poetry

a smattering of poetry

War
I saw a man.
The Window of a Poor House
The Blanket
Converse
blank
Sometimes Storms
Five Points For William
2:30AM Conversation With My Brother
TORN
magnets
night life
specificity
intangible ireland
hold the sky
a british bomber over nazi germany
a pauper's kiss
famine follies
en route to dingle
a stump's hope
owned
to hold the music
flying in a sea...
my ireland
coldplay

War

White and red it flows through the sand.
Black and White together they stand.
Cold and stiff as rocks they lay.
Morning and noon, night and day.
Tick, tick, tick, the hands of time move slowly.
Flip, flip, flip, the pages of calendars turn.
Slowly time passes by.
Then shouts of joy ring out.
But why?
We haven't really won.
Because...

White and red it flows through the sand.
Black and White together they stand.
Cold and stiff as rocks they lay.
Morning and noon, night and day.

I saw a man.
He broke my heart,
But not in the usual way.
Tall and worn,
Bushy hair
All in disarray.
Skin pulled taught across his face
And in his weary hands, a sign:
Will Work For Food.

The Window of a Poor House

In the midst of gloomy oppression
Sits a pot of red geraniums
Struggling to stay alive.
They stand out
From the shabby greys of faded colors.
They are beauty in the bleak ugliness,
strength in the shadow of weakness,
life in the surrounding death.

The Blanket

The youthful sun shone
gloriously outside.
Summer lived in the gentle
breath of the breeze
that whispered secrets
against the dirty downstairs
window pane.
Color images flickered
across the dusty screen.
Volume wasn't loud
enough so a hand felt
for the remote and with the press
of a white button the words became
audible. But they couldn't
drown out his words. He said,
It's too bright, couldn't
someone else turn off the light?
All I can remember
is the blanket
he would always ask for
because he was "a little cold."
One of those pale ivory-peach
blankets with the fake satin
strip along the top.
The blanket was old and ragged,
thin wooly cotton
that had been washed so many times
it was bumpy with lint.
I can still feel
where it settled on
my sun-tanned thigh
and how my face was
so hot, but my leg
was so cold. And his
fingers were fire,
scarring my soul
so softly
that I didn't
know how to fight.
I wish I would've
said something
but all I could think of
was the blanket
and how it
covered everything.
And I wondered,
who would believe
a hidden truth?

Converse

white star
stitched beneath the faded blue
leather of the worn
old shoe

navy leather
tattered and torn as a war flag
in the end
rubbed raw like chapped skin from time
holes walked into the heels
pasty white rubber receding
from the chaffed leather toes
that sometimes dent
in the shape of a thumbprint

they've been everywhere important
seen the sights
kicked the dingy stones at Cornerstone
four days of warmth and grime melting
into music that bled up from the ground
through my ratty-soled shoes
and tapped my heart
scuffed through the dust of Summer
moments of sun that seemed to cast glittering
shadows over everyday occurrences and lift
dreams to drink of the dazzling blueness above
couched warmth around my shivering feet
amidst the tears of Winter
when nothing seemed possible; all was dead
and buried beneath the crusty hard coldness
that never opened, only cracked

yet, sometimes
they are the sky to me
(bright blue, vast, conquering)

we wish on glittering stars
so high above us
what happens
when you walk in faded ones?

blank

a refrigerator is probably
the pinnacle of such an existence
where floors may be swept
and pictures hung just right
but the phone messages
only emphasize that you
are alone and cannot answer
their question of why
or where the other
occupant may be

Sometimes Storms

are slow.
Shoulders back bare and browned
Back tensing in a shallow arch.
Hands strangely lax, yet still
shaped in the strength of fists.

Smooth face lifts
into the wind, the sky, the sun;
dark-lashed lids lock over tired grey eyes.

The raw angle of body,
etched against the nothingness,
is ready, is waiting.

Blue skies fade lazily into grey
as clouds waft into place, maturing
into battleship masses.

Clamor occasions storms
and fervor. Sometimes the surge
comes in silence.

Chest expands
with lungs' gluttony.
Lids lift, lips part-

Breath has not startled anything,
but neither has the wind removed
body defined against the nothingness

Sometimes, storms whisper.

Five Points For William

Not even two and he knows
his shapes, knows that objects
exist outside of his world and therefore,
that they can enter and exit
of their own accord.

He must remember that black
means stars. Pulling up my pant leg,
he jabs his little finger into the white
star marking my black Converse. "Star!"
I have to immediately show him
my other shoe so he can trace
the leather outline and softly
repeat its name.

He'll probably learn of sky-stars
next and I wonder if he'll connect
the bright stars held by black
sky to my shoes.

William holds yellow
plastic stars and struggles to push
them through the triangle hole.
Unwilling to yield,
he fingers the box again and
finds the star hole.

Perhaps, reaching
won't be so hard for him
because he was first introduced
to Aunt Beth's faded,
grounded ones.

2:30AM Conversation With My Brother

The air, pregnant
with moisture, holds us
as we walk through damp alleys
towards my car. He listens as I list,
of his set, your bass wasn't loud
enough-the drums drowned you out
and the vocals, sometimes, too, but
sound was tight and the new song-
amazing! He smiles, admitting he
thought of that one.

Stopping at the car, door-key in hand,
I start to say goodnight, but he
tells me, he and his wife wrote
their will the other day and I wonder
why he's telling me now or, at all.

We chose
you as guardian.

The night stands still and I feel
something should burst, the damp
should soak, street-lit darkness should
transform into spectacular fire-
works and the pop-pop-pop might
explain the thump-thump rhythm encased
in my chest, enclosed by my trembling,
youthful skin.

I still remember the pause
and after its breath, how the air
wasn't pregnant any longer
while the water dewed
on my face.

TORN

 we are
all always colliding, separating

our flesh is not
stone and why would we
desire such

cold stiffness to hold
our malleable hearts, rocks
receive only scars, lose
pieces, their story

inside long ended
now only a prop for other
stories, let us

bare our playdough
skin to the wind
and willingly stand
waiting to be moved

© 2000 Beth Mercer
--based on quote from John Rosenthal's "Insisting on Love"--

magnets

fragile cloud curse not over how
it was or should be
alas it is lost
struggle endure fight pray
the quiet of the sun is not
in vain

night life

not the strobe light, music
pumping, high boots, low tops type but
instead, the way you can walk --
down a damp sidewalk scattered with not yet
crusty leaves at the time of night
that it's simply dark
not black or blue, or lit by the moon
but dark, except where the street lights
open an area of glow that more
melds with the damp Burger King air --
and not think a thing when you look
up at a house or apartment and see
a light on

specificity

driving home, early for once
my pockets light with bigger bills
the warmish-just-before-rain air enters
my open window and after a breath
i want to lie in a field
not caring whether i get grass
in my hair, on my clothes
not caring whether it ends up raining
and the water falls on my face,
in my eyes
because for once i know
exactly what i want to do

intangible ireland

i've never seen it
never felt its grasses beneath my feet never
smelled its peat never heard gaelic
falling from old tongues never known the antiquity
that rests in its wind never experienced
the dizzying glance down from moher
never walked its long-route roads that bypass
the fast way to any destination never tasted
the freedom that stands so close
to that from which it is freed

and yet sometimes
when i look out my car window
and see a glimmering field of green
i see eire

hold the sky

soft and heavy
my hand fingers curved
holds the rushing air

strange how the wind
whips over my arm, sweeps over
my flattened palm yet,
calms to be caught in the tilted
cup of my hand

willing to be held only
if it can also be poured

one cannot ask too much
to hold the sky

a british bomber over nazi germany

routine words should lead to a dropped explosion
but for a moment his eyes see through the mental x
of the target - take in, rather, the slope of streets
and sight of ancient stone that most likely harbours
similar treasures to a city just north of where
he calls home - yet the x intrudes upon that very building
and the squawk of radio stands ready for his command
he cannot hesitate and so, though his mind still sits pondering
his hand, his finger respond to the x

silence sits heavy as he thinks of the bit of green that probably lies
just beyond the treasured stone and he prays it's empty
and that all who love its slopes and steps are far away,
holding it's beauty and years deep inside themselves before it's

gone

a pauper's kiss

upon her porcelain cheek
a smudge from his callused thumb
replaced the tear that trailed there

famine follies

green slopes up - rich against blue sky
grass rugged from wind and lash of rain
grey separates green from green - stones cradled
by old and young hands - callused, cold, tired -
lines and creases tell of hunger ever cracking thirsty skin
watery eyes which must face the wind dry
backs burdened with shame, still ramrod straight simply
to survive the walk back down to home and the waiting
hope for bread - "important work" they say - but under tables
the stained hands fidget on worn knees, knowing
separation is needless, but the lips never pronounce it
so - bread can still be swallowed
before climbing green again to form
a nameless grey

en route to dingle

to say hills of green gives only line and colour to picture
hill is a slope on flat
green is merely a shade on a wheel yet
here the earth folds and moves -
pressed full of pockets and puckers -
and the grass more brilliant than emeralds -
glowing, living - ever sloping into changing shades
in sun, in shadow - outlined by grey stone or darker trees -
set against grey or blue sky -
glistening in rain, rugged in wind - the soil beneath
must breathe in youth and exhale age -
almost touchable in the dim
almost seeable in the fog

the songs sung over these hills must lie sleeping
waiting for wings

a stump's hope

charred: brown rings circle through scars
deep ridges and flaked, peeled skin
underneath only grey – the white, long gone (away)

waiting settles in – as rain into earth –
swaddling the aging wood with waiting
pregnant with years, yet coming late into wisdom

rough armour – more than shielding,
imprisoned that which lay inside – untouched,
unseen and waiting for light and softness

after all the dust and dirt and death – to be born
after the stunting of blade and fire and storm – to tower

for waiting to end in its culmination
for peace to clothe the hard, raw greyness: a bridal gown
the bride at last made ready for her long expectant groom

owned

when your eyes need no longer close to see
road curving just beyond the newsagent,
roses--red, white--still flourishing in the castle garden,
dim wet glow off stone walls and streets,
muted light glimmering in dark, foam-topped pints,
green-green-green hills and fields falling, rising -
dotted with blue- and red-backed sheep
when your ears need no longer be dimmed with sleep to hear
long, lilting vowels - clipped consonants
wind on water, on field, on bog
disco beep-beep of the flashing street-crossing signal
rattle and squeal of track lines
when your nose still smells
salt and vinegar
barley and tea
peat and damp

you are no longer your own

to hold the music

near dim and i stood swallowed by crowd
but (besides the guy with reddened eyes
waving glow sticks in his wasted dance, which
included hitting me with a stick occasionally)
i, for once, did not feel the crowd;
i saw the stage, i saw haley.
we would talk sometimes
but mostly we moved:
the music – notes, rhythms, beats
drumming the littered cement; the wet, humid air
drumming my feet, my chest
so that i could hold the music with my hand
laid flat just below my neck;
feel it in my fingers, through my swallows;
feel it so that all intentions to simply stand
became impossible: my body
moves—shoulders, knees, hips, head.
eyes close: ears drink in sound, limbs drink in drumming;
eyes open: colours and dim, ears and limbs still drinking;
thirst has become unquenchable.
i wish my heart could drum like moby’s hands on bongos,
beating life alive within me
through dim and dark and dawn and day.
i came, my week heavy on me;
within skin and bone, i was stuffed.
but in the dim, the drumming
moves me—shoulders, knees, hips, head:
and i am free.

flying in a sea of mist and purple
world below, sky above
clouds cast a covering over
all i know but the sky
goes on as it always does
and we are a bird seeking
land as Moses’ dove

my ireland

stone faces, stone walls, stone streets
green green grass and trees
the curve of a road
the stretch of fields under vast
grey and blue skies
the knowledge of sea beyond
even the sight of ocean
the sound of music that lingers
when all have gone home
- they flutter, maps in my mind,
hovering to unfold whenever
i might pause or close my eyes

coldplay

his voice rains
into the music of tea
and evening

return home