Jeffrey Spahr-Summers,
US
|
Free Verse
here is my
pallet
1: the color black
absorbs all others
like a black hole or
sadness un-sated
it swallows rainbows
twisting them into knots
of springing black curly
ribbons curled by
scissors in the dark
2: green
is you
all that is nature
unspoiled
and beautiful
3: purple
is passion
4: red
cries like a baby
A Burden of
Worry
What I know to be
true is that
Daily, we come out of ourselves,
Peeking from under our shells like
Turtles, mere puddles of nerves
Determined to test the waters of
Worry, deserving of answers.
And daily, we muddle through the
Muck, sometimes so nearly stuck
In our father’s shoes, confused
By the awkward fit and wondering
At the need to wear them at all.
Some days, it’s all I can do to
Convince myself that fathers are
No less human than me or you,
Or my son, or the man next door,
That we’re all diamonds slightly
Flawed and the burden of worry
Is merely a jar sealed too tight.
In Search of
the Black Leopard
A leopard was here
tonight, they say
Growling iridescent eyes
Prowling around our camp,
Floating like fire-flies
Through the pitch black night.
A chilling sight, they say.
And feeling wise,
Full of adventure,
Smug from the venture of the day
We hug the chain-link fence.
Reel on the brink of suspense
And peel our eyes
To peer into the darkness,
But we see nothing.
We hear nothing.
Nothing convinces us to fear
What we cannot hear or see,
So we walk along the fence
As silent as the absence
Of the black leopard.
Suddenly one fence becomes two,
And the darkness becomes
An odd hallway through which we walk
And talk of the reasons for two
When two suddenly become one again
And now reason is beyond talking,
And no longer wasted on us.
We are outside the camp and we know it,
We show it in our hastened retreat,
Our fleet footed heat back to camp.
And we know that he’s there. We know it.
We see and hear him everywhere;
in the trees crowding to surround us,
on our tails,
in the loud wail of the wind around us,
right where the sway of the fence ends,
laying in wait behind that bush
we can’t see but know is there.
That’s where he is we know it.
Under our car, we know it;
not far behind us
as we reach for our door,
behind the door,
on the floor,
under the beds. We’re sure of it.
We’re dead for sure and we know it.
looking for
heroes
under the bed
under the
sofa
bed under
the sheets under
the dresser under
neath appearances
purposes
and all the trash
in my room
A Frightened
Sparrow
Flies in like a jet
in mid-roll
And crashes into the doors
Her breast heaves with fear
As she gasps gulps for air
Gingerly I reach out to her
Stroke her quivering back
Fold my hand around her
Cooing softly I pick her up
Carry her into the darkness
Of the night and release her
Back to nature from where
She so suddenly came
But she does not fly away
She sits on my finger and
Watches me with wonder
For an enchanted moment
We are happy hypnotized
Bewildered by this magic
Fear of
Tchaikovsky
Having known you for
only a moment
I’m reminded by Tchaikovsky that
Parting is never cheerful or easy.
And for want of any better reason,
All my life friendships have teased
Me simply because I let them. And
Believing it to be the right thing
To do, I let them lead me to you.
And like Tchaikovsky, thick in my ears
As rock and roll after thirty, or sex
Mid-afternoon when it must be quick,
I let you lead me to the very edge
Of the blues, where I know that fear
Is unavoidable, and true, and here.
Slice in the
Sky
Glowing hot coal
slender ember of orange
sprinkling diamonds
blanket of stars
sparks of sparkling sugar
tickling my eyes
this little child inside
wants more I
want more I
taste it I
crave it I
want to savor
save it for later I
turn away I’ll say
just for a moment
and it’s hot white
wonder
On Being a Man
To begin, I should
say that I think a
Man’s home is his ego. At least that’s
Where we’re most like to be found,
Sulking for reasons unknown behind
The walls we build so very precisely.
But these walls are never quite done
Considering wear and tear, maintenance.
And we sit so much thinking we’re wizards
Astride our lofty towers looking down.
And we’re stubborn, and bent on resisting
Any need to account for ourselves or
Entertain any desire to venture below.
But something down there entices me.
Something tells me to reach for my father
And ask for his help to get back down,
Because I know I can’t get there from
Here. The stairs have so fairly crumbled,
And I’ve not allowed for doors or windows
Or simple means with which to communicate.
I’ve walled in far too many old memories
And I am dizzy from fear of heights.
And because I imagine my father calls
To me a voice of stormy seas come only
To take my tower down, seas as endless as
The questions I never thought to ask him,
Or couldn’t, perhaps somehow I expect
He’ll offer answers for the sake of
Some love between us, but being a man
One shouldn’t expect such offers much.
fifteen minutes
of fame he said
andy warhol one
weird-ass-dude an
artist who
said everyone gets
it whats coming
to them
i mean ive
already had mine
up to here so
no biggie no rush no
pressure
thanks all
the same
In the Hair Check
Line
(Hillview High
School)
We know the rules of
the school:
No hair to our collars,
No hair over our ears,
An inch on top (at the most),
No hair past our cheekbones
And no hair on our faces.
‘It’s simple’ we
think as we
Wait and primp while the prefects
Work their way towards us,
We’ll just tie our hair
In a pony-tail in back
And pin it under with bobby pins.
It looks cool that way.
But we soon learn
that the prefects
Are not the fools they appear to be
And our error in judgment
Earns us two weeks detention,
Not to mention
Hair cuts by next week.
A Mother
My next customer is
a mother
she trembles like a little wet poodle
as she hands me her cell phone...
my son is threatening to kill himself
don't let him hang up...I wonder
is this a joke but before I can speak
she produces another slim phone
that she screams into...get the guns
out of the house NOW...this must be
a daughter perhaps or a husband
I guess what can I say to this boy
I know nothing about who he is or
why does he think he wants to die?
Willie and the
Salt Block
Willie eyes the salt
with bad intent
Like a cat taunting a mouse.
He shoves his nose at the block,
Knocks it around a bit
And struts around his corral.
But ever out of sight of the thing.
In his own way, he
admits
That the salt’s not going anywhere.
But he has to make sure.
That’s what being a stallion is all about...
Certainties, of
which he has so few.
He’s certain that
the mares will show up
At odd times searching for his seed,
But he never knows when to expect them.
He never knows when his alfalfa or oats
will come, because being a horse
He does not understand scheduling.
But the salt, that white tangy stuff
That titillates his often bored tongue
And burns down his throat like thorns,
Now that’s a certainty, It’s there,
And he has to make sure it stays.
|
|