30th May 2014 10:13pm
Secret Supplicant
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee."
Sometimes on summer evenings
I knelt beneath the open windows
of my neighbors' dining room,
soundless and motionless.
"Blessed art thou amongst women,"
Betty fed Bob and their nine kids
all together, every night, without fail.
Each meal began with a prayer
which eleven voices chanted as one.
"and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."
Contralto convocation,
the chanting transfixed me
as...
Sometimes on summer evenings
I knelt beneath the open windows
of my neighbors' dining room,
soundless and motionless.
"Blessed art thou amongst women,"
Betty fed Bob and their nine kids
all together, every night, without fail.
Each meal began with a prayer
which eleven voices chanted as one.
"and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."
Contralto convocation,
the chanting transfixed me
as...
654 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
25th May 2014 9:40pm
25th May 2014 9:40pm
Arlington Cemetery
Did he ever sleep--
on that couch with five children?
Ear to Dad's chest the catbird seat.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Until one day, his heart stopped.
We first learned of the Korean War
from a few posed pictures
of dad in uniform-- leaning on a jeep,
lipping a cigarette casually.
But it was nothing we spoke of.
At the end, he just flat froze,
skin cool as Murphy marble-
with immutable alabaster eyes.
Monuments bear witness
to countless abrupt endings, when
soldiers metamorphose from ...
on that couch with five children?
Ear to Dad's chest the catbird seat.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Until one day, his heart stopped.
We first learned of the Korean War
from a few posed pictures
of dad in uniform-- leaning on a jeep,
lipping a cigarette casually.
But it was nothing we spoke of.
At the end, he just flat froze,
skin cool as Murphy marble-
with immutable alabaster eyes.
Monuments bear witness
to countless abrupt endings, when
soldiers metamorphose from ...
616 reads
1 Comment
DU Poetry : Submissions by dfwtinman
