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Poemography

a year of poetry by

R.M. Usatinsky

January

January 1, 2011

Bella's Garden

 

I’m watching you sleep

my eyes fixed on your blanket

which rises and falls with your every breath

I’m lying in a bed that is not my own

creaking with every movement

though I’m not certain if it is the bed

or my aging frame that is creaking

your friend the portly pigeon is standing on the fence

in your lovely garden

surrounded by green vines and a fruit bearing tree

whose branches the winter winds have made thin and frail

the sun is peeking its head over the rooftops

an airy breeze blowing through the shrubs

I’m wondering if the shadows are staring at me

you will awake to the songs of Magpies

singing for scraps of bread

eagerly you will stand in the window

hoping for a glance of a bird

flying boldly against the frigid wind

landing momentarily in your lovely garden

to wish you a beautiful day

January 2, 2011

Obituary

 

You meant nothing to me

loss is merely emptiness disguised as longing

a faceless name, a nameless face

unique in its power to bring me home

rare, like a lost memory

eloquent like a softly spoken soliloquy

never fading like the autumn sun

devouring shadows, luminously burning

everlastingly bright, swallowing moonbeams;

but light is only a distraction

our souls so easily fooled by the darkness.

run away with me to nowhere

and we will be found by no one

hidden deep within the tall grass;

run away with me to somewhere

outcasts driven far from serene shores

solitude on islands we created in our minds

endless summers and white linen curtains

blowing in the sea breeze

nothing sacred, nothing impenetrable

burning embers scar our mortality

hidden moments bind our spirits to

the emptiness of time and space

remembering all that was good

all that will never be lived again;

go, for there are more worlds to create

more lives to live, undaunted, eternal;

you mean everything to me

January 3, 2011

Inextinguishable Flames

 

Looking deep inside of my past

for ways to understand my present

to redirect my future;

I don’t recall a single memory

that does not revert my thoughts to you

I’m still waiting though I know you’ll never arrive

to touch my heart and cleave the hatred buried within;

my soul burns inextinguishable flames

molten lava runs through my veins

everything I touch melts into nothingness

longing becomes never ending

breath diminishes into fear

I am drowning but the flames do not die down;

my body ignites time and time again

charred remains smoldering like embers of hope

glowing but not illuminating;

I remain ablaze but within the flames

I am frozen

lifeless

alone

January 4, 2011

Apartments / A Long Way From Home

My grandparents lived in a two bedroom apartment

on Maplewood Avenue; a back porch that once was

my mother’s bedroom; where posters of Ricky Nelson hung

where Cal was found dead one day in its cage

where uncle Jakey flew down the back stairs

while the MPs ran up the front

the porch where my childhood lived and died

where my white clotheshorse giraffe stood

and where I cried looking at my basketball

that some bullies popped with a penknife and tossed

onto the garage where I mourned it for weeks

until Kurt Hoffman swept it down with a broom

and gave me a little red chair he said was better

than any old ball

We moved to Rosemont Avenue; I was a magician

and a scientist and a bicycle fixer-upper;

I wet my bed, fed my goldfish and wore a

pink jumpsuit that my grandfather bought for me at

Bonwit Teller that I ripped the knee in the first

day I wore it to school (where no one laughed at me)

and I swear I didn’t fall down on the back stoop on purpose

I learned to be a big boy in that apartment on Rosemont;

I changed my brother’s diapers, tended bar at my

father’s poker parties (and cleaned up the next morning)

and went to Jewel all by myself to buy ice cream and

Kotex for my mother 

(I never knew what was inside of that big blue box.)

I finally got my own room again on Washtenaw,

but only until Julie and Jeff’s mom died;

the ceiling caved in from the weight of the snow

I painted the walls a deep rust color

and listened to George Harrison albums when

Morrie Harris wasn’t blasting Ted Nugent out his window

I played ball with little Ricky Gross in the back alley,

watched thunderstorms over the lake, rappelled off the

roof (got caught once); brought the laundry up though I

never told anyone I was afraid of going down to the

basement alone

Today I’m going to see a new apartment

in a place far from where my life began; far from where my

grandfather would take me on Sunday mornings

to look at apartments; it was like a hobby for him

a pastime, an excuse to go for coffee and pie

I’ve lived in many places, called many dwellings home though

I’ve never found the one place where I truly felt I belonged

They say home is where the heart is,

where you lay your hat, that’s where home is;

where there’s always room for one more

that’s where home is

so keep a light burning in the window for me

I’ll be home just as soon as I’m able to be;

and if I don’t return, well remember me then

and speak well of me every now and again

I’m a long way from home

January 5, 2011

Shell

I wish I had a shell

like a turtle

or a snail

I’d hide from all my woes

be sheltered from the rain

kept warm from the frigid wind

safe from bandits and evil animals

I would take refuge there

be alone with my thoughts

thinking of no one

feeling nothing

only dreaming

about you

January 6, 2011

Sunday Morning Bliss

The blissfulness of Sunday morning

the smell of fresh oven-warmed bread rolls

tepid coffee and dried cereal on the baby’s mouth

the dryer drowning out the sound of the rain and birds

the new neighbors hanging pictures on newly plastered walls

back in bed the baby sleeps in her mother’s comforting arms 

every now and then a little moan is heard as the baby inside of

her womb kicks, reminding her of its presence;

but despite the peaceful setting, the stillness of the wind

and the infinite resonating silence there is an insufferable

din of disquiet blaring out like a marching band in my head;

I am barely able to endure the constant longing and emptiness

while your voice gives me strength it doesn’t fill the void

it only serves to remind me of how fragile life can be

how each and every moment should be lived

as if it was the last moment of bliss

January 7, 2011

The Howling Dream

I said I would quickly forget you

not recall the agony we both endured (for years)

not suffer the helplessness of stopping

what cannot be stopped;

but your memory still lingers

you come to me in night dreams

calling my name

like you did that last

intolerable night

howling for me

breathless though determined

to assure that my last vision of you would be

engraved eternally upon my mind’s eye;

that when I touched you for the last time

cold, hard, lifeless

my heart would be rendered

cold

hard

lifeless

January 8, 2011

The Unread Book

An unread book

sits upon my night table

its pages blank

and chapters void of

drama, romance,

poems or mystery

its cover faded

its spine cracking and bent

inside is a bookmark

taut and glistening

it serves to remind me

where the last story ended

where the next one begins;

and when it falls to the floor

I lose my place and must begin again

from the beginning

January 9, 2011

Cornerstone

What is inspiration worth to one who is uninspired?

my imagination is filled with untold stories

paintings my fingers cannot render

photographs my eye is too complacent to take

songs my voice refuses to sing

prayers my soul denies

What is love worth to one who is heartless?

the intangibility of reaching out to nothingness

the elusiveness of desire

longing, regret, muted murmurs of passion

every memory an impervious reality

reminding me it has been me living my life

What is life worth to one who knows not how to live?

there is futility in asking questions which have no answer

but still I question and still I look for the truth

which cannot be found in the eyes of God

or in all the great books of wisdom

but perhaps in the first breathtaking steps a child takes

January 10, 2011

Rings to the Mersey

I don’t remember much about that day

except for the sting of the cold wind upon my face

the banana split we shared overlooking the Albert Dock

and the little piece of string (from where it appeared I don't recall)

that we used to tie the rings together in a most peculiar union

We had planned this moment, discussed it at length

perhaps had some reservations or misconstrued its meaning

shivering, we approached the balustrade overlooking the

River Mersey; we held the rings tied together moments before;

you asked me if I was sure about what we were about to do

Then all at once we tossed the rings into the rushing, frigid water

our past and present converging within the depths of destiny

with tear filled eyes we kissed, bidding farewell to what was

welcoming, though with uncertainty, what was to become

January 11, 2011

James Olson

Nobody knows your name

it took me twenty minutes to remember

would have taken dad five seconds

if his teeth were in

and his morning coffee was poured

 

You were the star

in all my childhood nightmares

your pockmarked pasty face

glaring at me behind a mask or a pistol

or from below a cowboy hat or your

wispy, receding blond hair

waiting to lunge out at Barnaby Jones,

Columbo, McCloud or Ironside

January 12, 2011

Pockets

I have four pockets in my trousers

one is filled with sand

keeping my feet planted firmly

on the ground

another is filled with water

quenching my thirst

keeping me cool from the

emotions that scorch my soul

and one is filled with rose petals

their fragrant perfume reminds me of you

their softness caressing me

like your breath

 

the last one is filled with hope

but hope cannot be touched like sand

sipped like cool, fresh water

or felt like your warm kiss upon my lips

 

so while my pockets are full

they are empty too

empty of what I really need

most to sustain me

January 13, 2011

Triumph

All too infrequently

do I amass all my ability

skill and passion

to create what my heart

yearns to create

telling stories that come to me

in dreams

painting pictures with

words that never seem to

say what they’re meant to say

conveying ideas that at once become

distorted and convoluted

going off on tangents

plodding about to the point of calamity

never finishing what I start

only starting what I know will end in folly,

frustration and regret;

but then comes a fleeting moment

nearly lost, nearly forsaken

but at long last recaptured, defeated,

devoured and reclaimed as a momentary

but glorious glimmer of triumph

January 14, 2011

A Dignified Profession 

I thought you would be a

dignified profession

allowing me the comforts of an

old oak desk

polished brass lamps and

chunky French fountain pens

that I would keep in pairs in the

inside pocket of my hunter green,

Ralph Lauren corduroy sport coat with its

smooth russet leather elbow patches.

I thought you would afford me the

privilege of life in a big city,

where I could stroll The Boul Mich

irrespective of whether it was in The City of Lights

or the one with Big Shoulders

where I would take coffee at

sidewalk cafés in the company of

slim men with ascots and

Dixie Peached hair or

lanky, braless models pretending to smoke,

snapping gum while picking crumbs from their

triple chocolate fudge layer cake.

I thought you would be a labor of love

endowing my heart and soul with

fluid inspiration

facilitating my ceaseless output of

creativity leading to endless accolades

read by well to do newly weds

sipping lattes, eating

cream cheese shmeared bagels

in bed with the Sunday paper;

they would pound out my name on their

laptops, read the reviews on Amazon.com

buy my latest book  and go back to bed

making love until noon

marveling  at what it would be like

to be a writer, to be read, loved, admired,

respected by millions

to have in their grasp the power

to be nothing and everything all at once

January 15, 2011

The Irony of Loneliness 

It’s ironic

how two people

you and I

spend our days

living lives we can’t seem to comprehend

in a world that is often forbidding and unyielding

It seems we’re caught in a perpetual funk

a labyrinth of discontent and disenchantment

though we have each other

the fragility of our

virtual voices and images

only serve to deepen the chasm of solitude

How I long to have you near

to feel your existence

to be bathed in your brilliant light

showered in rays of your gleaming smile

and to look into your innocent eyes that

reflect the most profound and genuine truth

January 16, 2011

First Steps 

I remember the first

carefully calculated

steps of my oldest child;

the warm Mediterranean sun

beating down on the boardwalk

the cool sea breeze that made the

seagulls look as if they were

floating in the sky

frozen in the moment

suspended by puffy white clouds;

the little boy with the permanent smile

shiny red cheeks and

navy blue shoes

endless curiosity and zeal

walking along the barricade

holding on ever so cautiously

until the moment of confidence arrived;

you let go—free from fear—

taking those first steps

towards the rest of your life

And how vividly I recall my

older daughter’s first steps;

the hotel lobby in Barcelona

dusty from the ongoing renovation

you stood supported by a blue

armchair beside a round glass table

upon whose fingerprinted top you were

turning pages of a cardboard picture book on;

just then our sea-faring cousins arrived,

they’d come to see us in Barcelona,

one of their cruise’s ports of call;

as they entered the hotel I greeted them

they kissed your mother and pinched

your brother’s cheeks, mussed his hair

and then, simply because you could,

you took your first steps

falling into the arms of my cousin Carrie

who, if she were still with us today,

would rejoice in recalling being a part of

that special moment in your life

And it seems like only yesterday

when my baby daughter took her first steps

(probably because it was only yesterday!);

sliding along the slick wood floor

holding my hands

first both, then one

until you stopped in the middle of the room

took stock of your surroundings

your playhouse, wicker pram, the garden;

and all at once you noticed the red chair

standing alone against the

burgundy velvet drapes;

you let go of my hand

bracing yourself momentarily against the radiator

then, with all your determination and might,

took your first three steps

reaching the chair with

triumphant satisfaction

knowing that anything you desire

will only ever be within arm’s reach

January 17, 2011

The Girl on the Porch 

You have kept me from sleep yet another night

tossing and turning are all but futile remedies

for your frequent visits to my dreamworld

now all too common to even mention

time and time again;

is this longing?

or guilt??

or both???

I blame youth

which is solely liable

for all of my folly and lack of maturity;

how could I have possibly known then all

that life has taught me since those days seeing

you there alone on the back porch observing me

and finally

I can inhabit this reality

a sacred place in my subconscious

where our souls are tightly intertwined

inseparable through time, space or circumstance

that when you reach your hand out to me in the hallway

I can feel it, take it in mine and lead us to another dimension

a place where I should have taken you all of those many years ago

So, years later you would save yourself the trouble of being merely a phantom

January 18, 2011

Postscript

I’m hoping there will be enough time

to do all that remains to do

to see you grown

to sing all the songs

I wish to sing to you

write the words that

no one but you will read

when you’re older

and curious to know

what I was like;

there are moments

when I allow myself to believe

that when I am gone I will be able

to see you from above

illuminate your way

protect you from harm

but what if I could see

though unable to provide you aid or

comfort you in moments of despair;

would I still choose to see

or would I merely live in eternal darkness

 

it will pain me to leave you

contemplating that moment brings a

raw, icy sting to my senses

leaving me feeling impotent

fraught with grief

and missing you more than I ever have

January 19, 2011

Time

Time is unforgiving

it ticks away the

longest hours and

shortest minutes

mocking us as we

check our watches

only to be deceived

bemused and forsaken

Time can never truly conceal

what knowledge can reveal

that our destiny is linked

wantonly to the human quest

for immortality; blindly searching

desperately wanting

endlessly seeking

redemption

And time reminds us that

nothing lasts forever;

our existence depending

equally on our impermanent

reality as well as the

perpetual motion that

guides us recklessly through

our days, nights and folly

January 20, 2011

Tranquility Lost

I was hoping for a little

peace and quiet;

Sunday morning

pancakes enjoyed

birds singing

sun peeking through

playful clouds

spring waiting patiently

to make her long-awaited

arrival

But shrieks from a

cranky baby

video conference

guitar wailing

clanking washing machine

TV vomiting resonant images

Oo nature’s unforgiving fury

render me incapacitated

with a helpless sense of

despair

There is only one earthquake;

it rumbles through my being

unsettling serenity

suffocating the still

unflustered movement of

my thoughts:

 

Only one tsunami;

thrusting its giant wall of ocean

drowning me in its torrent of

destruction

January 21, 2011

Unfinished Novel

How many once upon a times I have written?

how many incomplete chapters

blank pages

blotted ink

soulless characters;

until you came along

that random September afternoon

introducing yourself as my father

(but I already have a father)

telling me about your lost photos

army dog tags

the hundreds of thousands

they stole from you;

telling me about Beth

(has a new last name)

and Tina

(her mother was our neighbor)

but not mentioning the

small details

like why you left

why you never called;

surely you must have

thought about me…once

My unfinished novel is about you

your quest to find me

you hear I live in Spain

arrange to go there

learn the language

enroll to learn English the school I run

become my student

fool everyone

befriend my wife and son

in the park on the

calle Chile;

you’re the nice man

who gives my boy sweets

then one day you reveal

your true identity

but I knew all along

from the very first day

though it pleases me to no end

knowing that at the very least

you’ve paid your school fees

January 22, 2011

On Aging

It’s a common attitude

thinking we’ll age well

maintain our boyish looks

our long, thick manes

burly faces and zeal

but as the years pass

our bellies protrude

hairlines recede

memories fade

desires wane

our lust for life

for beautiful women

fine wine and cars

becomes tarnished

by unfulfilled dreams

our bodies rebelling

attesting to our fragility

the aches and pains

heartaches and loss

at times too much to endure

but we cling to hope

reminded by glory days

when we feared nothing

prepared to conquer everything

even our own frail mortality

January 23, 2011

The Mill House

Your rich history

stands on fertile ground

Civil War battles fought there

over cups of strong coffee;

you were not the original

family home, but a concession

so that the widows and fatherless children of

murdered countrymen

would have a place to live

You were an old country mill house;

functional, bereft of the luxuries of the

elegant city dwellings in the heart of

The Madrid de los Austrias;

where thick, tufted armchairs

hefty mahogany furniture

were no match for the humble

rickety hay-woven chairs and

wobbly tables of country life

Now, years later,

you are visited by

the Children, and the

children’s children

who have made a playhouse

in the chicken coup, keep their

fancy weekend bags in the cold

storeroom where preserves were once

kept from season to season

The stream still flows beneath you

a river divides your land between

Murcia and Albacete;

wild boar still trample the corn

María Jesús tends to her demented husband

lizards and spiders and the ever-present

smell of the smoky fireplace

fill the mill house with memories

ones even I cannot fail to relive

January 24, 2011

Never Too Late

It’s never too late to learn

how to cut a bagel

so that both halves

come out even

I always thought it was skill

some astute mastery

high art or acquired aptitude

which I possess for nothing

I am the embodiment of

mediocrity, the quintessential

try and try again

back to the old drawing board guy

But I am resilient (to a point)

determined as I am disenchanted

seeking truth and wisdom

though rarely achieving either

I learned how to cut a bagel today

each half perfectly symmetrical

now if only I could learn to keep

the sesame seeds from falling off

January 25, 2011

Waiting

Like a sweet sixteen

waiting impatiently by the phone

in a sixties love song

for a boyfriend’s call

that never comes

or the freckle-faced girl

standing on the curb

anticipating the arrival

of Mister Postman

who brings no letters

the wife with her babe in arms

staring out the window to an

empty street, her husband

scribbling a final, blood-stained

note from the battlefield

it’s only been a day

but it feels like a lifetime;

addicted to the sound of your

voice, calming my soul like a

rush of heroin through my veins

˜

I know no other emptiness

than the one that separates us;

there could be no crueler suffering

or malicious castigation

only interminable longing and torment

so, I’ll wait patiently

with hope and sanguine resolve

for the moment when your

thoughts return to me

and I can breathe again

January 26, 2011

On Poetry

Wondering why there are no

help wanted ads for poets

it’s as honorable a

profession as the next;

one that suits me to a T

allowing my short attention span

rosy opportunities to produce

intangible concepts, flowing drivel

and creative output that is neither

commercially viable nor esteemed

all in the space of five minutes (or less);

But it’s what I do, effortlessly, efficiently;

it soothes my mind, calms my restless spirit

keeps away the heebie-jeebies

engages otherwise useless commodities

which I can no better exploit than

lemurs milking cows or explaining

spherical standing wave interaction theory

(No offense to lemurs);

So, who will hire a poet—and why?

in days gone by a patron would support me

financially; providing me with clean, sunny

well-lit rooms; a Negress to iron my

shirts and leave hot meals on a trolley

beside my writing desk

I would learn to smoke

Gauloises, wear narrow trousers

tight blazers, flaunt brilliantined hair;

I’d sip Absinthe late into the night

wearing silk pajamas,

two (perhaps three) Asian lovers in my bed;

 

This is the glorious life,

bohemian yet refined

the embodiment of the highest pleasure

though one that is often incompatible

with stability, prosperity and sanity;

Who needs the poet?

Ii the end I suppose no one;

we are an unserviceable breed

overly sensitive

overtly supercilious and

ominously destined to be equally

remembered and forgotten for

having accomplished absolutely nothing

January 27, 2011

Plan B

Today is one of those days

when it would be nice to have a

Plan B; I knew the day would come

where my mind would be void of

design, where even the simplest

ideas could hardly suffice to disguise

themselves as substance; where my

own disillusions and nonchalance are

forbidding, almost provoking me

to step out onto the ledge, raise

my hands above my head and shout;

all I can do is watch the budding trees

the sleeping babe, the dog anxiously

awaiting nothing; I can collect crumbs

from the table, try to recall the dreams

that kept my mind restless more than

half the night, the other half spent

rearranging baby legs, blankets and

thin, lifeless pillows; but there is much

to look forward to: frozen pizza and

mini ice cream bars, a stroll down by the

canal where geese tend to their hatchlings;

a visit to the supermarket, the afternoon

sun warming my face reminding me

of all the things in life I have to be grateful for

and all the wonders that are on the verge of

becoming mine for ever and ever still

January 28, 2011

Belonging

It’s what I miss most

the feeling of belonging

knowing exactly where things are

because they are where they're supposed to be

it’s the familiar things

remembering where the potholes are

just in time to swerve the handlebars

on my Schwinn Fastback

knowing that when you ring

Michael’s bell he’ll be downstairs

in a flash, ready to play ball or

chase or hop a roof or two

it’s the creaking back stairs

the loose planks on the porch

the Good Humor Man’s

clanging bells and Chocolate Eclairs

it's listening to my grandmother

talking on the phone in her

telephone voice, ordering chickens and

brisket from Sonny the butcher

or walking to school, Mrs. Bloom

the crossing lady patting my shoulder

as I cross Granville; you should have

fastened your galoshes, she reminded me

I know where everything used to be

all the best hiding places

I knew everyone and

everyone knew me

that is what belonging is

to feel part of a world

where everyone is interconnected

by hot dog stands and pizza parlors

belonging is holding a white, puffy

dandelion making a wish and blowing

its fluff into the wind only to have it

blow right back into your startled face

January 29, 2011

The Man From Beyond 

Enigmatic master of escape

rendering chains and shackles

inoperable, beyond explanation

Kellar would have been proud of the

Wild Man you became, King of Cards

escapologist, debunker of spiritualists

illusionist extraordinaire

some said superhuman

zealous, fearless prestidigitator atop

Hamerstein's Roof Garden

audience members left dumbfounded

roped and nailed packing crate

removed from the water tank

you escaped in fifty-seven seconds…

Halloween 1926

one twenty-six in the afternoon

unaware Whitehead’s

devastating blows could

induce fatal results though

never denying your immortal fame or

inspiring young magicians like me

January 30, 2011

Baby Names 

What will we call you

nameless unborn baby

thrashing around your

mother’s womb like a

hip-hop dancer, kicking,

gettin’ jiggy wit it in your

warm liquescent abode

We’ve decided on a name

beginning with the letter

C—we’ve got A, B and E

covered—just filling in the

gaps; saving the D for a

boy (who will probably turn

out to be a girl anyway)

I quite fancy something

old fashioned, Charlotte

perhaps, I suggested

Cordelia, who, like in

Shakespeare’s King Lear,

she was the youngest of

three daughters (vetoed)

I wonder what would happen

if you remained nameless

nothing to identify you

except for your appearance

your smile and loveliness

the color of your eyes or

perhaps, simply some numbers

What’s in a name anyhow?

will it define you?

help you get into Yale or

reserve a table at Le Bernadin,

courtside seats next to Jack;

will it stand out next to P’s

on the marquee, your name?

We’ve run out of dead relatives

to name you after, my mother

had a bird named Cal as a girl

perhaps that would suffice;

but you know whatever your

name turns out to be you will be

loved deeply with all our hearts

January 31, 2011

New Dimensions 

I’ve discovered a

new dimension

one that sits delicately

upon the cusp of

my imagination;

where dreams are foretold

illusions bar reality

flying ships and

slithery creatures

infuse rich textured scenes

buoyant and masterful

virtually serene

luscious and lustful

heavenly gardens

bursting with flora

succulent petals

every blade of grass

every hope

every dream

every wish

drowned in the

unforgiving tears of

the morning dew

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