The onyx days of black winter nights
I wake in the middle of the night
screaming.
The cats come to my side and comfort
me.
Only the gray squirrels look forward
to winter.
The onyx days of black winter nights
singing
To trees the acorns songs of
slumbering.
I am in front of television listening
to the radio.
I wait patiently for those literary
electric hums;
The body is lying outstretched pining
for sleep.
Jagged tears define the years in my
fading skin.
A life hooked to heart machines is
not a poetry.
That damn line is new yet it makes me
timeworn.
I never owned anything but thoughts,
or memories.
That is to say, except for a few
moments, most of my life
Are golden plagiarisms. A green
seesaw goes up and down.
I find myself blinded with anger on a
dimly lit playground.
I was five. I had nothing in my mind
but candy. I am nothing.
A wink and a nod salutes my lost
memories.
It is life, the end of life,
actually. Metallic green
Paint chips away on the steel jungle
gym. Today I am
In my hospital bed reminiscing
tobacco, drugs, poetry.
*
Earth Revolves Itself Once Again
—after Pierre Reverdy
Resounding blooms
Blue birds fly north.
In the backyard where everything
seems to happen
The squirrel darts through our
leafless lilac tree.
Outside a woman is cleaning the
table; a man makes fire.
Water streams from a hose clearing
the driveway apron.
A rainburst negotiates with a cloud.
The sun abrupts with striking chimes.
*
Watching last year’s pumpkin
transcend determinism
Even now this cemetery is
accumulating.
The hills darken. The dead
sleep in their blue graves,
the grounds having been
picked clean, the ribbons
faded, the pinwheels piled at the
dumpster
among wind ripped tiny American flags
as garbagemen come forward for collection:
Now feel tension fail to achieve.
Concatenation transpires.
Tears melt into sweat.
This is the barrenness
of grief; to watch life rot
as we move ever forward.
© Geoffrey Gatza
///
