ACCIDENTAL POEM

Sometimes tinkering with a watch that already works

is such a waste of time

as if you could formulate some kind of poetic recipe

insert irony here pathos over there

Crap I didn't even realize the pun in the first statement

How do you evaluate an accidental witticism?

Throw enough mud against the wall and it will stick

and who the hell is going to read this anyway?

Poem For Gary

I envison Introne skulking in the back alleys of time kicking the proverbial

garbage cans of despair flailing wildly at dangling participles who never met a comma he liked

eschewing Fitzgerald chewing on the obtuse spitting out refuse

coy obfuscating in an interview mercurial taking mundane and creating a history lesson

about some damn bridge in NYC

This guy came out of left field as I remember him in Clark, NJ I treaded lightly sizing him up

is he the genuine article will he navigate me through everyone else's bad poetry

including mine

you kidding

this guy didn't even need a compass

poem

In retrospect most women I've written about

were not poemworthy at all

just ships in the night or

cars on the road or leaves in the fall

scattered

colorful once but now

void of anything

Memory is a brown leaf waiting to die

and you are a greenleaf turning beautiful

in autumn and and I'm hoping

you'll

never

fall   

 

1999

This poem is about a friend and she knows who it is. Funny this poem pisses a lot of women off or at least some. I read this at a weekly poetry reading and the moderator saw the women go sour in the room. As a matter of fact, the woman who is the subject of the poem showed this to lesbian acquaintances and they were pissed, too. This is all the more fitting because it shows how great my friend is. And she understood the poem where I didn't. Sound funny? How can you not understand your own poem. Well Paul McCartney said that when he wrote "Hey Jude he did not know where he got "the movement you need is on your shoulders". Lennon said, "no leave it in." He thought it made perfect sense. And please don't bust me for making poemworthy and greenleaf one word.

The Leech

I had a very interesting phone conversation yesterday with a friend I hardly get to see these days. Her life is busy--school and work. As I was thanking her for information about a subject I know nothing about, she muttered something about it being ok. She said that she's used to being a "leech" and she was glad she could help. I could feel my throat start to get that "here come the waterworks" feeling. You know, the reaction you get when you're about to cry, but don't want the other person to know. I guess it's easier to hide when you're on the phone, because in person your eyes will give you away. Or to paraphrase Erin Brockovich, "they're called tear ducts Ed."
I found this a rather odd comment. Now I'm no psychoanalyst. I don't even play one on TV. But I've been known to analyze everything to death especially when it comes to myself. I have to go back in the archives to see if I detected any behavior that would point to such a remark. But I couldn't find any. As a matter of fact, I could point to at least two specific incidents where I could get this woman found not guilty of leeching in a court of law.
She once bought me a book on Pete Maravich as we were leaving the local bookstore. A gift, out of nowhere for no apparent reason. And then the more convincing reason is as follows.
Many years ago, the fall of 1999 to be exact, I was in what I now know as a depression. And one of my favorite aunts had just died. She offered to go to the funeral home with me for moral support. She wasn't even a long time friend. I didn't even know it at the time, but I had deeper issues with depression, something that's been going on since adolescence. Having her in my life was a godsend. I finally saw a doctor for my depressive behavior in April of 2000 and although the diagnosis was definitely not what I wanted to hear, it mad incredible sense to me.
So my dear friend from the now defunct bookstore, let me say that you were never so wrong in your life as you were yesterday on the phone.
Thank you KWS.

Love,
Tuesday Guy

D Day plus 1

Well June 7th just passed. That was the day my father landed in Europe in France. The day after D Day. I asked him if the fighting was as fierce, and he said the Germans were still bombing them with heavy artillery. It was because of heavy casualties that my father became what he had actually trained for before he went overseas--a medic. My Dad was to see a lot more action and he had many close calls along the way. He would go on to win the Bronze Star for Valor. He was awarded The Medal of Verdun from the town of Verdun, France which made him an honorary citizen. I didn't find out why until recently. The Germans firebombed a schoolhouse there and my father and the other GIs rescued every last one of those children from the burning building.
And 55 years after he set foot on Normandy's shores, he, and other remaining WW II veterans, was awarded the French Legion of Honor. France's equivalent of our Medal of Honor. He said he was never so nervous in his life, but I highly doubt that. How can you not be nervous when a wounded man lies exposed in the field and you have to go attend to him while bullets are going off all around you, amongst other things? My father has the distinction of being in the The Battle of The Bulge. It was the Germans last ditch effort. My father came home to a very normal existence after his discharge. He settled back into his hometown and never left. Marrying rather late for those days-- at 29.
And then again, 55 years after the fact, he was made Grand Marshal of the Perth Amboy Memorial Day parade. He gave an extemperaneous speech of nearly 3 minutes about the rigors of a combat medic. The hours spent in foxholes. Being dirty all the time. Of course he left out some real gruesome tales, like the time he carried a dying man on his back for 2 miles. The soldier bled all over him so badly, that my father had to change into another uniform because he was encased in blood. I often think of that scenario and metaphorically find it apropos. My father carried me on his back for many years during many harrowing and downright morbid times in my existence with the same stoicism and sense of duty that he did those soldiers.
And for that I salute him. And I know there are other brave men who also salute him because he proved himself on the battlefield of life.

Poem: Old Days and other musings

                                              Old Days

                                        Old days gone

                                        no more penny candy

                                        and ten cent comic books

                                        baseball all summer long

                                        and barbecued lawns

                                        and I hear these days no one waves

                                        to the friendly engineer

                                        he left on the midnight train

                                        and the caboose carried with it

                                        old days

Nostalgia is a funny thing. It plays tricks on you. What it does is takes all your bad grades in your life experiences and expunges them. The above poem is like that in a way. But it's really a treatise on youth. Even people born in the depression (my father and late mother were) look on their childhoods with good memories. At the time it was written and even today I consider it my best. My definition of a good poem is that it says the most in the least amount of words. This poem won an honorable mention in a contest for Best Student Poetry In New Jersey, 1987. This book is published somewhere, but I have yet to see it. I find giving prizes for poetry a little outrageous. It's like saying Frost was better than Wallace Stevens. Or that Robert Lowell was better than Anne Sexton. It's a matter of taste. Isn't it?

But I digress. This poem evoked memories from people of my generation. One of my ex girlfriends(they're all ex girlfriends now) gave it to her sister to read and she wept. Words are more powerful than you think.

Mother's Day

As this blog has already stated previously, my Mom has gone to the great hereafter but she will always live on in memory. I was the last of three kids. I remember some great things about us. Before I went to Kindergarten we used to hang out quite a bit. The diner on Smith Street was one of the haunts. But the first day of Kindergarten, I saw all these kids crying for their mothers when they were dropping them off, but not me. I think my mother was proud of that. My Mom loved music boxes and I bought her a whole slew of them over the years. My mother used to like to hear me sing to her. A favorite was Chantilly Lace by The Big Bopper. I sang How Great Thou Art at my parents' 40th Anniversary. Hold it. This is supposed to be about her and not me. Sorry. My mother used to take us to the library and this fueled my life long love affair with books. And this may have been the reason two of the siblings majored in English in college. My mother was quiet.
She had the prettiest blue eyes known to man. I didn't inherit those, although my sister did and hers are quite stunning also. My mom was a generous person. She was also an emotional person and would cry watching tv shows etc. I inherited that part of her. At my sister's wedding my mom did not cry but I did. As a matter of fact I couldn't read the famous love chapter found in First Corinthians because I got up there and starting bawling. My mom loved birds and especially cardinals. She had a great Soprano voice even though she didn't sing really loud and along with my father encouraged me to sing. Bottom line, my mother was an encourager and a compassionate person. She always believed in me even when I didn't really believe in myself which was and is most of the time. My Mom had the most beautiful penmanship I ever saw which makes up for the lousy penmanship I continue to have. She adored my father and their marriage was so strong and and example of...in sickness and health 'til death do us part. She left me in February of 2009 in the hospital where she worked for 26 years of her life and where she exhibited the kindness and compassion she modeled at home. I miss her but I know I'll see her again. Happy Mother's Day Mom. I know you're in good hands with God.

Love,

Greg