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