Poetry Just Because

I have decided to publish several random poems I have written (I have also added some more to earlier posts) "just because." I am hoping other people will enjoy some of it and also, hopefully, be amused by certain poems I have included - at great personal risk.

Poetry is one of my favorite things. I will leave the judgements as to quality up to all of you :-)

The News at Five, November 23, 1963

"The President is dead," the old man
On the black and white TV said.
Through the "snow" on the screen he cried,
"President Kennedy has died."

At five I knew something bad, very bad,
Was really upsetting my Mom and Dad.
Daddy came home early, looking sad.
They held each other close and cried,
The day President Kennedy died.

Later, there were sad, slow horses
And a big box wrapped in a U.S. flag
On the black and white TV.
The snow was still all over the screen
And his little boy saluted the scene
Not knowing his Daddy could never
Hold him again when he cried,
The day President Kennedy died.

Thinking back all of those years
To the grief and the tears,
I can still hear the crippled innocence
Of America sigh
And recall the grief and the fear.
A small part of a five-year-old girl's heart
Held on to that and cried,
The day President Kennedy died.

Ages of Mice and Men

The young
Put such a different face
Upon Time's progress
And effect upon
Corporeal-self and space.
When merely young
A day is longer, more so,
Than a month is to those
Who have reached
An epiphany of years,
Though it takes but little time
For a child to feel
The burdens of eternity
From Christmas tree to Christmas tree.
As age encompasses feeble flesh,
The year becomes more plausible
But still insists on
Dragging time-sodden feet
For those whose perception of Time
Is still on the upside of Life's hill.
Age passes into age;
Time grows shorter
As Life moves onward.
At the increased pace
Our perceptions, incrementally
Shortened, force us
To consume our time in a daily feast,
The burden of which is
Our having less time to inhabit our
Unique and intimate space.
We long for the next phase of Time
While hoping for more to come.
We yearn for Time to pass our way
But want more; Time grows shorter
As our years grow long.

(untitled)

Clothes certainly look better
Hanging in loose grace from
A slender person's frame.
The scrawny model draped in
Shimmering gossamers and
Pliable lights
Was chosen.
The designer vetted her
With bulemia
High on his list of
Positive attributes.
Gay - he looks with lustful eyes
At boy-thin girls
And eats the image of
His creations
Draped deliciously
Over the thinly fleshed
Wings, breasts, and drumsticks
Served on the photographic plate
With a side of fresh satin salads.

Reflections On a Poem by David Barber - 04/07/2005

Ms. Arabella Young had a tongue that could flay.
She was not a happy soul
And those closest to her paid in spades
For what she had to say.

Critical and crabby,
She was her husband's dread -
Oft, for a moment's peace
He might wish her dead.

She jawed and fussed and commented,
Her verbiage burned like fire,
Until the day she held her tongue
And choked upon her ire.

To Mada

What was his name, Mada?
The little one you bore
That they killed and threw away like trash?
What was his name?
He has no grave
For you to cry over,
Weeping cold, dry tears
into the dust of his lost eternities.
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?

Do you know his brother,
Or was it a sister,
You yourself killed
Because the pain was so great in you
You could not hold on to even one little life
For such a long time?
What were their names?

Can you still feel him, Mada?
Emerging from you, newly born,
One brief moment, one glimpse,
Then whisked away into oblivion and death;
The Nazis as babysitters
Led only to a cradle of fire and ashes, Mada.
What was his name?

Do you still long to hold him, Mada?
To feel his warm, sweet infant breath
Mingling with yours?
To touch his soft infant skin
To bury your nose in his hair
To feel the curl of gentle fingers
Grasping one of your fingers,
Tiny hands, so perfect,
Holding your heart
Forever.
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?

Tiny siren of heartbreak
And you still hear his call,
I think,
Crying for your warm milk
To quench the choke of lifelessness
And hatred the Nazis gave him
For his first birthday,
His only birthday.
What was his name, Mada,
What was his name?

Baby of Mine?
Lost Love?
Father's Name In Flesh Appearing?
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?

Dream Sequence

You gave away the coat I had,
My only coat,
The one I had purchased for myself,
The one that fit properly,
The one worn with my use,
The one I was comfortable in,
And you gave it to somebody else
And tried to replace it
With another coat,
Someone else's
That was too childish and
Too small.
You professed surprise
When I got upset.
Fortunately, though,
My boyfriend's mother was there
And had a granddaughter
Who might like the coat
You tried to foist off on me,
So she has taken it.
She likes things
The original owners have cast off
As long as they still have
Lots of wear in them.
And all the time this was
Going on
Don McLean kept singing
"Vincent" in the background,
And I could sing along
Because I remembered the words,
Every one of them.