A new book to house this year's (and future years) NationalPoetryMonth's daily poems. |
I'm writing once again this year. This book is my special event place for thirty special poems. Here for National Poetry Month in 2018, I'm participating but life has not been kind in the last 15 months, so I'm not always in writing mode. |
The chair is rarely empty. Strangers come and sit in the drafty warmth of my home. They are dead. If we talk, the cat opts for two choices: to hiss or curl up at their feet. He always avoids me in these instances of spiritual diversion. Not that I pray, mind you, but meditation seems to have awakened by resonance with things not completely human. Some complain. On bad days, more frequent as I approach their nebulous natures, so do I. Complain. Our subject matters vary. A life/death cleaving. My ghosts have mastered lessons in tolerance. Their regrets are for absences never lived, never the banality of bemoaning traffic jams or the second full month of rainy days. Never a word of hate. They all carry the same scars. Mine. My childhood fears. My dance with the overbearing Cordelia, because none of us like naming the C word aloud. On days I enjoy the vivacity of not-yet-gone visitors who occupy their chair -- for they always visit one by one -- they amuse me and create extra wind rattling windows or electrical disturbances, like cell phones suddenly going dead. They are patient. Those still alive are not. I head the list. Few are erudite but all play my poetry game. Their lines are mostly abysmal clichés of comic book gore, medical errors and urban war scenes that I temper as best I can with tit-for-tat opposites. Peace helps us coexist. They think I make an excellent future candidate for their club. The second armchair [2018.13.4...a] |