Captain, My Captain

Crush the lime
Between my fingers
Every last drop.
It's sour-
All of it-
Leaves me
Rather unpleasant
Like the storm that
First blew in And took my lips
Without permission
Only to leave the same.

Ah, Captain,
My King Of Leon,
Of Nada,
Of wondering If I want you to,
Thanks for making
The bitterness taste
Not so bitter,
For not being a coward,
For your spice.

My Captain.

Survivor*

*This is, to my knowledge, the only poem that my father ever wrote.  I found it, by chance, on the day of his memorial service, and read pieces of it there.  I've posted it here in entirety so that his words will survive with his legacy.

Survivor

I am a survivor.

No, I don’t mean that god-awful reality show,

That insipid blight upon an already empty intellectual wasteland.

I am a survivor.

I survived gym class in elementary school,

A fat, non-athletic kid who couldn’t climb that stupid fucking rope if

A dozen Dobermans had been chasing me. 

I survived my parents’ fights,

The relentless screaming, accusations, and recriminations,

Can’t you see we’re standing here,

Looking, crying, waiting for this to stop,

It’s kind of ironic…that little boy in the rocking chair watching the Three Stooges,

And outside the window his mother is walking away, suitcase in hand, the father pleading her to come back.  You did, but I can’t forget.

I survived junior high.

My body became “athletic” without surrendering to the mentality.

An adolescent hippie that understood the world and desperately

Needed the world to understand me

I survived high school.

I had an epiphany.  There was a middle class,

But it wasn’t us.  There wasn’t going to be any college,

I had an epiphany.  I understood the grayness that enveloped my father

And waited for it to envelope me.

I survived my marriage…barely.

In a life devoid too often of joy,

It gave me three little salvations…and hope.

Because children are that.  You see, you can’t really die

If part of you is left to remember.

And my childhood was not going to be my children’s,

But you can die if it’s ripped away from you.

You heartless fucking bitch…where is the person I knew?

I survived 25 years in that awful factory,

I saw the faces of men, gray and grimy as the machines

They became part of, and I realized that was my face too,

That it was hard to tell where the machine ended and I began.

A monotony of sound, sights, smells, and actions. 

A cold world with a faceless master in a counting house

Awaiting his own Christmas ghosts. 

I survived that doctor visit and all the ensuing ones,

I survived hearing the words…cancer, stage 2….

I survived the uncertainty, because, well…it’s cancer.

I survived the fear, my own and that of my loved ones.

I survived the needles, the pain, the chemicals that would “heal” me,

the way my skin felt ravaged, stretched and  abused.

And the betrayal of my body

until I became a fat non-athletic old man.

But I’m a survivor.

capture

a moment
a photo
an early morning
breath laced with coffee
or an order of toast
only
read a blog
twice
be sleep deprived
sleep in
be the thing you most fear
and then conquer yourself

moments
photos
kisses
swing from blue trees
or green
or yellow
on a string
make a playlist
then give it away
write a blog
or five
be the thing you most admire
and admire yourself

the essence of life
and the grace in death
that we all possess
from the ultimate teachers
who first taught us
to run head first
into the world
and capture the air we breathe
we passionate determination
for we are FREE

the fear
the unknown
the loneliness
in your mind
in mine
beat it with a stick
let it be your punching bag
and your kindness
be the dichotomy
so that you may harness the lightening
bolt from the sky
and be the sole author.

Without tragedy. 

And with it.

not nearly enough

Haven't written in so long

I've been busy

That's what I tell

myself.

Though, 

I've tried.

There's a whisper

of a face

in the dark

whispering to someone

else,

blind to my face

but for when

the storms blow

in.

I hope better of that

from you.

Goodbye MC

Dear Dozer,


I hope that this note finds you well and in good spirits. Please understand, my reason for writing you is only to inform you that by the end of the day today (March, 21, 2012) our very dear little bundle of joy, our sweet and loveable "Mojo Chicken", will have a new home, and likely a new name. I'm well aware of the fact that this news may come of no real consequence or interest to you, but nonetheless I felt it was necessary to share with you the information that our once prized 32 GB iPod would now be in the hands of another. I remember how your eyes shown like a light through the fog when first they gazed upon its' blackness. The possibilities!! The mixes!!! The applications!! Running! Driving! DOZING!!!!!

While you moved on quite some time ago to a new and improved model, I have not. "MC" and I have had a faint, but loving relationship, as it has been hard for me to hear or delete your playlists. This has been no fault of MC's, and I realize now that to continue to keep the mojo locked away like Rapunzel is unfair to such a thing so deserving of the love and compassion it once enjoyed. Know that I have agreed to give MC freely, willingly, and without regret, for I believe the new home to be one of "sound" quality. I had considered altering the contents: to delete "Maine Coast", or "Mellowness", or other playlists too painful to mention. However I realized those iconic, timeless pieces of history are far too priceless to be missed by others who might have otherwise had the opportunity to hear them and have their lives forever changed for the better, as I once believed my own to be when first gazed upon by your eyes like a light in the fog.

But I digress. And as I do the time I have left with that which we both so loved becomes shorter and shorter, and I still have "Galileo", "The little ass birds", and "Moses" to deal with. I'll try but am not hopeful that I will get through Tracy Chapman. BNL and Van are completely out of the question.

Be well, Barb.
J

Fading away

There's nothing that can be

what we are

what we were.

The petals are falling off

the roses beside our stone

and they'll plant no more.

Everywhere I turn

a necropolis of memories

burns even the fire station.

Of course I hate you

how couldn't I,

I unceasingly refrain to heal.

I want to absolve you 

entirely for the anger

weighs more than the longing.

But weak as the thread 

may be that draws me close

the lion's pride is enduring

beyond what hope I have

of your phone call.

You betrayed me

beyond what any other

could fathom to achieve.

And yet...it's the song 

of my name running cross

your lips I cry for.

I want to be done,

to have what was

or could be.

Sadly, 

when typhlotic no more

and struck with the 

corpulent despondency

of which I suffer now,

you'll find me not

still waiting for your train,

but in the proximity of one

I trow truly loves me. 

The chain is on my door.

I hope the honey
stings you
through your sweet lips.

I pray the corset fits
to steal your breath
from within your chest.

I beg of life
to crack like thunder
my face with each kiss.

I wish for justices
that punish every dream
see me touch another.

I owe you nothing
of kindness for you
there is no more.