The Poetry Of.
Rick Marlatt..............................
Coffee at Midnight or A Bitter
Nursery Rhyme
You, restless sleeper needing rocked
sat in crib like sleepy little Buddha,
bulging diaper replaced with care.
I, contortionist, slid my pants down,
switched cup from left hand to right,
holding you, wiggly heap of skin
and hair all the while in left arm.
And bulging bladder's sweet relief.
When your tiny left foot, the one
still with sock, playfully swayed
into my streaming manhood knocking
my current off course. Dark yellow
drops plunged into black surface.
Color didn't change but deepened,
like first raindrops on soil.
Reclining now under naked window,
the moon's glowing orb, jewel of a goddess,
fractures silent darkness. Smiles on
her family of stars. You settle into
my chest with heavy eyes, under
trance of her shiny children who dance
and sway with sensual pleasure in clear,
crisp night sky. Contemplating mysterious
fatherhood, I forget; and sip. Then bite lip.
And kiss your warm forehead.
Not making a sound, only breathing together.
Bet Momma slips this in your baby book, baby.
Gift for the Giver
For Don Welch
When I last heard you read
vigor and vim stampeded
in your voice like wild stallions,
schoolboys gnawed and gobbled
Old Gold crayons,
shaped impending absences
in memorable air, held soaring Merlin
in center of conscious irises
while she traced the course of their dreams.
You filled mother's mahogany
hand basket with scarlet begonias,
crisp chrysanthemums you'd found
in some rain smattered gutter,
under artificial mountains
of yellowed baby diapers.
Though petals were drained flaccid,
your prayers made them bloom
in miraculous image.
Now, the old basket is threateningly full,
hell floods over uncontrolled, relentless
begonia drowns like a Carnelian stone,
Merlin has moved on-her garden
no longer a house of dreams. Simple echoes
ascend winding stairs: The center did not hold.
I'm afraid I agree with you:
For me to say these are heroic
times would be to forget where
and why my Grandfather rests,
the sun-flushed porch where I first
shucked corn, and why I still marvel
at the Great Hunter from silent hilltops.
Our idols are true demons,
Beautiful today, hideous tomorrow.
I'm afraid to agree with you:
I fear the future eyes of my son,
eyes that don't make sense,
eyes without history- if I'm resigned
to face them and acknowledge
Elpis has finally fled the holy jar,
cast her flowers to deaf-tone earth,
joined Moros to drift away
among the blind, tired, dejected poets.
You may not remember just one
in the ghostly procession of students
who've drifted in and out of your eyes,
but I took my first breath the fall
afternoon you talked of Alyosha,
his removal, initiation, and return, said,
find him, he's in you,
like I was the last keeper
of the secret to all the hidden things.
I held my breath for that strange moment
when begonias again went limp,
schoolboys' voices broke off,
and Alyosha returned to the tavern
as the savor of surrender slipped
from severe lips, crept down from the podium,
shifted form in uncanny metaphor,
entered the spirits of nodding heads.
Did we withhold something then that made us weak?
I haven't much to offer you this new year,
save for these outright thanks:
Your voice is a blazing meteorite streaking
over the cul-de-sac of mediocrity.
Neighborhood still looks on
with Christmas morning eyes, yearns to greater.
Don't forget, old Bard, some of us still run
with you and your stallions, still feel
the horn out in front, lunge for the shape we know is there.
My earnest need of courage humbles me;
it's the price I pay for belief that Merlin
will lead Elpis home and her garden will flourish once more.
Two Men Walking
Out of the Donut Shop
If only smiles that majestic
came three dollars a dozen
what marvelous poppy those
lips must've nibbled on
what fountain of enlightenment
has tapped their deepest
roots and does dazzle deep-fried
delight in their eyes
what glazed youth-love could
live forever in those eyes.
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