April Out the Door

April 2014-  Can you hear me there Elenore ?

*

The Missing Thread

*

Missing Thread 2*

Audio Version from – Singing Mr.Cedric

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*

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The Missing Thread

*

Missing Thread 1*

Trying so very hard

not to miss this

fragile thread.

The tail end of the shadows

contained like it was pulling ink

in a thread line pinpoint

pulling Camels through the needles eye

upon this page.

 

April ignoring Spring

Back turned smirking

lusting in the gusting

of a premature barbecue twilight

gale burning hotter

wanting Summer now

Instead.

No time foreplay.

April pleading hot and fast

Jump me now

Instead of holding the fool May’s hand

 

So in the hissing high unnatural

desire there is just enough

light and heat to make you

believe out of season

you’ve got a shot at all this.

 

When April wants to really taunt March

she uses his winds like this on you.

 

The roar of Winter in the throat of a August Dog

right after the Fools day with your name written

all over it.

 

April laughing in all their faces.

Calling then just a bunch of numbers with Roman names

don’t let the calendar door hit you as it clears

your ass clear away.

 

April

Not a nice girl

after all.

Knows you and your missing thread

and shows up on an afternoon like this

to taunt and tease  you…..in knots.      

*

                                       From Sometimes Grief     2012 

*

Prufock

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Why is April the Cruelest Month ?

*

Hard to put a handle on it really

So I asked my students

who originally wrote

this line.

They “peered” up at me

with such a deep bewilderment.

 

All except for that one girl who sits off on the left hand side of the room

who rolled her eyes and let out a sigh while huffing indignantly ,

“I don’t even see what that’s even supposed to mean.”

 

I guess now wasn’t the time to introduce the line,

 

“I see myself dead in the rain”

 

Maybe it was the bookend of chilled dawn memory

sandwiched between the evening dusk desire frost.

 

Driving to work in April ice storms

to be a teacher in a County Jail

tends to make you a “little thirsty”

by the end of the day.

 

OK.

How about

“a lot….. of   a “little thirsty”

 

Perhaps it is the distance taking hold

like one real “stick it to um” bastard of a Winter.

The distance of the years gone realized

in a growing, gnawing squeezing in your chest.

 

But really it’s that stranger’s hand in your pocket

You know that one you discover

upon putting your own in there

to fish something out.

 

And it looks like somebody already beat you too it

In some other April

where somebody elses’   memory

picked that pocket clean

of all you ever desired.           

*

                                            – Greetings from Gridville 2004

*

Lost Head stone 3

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Your Lost Headstone

* 

Why do I dream about you

around this time of year  ?

 

Some Spring maybe the one I finally forget

 year to year

page after page

but not yet in the sky or the street.

 

Again last night

with that dream of you

the second in the

last few weeks

as I recall.

 

Much of the same thing

I suppose.

What I can remember about your face

It has been over twenty years now.

The constant implication of

some sort of intimacy,

a closeness

that we never really had between us.

 

Just what was it we had between us ?

I’ll never be able to ask you now.

No now I dream in vague suggestions

of somebody calling my name

 

from very, very far away.

 

You left in March that chilly season

by the time April warmed

you were all memory and dull ache.

 

Why it is you would insist upon

visiting me now in this fashion

during this time of the year

in a succession of dreams

causes me to wonder out loud

 

What I ever really knew of you

What all this veiled memory

really reminds me

 

No matter how close,

these shadows of you

come to me in the night

as Winter succumbs in the arms of  Spring

 

No matter

how my lyrical mind

wants to reconstruct the events

the landscape of our last time together

 

No matter what we did

or didn’t

on that May evening

in the street light’s glow

chasing darkness about the

inside of my car.

 

My head between your legs.

That last sentence of words

you lisp out at me

just below my threshold of hearing

 

All I can see now is a shaky outline

of a woman’s form directed towards me

the eyes discernible only by the glistening tears.

   

And then the slam of a car door

 

In the dream that visits me again

the same feeling.

 

It never happened for us.

We looked over that moment

of each other just so far… then

 

You walked away

back into the house.

 

I drove off

down the road.

 

And every year

at this time

the dream

tells this same story

just a little bit differently.                                                           Greetings from Gridville 2004

*

Five sense 1

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 FIN Sense

 *

Caught in the snare

of a barroom triangle

color, sound and

perception of these things

I could almost taste my senses

straining to see this

hear the faintest stirring….

 

That might define

 

in all the 3-dimensional surrounding

tangible objects

on this plane of reality

struggling to recall the other one

 

Let’s see.

You hear

You see

You touch

You taste

 

What’s that missing sense ?

 

Memory ?

Regret ?

Longing ?

 

Then there’s the lowering

of the voice in

public while having

conversation

when someone enters

the room

you have some petty

grudge against

and you refuse

to left go.

 

O Yeah

Now I remember.

 

The missing sense ?

 

Smell.

 

And how that shit

stinks.          

*

                                              -Greetings from Gridville

*

*

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Happens Every Spring

 *

And he wraps

his fingers

around the pen

holding it in

his hand

like it was his

favorite bat

and takes

a 1-2-3

series of practice

swings

crouching into stance

while setting his

place between the

white caulk lines

of the pages

batters box

looking out a the pitcher

and nods in acknowledgement

with a slow sure steady stare

glaring a certain degree

of due respect

but….

 

Thinking

Hell yes….

 

I can hit this guy.

 

                                                               Sometimes Grief  4/2010

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April 24 2012 001  

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In an April Moment

 

Strange perfume

Chilly Sunday

April afternoon

Ambient concussions

in oscillating cycles

My shadow lingers

in the doorway sighing

in the silent hiss of

blooming scattered

upon fitful sparse green.

New red maple buds

burst on my daughters

disfigured branches

Cardinals in pairs appear

nestled in the thick

wild golden eyes

of Forsythia.

They seclude themselves

hide deep red wings like

secret lovers

and in this late afternoon

translucent fragile light

I think the wrinkles around your eyes

and slight pout of your lips

are singing hymns of the

Terrible Now to me.

 

Christmas ornament Cardinals

seclude their love inside

Forsythia’s arms

while this intoxication

of the second is complete

every time when I keep my silence

you return to me.

 

                                                                                                 From Sometimes Grief            2012  

 

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