Category: POETRY

2016, POETRY, The Kitchen

Saturday the 14th again

emorywolf3

Saturday the 14th again

The first rush was connected to the second one,
but we went through that unscathed.
There was a lull in the flak,
as the tables were full and eating;
and we all rushed around
reloading for the next wave.

Than it came,
at first it was single volleys,
beeping up on the screen.
And we took care of those.
But it became like Missile Command.
the beeps came faster and faster;
and the tickets came raining down on us.

Sweat and grease dripped from my brow,
stinging my eyes.
I couldn’t see anything.
I know I’m missing some of the beeps,
and not calling ’em to Turtle.
So I stop,
try to wipe the sweat from my eyes
with my dirty towel
and read the screen,
Call an all day.

I can hear Chef screaming
at Desert Fox on hot apps
about taking control of his station
and some other things
I really can’t remember.
Sue runs over to help
With just a glance at Chef’s face and eyes,
as I spun around
throwing vegetables into the sauté pans,
I could see his frustration.

I tapped Turtle on the shoulder,
he glanced over at me.
“the plunger is about to come out,
and we’re going to get slammed.
God says I’ll make it out alive;
I don’t know about you.”

And then it happened,
the whole mess that’d blocked up hot app
was coming our way.
It was time to be the little chef
who thought he could.

The flak came and came
my brain was boiling.
I couldn’t think straight,
The tickets kept coming
and coming.
and Sue was jumping from station to station.
I didn’t even hear the beeps anymore.
All I saw was red
when I gazed up at the screen.

That frustrated look
was all I saw in my minds eye,
I couldn’t get it out.
And the thought of the Universal soldier
over heating;
it was time.

“Off line”
I yelled as I left.
I ran to the back of the kitchen
straight to a sink
took my hat off
stuck my head into it
and turned on the cold water.

And than I was back,
and we went on.
Sue didn’t even ask;
he’d seen it before.
and we went on.
one by one
we went on.
three and four
I think were connected also.
and five came at just enough pace
that it just pulled you down
trying to put an end to you.
But I don’t go down that easy.

With a couple more cold water sessions
I was thinking straight again;
and I realized;
Sue had Jinxed us,
as he was setting up grill,
“I have to work a station
so I can work on the line,
ya’ll never ask for my help anymore.”

Well Sue, you got to work ’em all tonight.

Picasso's Incandescent Angel, POETRY

The River

emorywolf3

-Don’t over-compensate.
My friend advised me,
over and over again.
Did I listen? I guess;
because, I didn’t go a ground.
I navigated myself through the river,
one hand on the stainless steel wheel
and the other holding the Binoculars
to my squinting hazel nut eyes
trying to spot the next maker
be it green or red, flashing or not.

The fish and dolphins observed with sarcastic eyes
as they dodged the bow of the boat.
The bottom of the river rose
threatening
six feet, five feet, four feet
and then went back down.
I became the boat,
that stout Island Packet,
worrying about depths, winds, and wakes.
A dragonfly pilots itself beside my head;
as a pelican dives into the water for its lunch.

I have a sudden urge for food myself,
my stomache tells me that;
but, I push it out of my mind.
I’ll think about that later,
when I find a cove to anchor in;
safe from the storms
which have been bearing down,
out of the darkness that surrounds me.
But for now, me and my crooked teeth
are trying not to be succumbed by these waves
caused by the Angel which just whizzed by.

POETRY, Uncategorized

Blue

emorywolf3

I want to be a love poem
you find in your purse
and stop to read,
carefully folding it back,
afraid of tearing it
because of the wore fold line,
after you finsh;
to stop to unfold it
and read it again
and again.

I want so much,
I’m breathless.
So breathless,
I turn blue.
Put your lips on mine,
and I will come to life.

1996, POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Tonight I can write

emorywolf3

Tonight I can write
of craters blown open deep
into the crust of my heart,
of a hand reaching out across the green,
of words,
flung by the explosion out into the evening sky,
rain down upon the ground
filling the caters,
forming sink holes, booby traps,
for me to step and fall into,
as I pace about my 12 by 12 room apartment.

Tonight I can write
about love,
about the fleeting moments of the sun set,
who’s bright rays grasp up over the horizon,
just before the sun disappeared,
about words as amebas,
multiplying,
filling the air of my existence;
so I can but breath the love
I‘ve tried so hard to forget.

Tonight, I can write
of lips and eyes,
of fingers and toes,
of parts I’m too shy to talk about,
and of how it was forged into a pillar of salt
which taste was so bitter
to the touch of the tongue and lips,
that I repelled it off the wall
watching the pieces shatter,
fall about the floor
and regroup to stand before me.

Yes, tonight I could write,
but the tears
seem to make it all incomprehensible.
So I laugh, raise the pool stick.
“Off that rail, then that one,
around your ball
to chip mine into the corner pocket.”
“Yea, Right.”
“Well at least, I can try.”

1996, POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Talking with Broken Objects

emorywolf3

Talking with Broken Objects
I’m reflecting upon the coming day
as I examine the new moon.
Delicate gray hairesque filaments and bands
transpose themselves into clouds;
and when composed,
they patiently carry themselves across the horizon.

I ponder what you want to talk about.
There’s a bit of a nervousness romping about my stomache.
In a way, I’m excited, nevertheless a bit scared.
What would I talk about?
I would have to embark upon the trail
by talking about broken objects,
walled hearts,
and leveled siege towers,..
I would have to talk through a mouth full of mud,
about the earth turned dark in the shadows of tall concrete buildings
and black tar rivers of cars transposed across the landscape,
and drunken Mexicans shooting off fireworks
and trash, and teenage whores.
What I have met and crossed are not to be memories,
nor paintings of picturesque dreams,

The lesson learned: enjoy each day as if it the last.
So let’s not sink deeper,
let’s not fillet the corpse;
because I do not have the slightest inclination of what to say
discord erupted into languish and apprehensiveness;
and yet what do I find on the worn mattress?
The face of life sleeping under black blankets.