morning of the march

 

 

 

Sometimes in history, it's good to be a little boy. And for this

your emotions can be supervised, above, beyond the physical world; explained with mothers

back hand and the supplest of biblical principals. I can reflect of this spirit over toast and

Smuckers strawberry jam, who's cap I couldn't get off thank you, in the freshly painted kitchen

in the house I own. Forgetting  events of supersymmetry, passing by the window. I wave, the rain

that fell in the night, waves back. It's good to reach a point in life where being young makes

a body physicall ill. When I hold my stomach in for too long, my arms hurt the next day. 

Where was I?

When I was ten, I can't remember much more than my parents fighting or the 30 stairs

I climbed up to our flat over the pool room, where the echoes of empty hallways were always

dying of happiness. Is this the reason why I crave an empty house? Now? With three good toes

of one foot in the good grave? Is spouseless a word? If so the dictionary is a red rectangular liar

because there's an art to being naked. You just have to remove from the room all things that

reflect images and stand clear of hissing radiators.

I don't know if houses in other parts of world have radiators so for those places, nakedness is

probably not a good idea. Grandad heated his house with nothing but a wood stove, up intil

2004, the year he died with yams left to dig up and a rooster who knew he was gone. But what

does a city boy know of living in the country where mice find a way in the house that you heat with

wood, live well and flourish? It was the morning of the march and I, as I have been known to do,

categorize the poems to read in terms of length. The short ones I will take with me along with

the 81mg aspirin, if I decide to walk my two miles. The long ones will just have to wait. I was

told that poetry is what happens when  all attempts to solve what troubles you have been exhausted

where justice is the only thing left

worth  waiting for.........to be continued.

Reviews

[LJW]

...the year he died with yams left to dig up and a rooster who knew he was gone.

... I was told that poetry is what happens when all attempts to solve what troubles you have....

Just two of the lines that jump off the page. I am a farm/ country girl at heart, being fortunate enough to spend entire summers on a dairy farm on a lake in rural PA. Roosters are one of the luckiest animals ever. Their sole focus in life is to procreate and tell the world what time it is.

Have you considered recording any of these pieces?

[K. Louis]

This, just left me smiling. Continue on. :)