Jordaan

 

Jordaan

I was standing on a bridge over the Prinsengracht canal

in the disconnected calm of three joints from a coffee bar

and the cool predawn air. The click of Rembrandt’s footsteps

still echo down the cobbles at this hour-- Once, long ago,

I dreamt of the scene, this moment, fog tickling across

the warm canal water. I thought back to the person I was

when that dream was formed, and I realized that I missed him.

He was young and idealistic, so unafraid, with a swagger

that could only come from hubris and ignorance.

 

The damp morning air sat on the shoulders of my jacket

and I smiled as I watched a young Dutch couple fend off

the chilly dark, oblivious to the painter and me as we took it all in.

The distance between that boy and the man that I would become

seems so much greater than the twenty-five years it took to travel.

That boy’s dreams have turned into my sad reminiscence,

a longing for that time before disbelief and defeat; the un-jaded

days of wonder lost along the way. I wanted to see Amsterdam

before I died; I realize now that it’s too late.

 

SMG

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dVerse Poets Pub

Un-Dead

Un-Dead

Alive, alive, the city is alive

and all abloom with smiles

under the warm and waxing moon

The stern days of winter have faded

from memory and the city is alive.

Streets once grey with soot and sleet

now teem with pale arms and legs.

Heads swivel and twist to take in

the fragrance of the fresh flowers,

all short skirts and décolleté:

We are alive!

A latter day Lazarus ascends

a subway stair and yells “I am alive!”

into the affectionate night air.

Six months hence the grave will call,

but for now we are alive and the city

is paradise.

SMG

Sexual Politics

Sexual Politics

 

Fair azure eyes encant,

oh, how she does enchant.

my heart doth dance,

in sublime hypnotic trance,

 

His angry eyes askant,

fearing I shall supplant,

and her love enhance,

if she be mine per chance.

 

Vainly does he forestall,

as I endeavor to enthrall.

 

SMG

d'Verse Poets

Alcatraz

 

Alcatraz

The words,

etched on the cell wall

a lifetime ago, contained a truth

wrought by pain and loss.

“No one is innocent”

As I thought about the author

I watched the tourists, 

oblivious of their own guilt, 

pass hurriedly, never noticing

the crude engraving.

 

SMG

d'Verse Poet's Pub Writing Prompt:  https://dversepoets.com/

 

Mourning Jay

 

Mourning Jay

I can still see her sitting on the edge of the dance floor

of another gala evening. Adorned in red and white, she pulled

men’s gaze like the first cardinal of spring. A wallflower

that could not be ignored as she looked around the room at nothing. 

He never failed to invite her, something I didn’t understand

at the time. For me she was a familiar connection, a batch

of mom’s cookies or a copy of the hometown paper.

For him, she was door that closed when left unattended. 

The parties were not to be missed, all the wealthiest of Eggs

in attendance. He however, rarely if ever showed his face. 

The opulence and excess were for her, while he pined

the night away locked in his room of regrets and second guesses. 

I think of him now, not as the shadowed figure staring across the bay,

nor the limp body floating face down in a pool of blood

and mistaken identity. I only recall the gentle conversations

we had as two men seeking our place and hoping to find our loves.

SMG

Writing Prompt from d'Verse Poets Pub

https://dversepoets.com/#:~:text=https%3A//dversepoets.com

She Calls in the Morning

She Calls in the Morning

In the end, it ended,

like all bad relationships;

she was a puddle on the floor,

as I stumbled out the door.

She used to call in the morning

seeking her daily diversion and I,

lonely and filled with doubt, answered,

beginning my daily digression.

“Let’s meet for breakfast” was met

with “I can’t, I have to work today”.

She had a way of removing my resolve,

with a seductive longing in her voice.

I may never understand her true motive,

but she knew my true weakness.

I wanted to taste her on my lips

and feel her warmth deep inside.

Logic and will were always inadequate

against the sway she held over me.

In time, like all bad relationships, my drunk dials

started going to voicemail as she became aloof.

Increasingly less willing to satiate my need, she

left me one night, a broken shell, in a pool of tears…

…but she called in the morning.

SMG

Life on the Line

Life on the Line

The Tuesday sun

set and carried with it,

the lies of New York and

a thousand broken dreams.

The shattered pieces fell

together in the bars

and bedrooms of the city.

Glue is another fairytale.

I let the sorrow wash

over me like fine whiskey

across my tongue and stared

out the window at the passing city.

The train car couplers creaked

and groaned in a sad staccato.

A preview of the death rattle

waiting in the distance.

SMG

Solstice to Equinox

 

Solstice to Equinox

Anais, Anais

Litha has passed

and we are left

to mourn the coming

autumnal balance,

for creatures such as we

crave the severe

and eschew

This Gentile World.

Travel with me to

The Tropic of Capricorn

and leave behind

the ever shrinking 

days of Cancer.

There we can live

in eternal summer

and Black Spring.

Grieve not my love,

for with the arrival

of Yoole's long nights, 

Sirius shall align

with Orion's belt

and point us back 

to the elliptical

apex, and June.

SMG 

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

 

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

I feel like a ship in a bottle,

various pieces of me, over time,

tweezed and squeezed into

an attractive unnatural display.

 

Assembled slowly in this

new environment, the bottle

feels like home, like where I belong.

 

Upon completion, I’ve become a prisoner.

As a fully formed being, I may never leave

as long as the bottle and I are intact.

 

To escape, breakage will be required.

The bottle does not know it is a prison,

while I fail to recognize my own captivity.

 

Only a force outside the symbiotic delusion

can break the bond that neither of us comprehends. 

That force also gets to pick sides in the separation.

 

Smash the bottle, and I can be free, unless

too much force is applied. Shake the contents,

and what’s left are little broken pieces of me.

 

Perhaps my remains can be poured out

onto a countertop and with attention,

care and reassembly, I may sail again

and be free.

 

SMG   

These Rooms

 

These Rooms

 

Hello, my name is

ultimately unimportant.

In here we are legion

occupying one seat at a time.

These rooms,

unassuming and sterile,

yet full of pain and regret.

Heartaches and hopes,

spill from our mouths

in equal measure.

We speak of higher powers

but know what powerlessness

tastes like. There is talk of steps

and serenity, but debauchery

is always within arm’s reach.

We are black and white, adrift

in the grey outside these walls.

Compulsion is a frequent visitor,

and habit is a way of life.

These rooms,

unassuming and sterile,

yet a light in the darkness.

We will know no finish line,

only days to count, time to mark,

while collecting coins

from the inmates and gods

that inhabit these rooms.

SMG