Thursday, November 12, 2020

Poems garnered from the November 11, 2020 meeting: Lucette Bernard, Ange Kahn, Mark Creaven, Adrien Helm

 


              

                         Lucette Bernard, whose poem,
                      After the Election, follows.

 


AFTER THE ELECTION


Some commented on the exhale

powerful, curative

almost enough

to empty that deep reservoir

of breath held for so

damn

long.

 

They wondered,

was it enough

to sweep away the daily dramas

of a deranged dictator,

enough to snuff out

the runaway greed of stalwart

party politicians

whose hearts were little

more than hardened fists squashing

every notion of the common

good? Was it enough to blow

all of that adrift

like flyaway fluff

in a field

of wasted dandelions?

 

Others remarked on the inhale,

clean, restorative

warm enough to revive

the belief that all was not lost,

a fresh breath

deep enough to fill the slackened

sails of an entire ocean

of broken dreams.

 

They hoped

enough of us had rallied

enough of us had spoken

enough of us still trusted

in the winds of change.

Winds so strong, so storm-laden

that they might heave

and whirl and tilt, stirring

up tempest enough

to tear down the whole monstrous

sticky web and shake it

forever loose.

 

 

                                    Lucette Bernard

                                    November 11, 2020


***************************************************************


Outcomes

 

                        by Ange Kahn

  

  I shall not die of loving you

  My love unanswered and un-owned,

  But I shall die of wanting you

  In nights alone.

   

  I will grow old and odd and strange

  A solitary wanderer

  Who mines the subway floors for change

  A thing of rags and melted wax

  Gangrenous stenches and foul air

  Of crumpled greasy paper sacks

  An animal without a lair.

 

  I will become a mumbler

  Of polyglot morphologies

  A prophetess of tragedies 

  And some who pass

  Will think it sad

   But none will look into my eyes

   For fear of going mad

  

    I shall not die of loving you

     My love unanswered and un-owned 

     But I shall die of wanting you

     In nights alone.


**************************************************************

A Wake

                    Adrien Helm

 

What wakes me up in the starless night?

Is it the wings of a bird in flight?

It is so dark. The only light

The amber “necklace” on the causeway shore.

 

I lay and listen, now awake,

Aware of every breath I take,

With feral sensitivity I make

No move, with tense stillness deep in my core.

 

Alone I wait in our wide bed.

You work away from home instead

Of lying here with me. You said

It was necessity that made you choose

 

To keep a job so far from us.

My nature’s not to make a fuss.

So I accept, with silent cuss,

The role of single parent.  So you lose

 

The daily joys I get to reap,

The smiles and hugs that keep

Me compensated for the heap

Of laundry, meals, and other endless chores.

 

Our splendid children thrive and grow.

I doubt that you will ever know

Your absence’s toll.  I’ll not show

The cost, not pour more guilt onto the sore.

 

There’s a quality of suspense

As days and weeks unfold in tense

Apprehension. Atop a fence

Waiting how long; how much more?

 

Twelve years of nightly calls to read

Bedtime stories, to fill a need --

Crossing the distance to feed

Affection of those who mutually adore.

 

So I’m alone when I awake

My regular lot as I take

Deep breaths to try again to make

Peace, to fuel another day without you.

 

Wavelets slap the seawall below

Consoling wet rhythm softly low,

I hear a friendly dolphin blow,

Drifting to rest, faithful to me and you.

 

                                         AWH
                                         11/11/2020


*****************************************

DEATH OF A LIEUTENANT

                                              by Mark Creaven


He was a believer,

a Buddhist.

The night was cool in his village

 But he wasn’t there.

He had emerged from his tunnel

Thankful to be breathing the air

 above ground.

He and his cell moved quietly

Through the trees on the path everyone used.

They buried the 105mm round on its side,

just off the trail.

They covered it with dirt and branches.

The trip wire was connected to the detonator.

In the dim light of dawn he

Saw that it blended nicely with the dead grasses

Worn down by foot traffic.

Tired now he went back to his tunnel

And slept.

Later that day he heard the explosion,

Muted by the depth of earth above him.

He smiled.


****************************************

Liam’s Lyric


He was younger than the others then,
A quiet, less obvious voice, helping when
Subtlety was called for, a smoother blend
And quieter backing tenor he could lend.
I could hear him though the others reign

He could be heard in the backup only,
Not in songs of revolution and heroes lonely
Yet he brought a greater dimension, surely,
To songs and narratives, though known to me hardly,
Songs my grandfather vaguely named.

In quiet times of love songs true
He sang through brightly, the others subdued,
Clearly lending power and beauty accrued
From expressive lyrics in narrative pursued.
We heard beauty in tragedy untamed.

The others had seen war as airmen brave.
Lure of battle never fulfilled in his life, saved,
Never admitting the life’s extinction waved.
In quiet songs and in the back
Until the longing for danger waned.

Dylan, from the Midwest clime
Not seeing the lyrical in his songs of the time
And no beauty in his inherent whine
Lyrical only implicit in his lyrics fine.
But Liam finding inherent in feelings maimed.

                                                        Stephen Hickey