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