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POEMOGRAPHY | 2025

Poems by R.M. Usatinsky

pōəˈmäɡrəfē, noun: form or process of writing and representing poetry

FEBRUARY

01FEB25 | THE WINTER SKY

 

I was lying on the bed where I used

to sleep, the same bed on which my

two youngest daughters were born

(but not conceived); I was there

 

keeping my youngest company as

she was running a fever and not

feeling so well; lying on my back

looking out into the winter sky as

 

I had done for so many years, the

sky dark and clear, so many stars

visible, stars who surely no longer

remember my gazing upon them;

 

but I remember them and miss them

as dearly as I miss so much of the

life I had when the winter sky was

clear and my heart was untroubled

02FEB25 | HITTING THE SKIDS

 

I’ve seen better times, times when I

felt good, or at least felt better than

I do now; seems there are a few key

moments when aging hits hardest and

 

there’s no doubt I’m caught up in the

middle of one of those; a deep, swift

decline of both my physical and mental

health; I shuffle and drool and talk to

 

myself; my blood pressure is too high

but I’m too low, having shrunk a full

two centimeters; I’m often cold and I

sleep a lot; I have aches and pains and

 

doldrums and anxiety; I constantly worry

that a plane will crash into our house or

someone will bludgeon me to death as I sit

on the tram; so here I am hitting the skids

03FEB25 | BORDERLINE

 

I think that was song made famous

by Madonna in the 1980s; in fact,

there were a slew of songs with the

name Borderline recorded in the 80s

 

and 90s by artists such as Cheap Trick,

Joni Mitchell and the late Chris de Burgh

(though none as famous as Madonna’s);

but the borderline that’s been on my mind

 

lately is a mental health condition that affects

emotions, relationships, and self-image, the

widely common Borderline Personality Disorder,

which I myself was diagnosed as having about

 

six or seven years ago; while I do possess some

of the traits of someone who suffers from BPD,

I wonder if it has been a key factor in how many

of my own interpersonal relationships have failed

04FEB25 | EVIL EYE

 

It’s happened a few times over the

past couple of years, our paths cross

in the street, usually close to home;

and yesterday as I had to leave early

 

for work I thought there was a chance

I might see her walking home from the

tram stop on her way home from school;

our eyes met as we both rounded the corner

 

on the Haagweg; then, low and behold, her

icy cold stare penetrating deep into my soul,

leaving me numb and out of sorts; now, hours

later as I lie in bed surrounded by the cold of

 

five a.m., I feel dread and despair as my chest

feels heavy and tight wondering if the evil eye

has even further chiseled away at my heart or

merely served as a warning of what’s to come

05FEB25 | THE SAPLINGS

 

The saplings have arrived—two score

or more—to replace the forty-two trees

that were culled last year to facilitate

the renewal of our street; and what a

 

fine day to welcome these lovely young

trees, the crisp winter air parted the clouds

so the sun could shine through and sparkle

upon the wispy branches who will one day

 

grow full and bear leaves and create shady

parcels of earth; that will support birds and

insects who find their way to its branches to

feed, to mate and to take rest; and these small

 

saplings will bear witness to generations to

come, some who will notice and some who

will take their beauty and splendor for granted;

but for now, I welcome them gladly into my life

06FEB25 | THE BEACHGOER

 

I’m not what you’d exactly call a

beachgoer, but I’ve been craving

the beach lately; or maybe what I’m

actually craving is the sun; anyway,

 

I’d love to be on a beach right now

with the hot sun beating down on me,

beads of sweat forming on my brow

and the smell of surf and sand wafting

 

all around me; but this whim, this minor

fantasy would only last a couple of days,

three at best, as my beachgoing doesn’t

require any more time than that; and as

 

I lay there I softly say to myself out loud,

such a mechaya, just like my zayde used to

say as he sat in his green and white webbed

lawn chair all those year ago on Maplewood

07FEB25 | I DON’T SHAKE HANDS WITH STRANGERS

 

I’ve never been into shaking hands,

there’s something so antiquated, so

primal about extending one’s hand

in greeting; it’s not like I have to

 

demonstrate that I’m not carrying a

weapon or present a threat; and I don’t

find it cordial, but a mostly unhygienic

inconvenience; that’s not to say I never

 

shake hands, I do indeed shake my fair

share them, though they are mostly close

friends and longtime customers; I do not,

however, shake hands with those I do not

 

know, strangers who are so quick to thrust

a grubby paw towards me; and it seems I

have a particular aversion to shaking hands

with medical professionals and civil servants

08FEB25 | SOMETHING I’M NOT

 

Why would I go out of my way, go

through all that trouble and fuss to

be something I’m not, to be someone

who other people think I should be?

 

they say I’m too this or that—feeble,

lenient, a pushover—that I should

stand my ground, claim what’s mine

and not take any guff from anyone;

 

but I am who I am, always striving to

be as authentic as can be, which often

gets me into a bind, makes people think

they can take advantage of my gentile

 

manner, my compassion and goodwill;

sure, I have my passionate side and I do

get overly emotional at times and raise

my voice; which is off-putting to others

09FEB25 | EAR OF CORN

 

It was probably one of the most hurtful

moments I’ve suffered of late, though

there are so many it’s hard keeping count;

today when I woke up from my afternoon

 

nap, I noticed two of my daughters eating

ears of sweet corn slathered in butter; I

immediately walked over to the kitchen to

see if there was a warm yellow cob in the

 

oven waiting for me, but the Pyrex baking

dish was empty; thing is, everyone knows

how much I love a good ear of sweet corn

but no one thought to bring one home for me;

 

it may sound like a petty thing, it’s just an

ear of corn, but it really hurt, hurt so much

I actually shed a small pathetic tear, one no

bigger than a little yellow kernel of corn

10FEB25 | OUT OF HAND

 

You’ve let things get out of hand,

replaced the love that used to fill

our home (though there was never

really enough to begin with) with

 

things of only extrinsic value; too

many clothes that hang from every

possible place that a hanger can

hook onto; unnecessary sundries

 

that hardly serve the purposes they

purport—shampoos, creams, lotions,

serums and the like—whose fancy

labels, false promises and mephitic

 

fragrances capture the fancies of your

daughters who you allow to acquire

every useless this or that to satisfy the

childhood you dreamed of but never had

11FEB25 | THE GOOD MORNING MAN

 

It was a dreary winter’s morning, I was

walking back into the village to pick up

a loaf of freshly baked sourdough bread

and on my way home crossed paths with

 

a happy-go-lucky bald-headed feller who

looked at me and said good morning; that

in and of itself wasn’t so remarkable, not in

the Netherlands anyway (though typically

 

more observed in small towns), but this

jolly guy proceeded to give his morning

greeting to the next three people who walked

by; then, walking into the supermarket, he

 

called out a boisterous good morning to anyone

in earshot; it was nice observing how the others

reacted with smiles and returning the sentiment

and it certainly brightened my dismal morning

© 2025 R.M. Usatinsky/Aquitania Ventures

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