Screen Dump 622

 

You complain about street stares

the nomenclature of being neither here nor there . . .

a life of surreptitious appropriation

of egress odysseys misgivings

but without which the self-indulgent

click dead links

waiting for a remake of the opening scene

to Beckett's Act Without Words . . .

Postdocs duped into defending their proofs

on the 10-yard line have been given the day off

to search for moments of joy . . .

It's not without benefit, is it? . . .

There's always the captivation of a demi plié . . .

And then you continued with furthermore

adding to the incomprehensibility of Legos

when noodling riffs as ammo

for grandmasters at square one . . .

But it's not . . . Regrettably? . . .

Accumulating insignificant raptures? . . .

You think it possible? . . .

There are enough connections to engage a default

with purveyors of copper wiring cashing out

when storm clouds blunder in . . .

And why is that? . . .

No idea, but it's right here in my pocket protector . . .

Always one to do it up right, yes? . . .

I suppose so, if I must . . .

Have you ever done things that you wouldn't do

under normal conditions? . . .

Freakishly normal, yes . . .

In the company of tight ponytailed cowboy shirts . . .

The script failed . . . to no one's dismay

so we packed up the snake oil van and slithered out . . .

Leila Fores

Screen Dump 621

We are all suspect

riding victorious in white chariots drawn by white horses

parading through the streets

earwormed with the caveat

All glory is fleeting . . .

prompting you to reconsider life's Rolodex

with the Titanic's burial soundtracked

not by Nearer My God To Thee as tabloided

but by Archibald Joyce's Songe d'Automne . . .

Oh, to be in England now that April's there, yes? . . .

Here's to April's blizzard

as the tray feeders become high-trafficked areas . . .

George C. Scott's Patton, It was here;

the battlefield was here . . .

A grackle flexes its wings . . . impressing no one . . .

bill tilts abound

all shapes and sizes and ages scatter

with the arrival of a needle-beaked red-bellied woodpecker

while inside the cat chows down on a dictionary

dribbling words from his chops . . .

The meaning of this and that has left the building

on African war pachyderms

crossing the Alps to Hannibalize Rome . . .

A takeaway box and a paradigm shift

and the boiler's red eye reset button eyes you

as if through a glass and darkly

in the darkness of the basement . . .

The voices in the walls guest the power outage

with live links for the woebegotten

waving both hands in the air using a twisting movement . . .

Leila Fores

My poem "Walking the Cat" has been selected by the Hudson Valley Writers Guild for consideration by visual artists from the Upstate Artists Guild to create an artwork inspired by the poem both of which will be included in an exhibit scheduled for September.

Walking the Cat

She prefers to spend her days lazed

in the stuffy arms of a chair by the window

where she can keep an emerald eye

peeled for caricatures in the street.

Her pleasures are unparalleled

though this morning she carried on

about the hot cereal being anything but.

Later, despite the coming snow

she insisted on our usual walk -

the side streets troubled by student drivers

at ten and two, the vacant lot flecked

with white. We stopped for a paper

which pleased her to no end, knowing

it would eventually wind up in her box.

She doesn't seem to mind old news.

On the way home she mentioned

the snow blower which I should have

had serviced in the fall, and her wish

to return to her pastime of compiling lists

of restaurants with take-out sushi

at reasonable prices for friends and acquaintances.

But you know how that goes.

Tara and Corleone

Blackberries

(reposted from Thursday, August 11, 2011)

When I lived closer I'd keep things cleaner,
weeding the bushes every now and then.

I had this pair of blue coveralls -
Frank sewn in red over the left pocket,

the name of my friend's father,
who repaired radiators

till the acid ate his lungs.
I'd pull on the coveralls,

wade into the blackberry bushes
and pick away, protected.

I've stopped by again today
to see how my father's doing.

It's August and he's eighty-six.
He's asked for some blackberries,

so I'm out here, in shirt and tie,
picking.

Screen Dump 620

As if your carouseled life had been nominated for an Oscar . . .

The scene in the supermarket

with triads played out of time

by woodwind player wannabes . . .

Imagine the confusion of recurring themes

delivered post hoc by paramilitarists

dressed to kill . . . and do . . .

Where have all the flowers gone? . . .

C'mon, sing with me . . . if for no other reason

then we're here . . . together . . .

in this cluttered, trampled,

underappreciated landscape . . .

Hey, the re-enactors are still here

and I feel in my bones that they can make a difference

changing the subjunctive as directed . . .

stepping up to the mic

with proper intonation . . .

There's never been a better wishbone, yes? . . .

Screen Dump 619

You leave them in the early hours

their heads adrift in autofictions

memories of costumes

worn by people of the high Urals . . .

You ride their falsified credentials

into the countryside

open to the sound of your tiny cabin

on the side of a hill above a river . . .

the river you swim in and kayak on

between your missions-impossible . . .

Ghosts keyboard the voices

in your head . . .

Books kindle your world

in the words of odysseyites

trafficking in incidental phrases

and ads for river cruises . . .

At dawn most days you rise

to patch leaks in the clouds

with an awesomeness that grows . . .

Irma Hasselberger

 Gone

(reposted from Wednesday, April 18, 2012)

          for Catherine Mary Connolly (1969-2012)

You have faced the final storm, and now float,
high above the seas, guiding fellow sailors.
The days have begun to lighten;
the nights are open windows.
I turn the soil for a vegetable garden:
tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, eggplant.
Rhode Island Reds appear
scratching for worms with gnarled, yellow claws.
My grandfather is here, too,
a stubby Philip Morris dangling from his lower lip.
He speaks to me, in Polish, about happiness.

Screen Dump 618

This shred of arrogance kept popping up in the living room

as if at the appointed hour

you are the whole in your seemingly illogical . . .

Where do we stand? . . .

There was nothing not to like about it

of course it had many iterations . . .

so many that the scorecard filed a grievance

and left us with little to say

especially when your publicist struck a dissonant chord . . .

With so few clusters you have to wonder

though I suppose one could argue the converse . . .

Leila Fores

Rensselaerville Library’s sixth annual Poem-A-Day Project

celebrates National Poetry Month

with a new poem by a local poet each day for April’s 30 days.

With this year’s entries, PAD will have showcased

180 poems by 110 poets.

Stop by PAD2022 for your daily poetry fix!