She said, “Oh, honey, my heart goes out to you!”
I kept on going.
Dragging my walker down
the frozen foods aisle.
She said, “We all have our problems, don’t we?”
I guess she had her own,
but not as many as
The Jewish grandmother who wore
make up to cover her Alzheimer’s…
Mornings. Like heaven.
It’s morning on three sides now
Windows all around
I love my old quilt
Wrapped around me as I wake
To morning again
Wrapped around my head
Out of my slumber…
There was no god to begin with:
only a small spectral entity lumbering up a tree.
Not ennui, not cosmic meta-physicality
swinging on and on and so forth
in the self or its awareness of person. What is
existence but the I am, what is the I am
except for living. Tiny metaphors
in the mind. We’re all dreams –
He is in the water, legs kicking
The water is joyous
spinning around him its ribbons.
The sky benevolent and vast.
Floating on his back he follows its curvature
until he loses his balance.
Under the surface he hears the creaking of ships
Deep down it hurts,
Bewildering cycles and still
The dreams pulsing with the rain and the people,
Distant utopias mirrored in eyes seeking
Forgiveness and mystery – the best the worst and the treasured
Waiting to continue
They all come for the celebration. Dead
And undead alike. Their wild-eyed mask
Adorning skeletons. Eating and drinking
For the return of the dead. Death
Is all around. The isle of Janitzio crouches
InLakePatzcuaro. The cemetery
With flickering votives and
Exotic flowers is more alive than dead.
there are things about myself I cannot decode
here I am in the tube, Croxley, Watford, at the end
of the line
here I am at the cinema, the reels rotating too fast
the audience sees him enter the bedroom, wipe a tear off her cheek
a deep kiss
I can hear the wheels turning…
Jonas Sidell returns to Gadfly with two more poems: lamenting, peering inward, a reflection on the stripped down feeling that comes at the end of each week.
He meditates on love, music, and alcohol, all components of the end of the week self-assessment, followed by a brief glimpse into next week, an attempt to see the future. But what does the future hold? No one knows.
What was once an embarrassment can occasionally become a source of pride, though perhaps still a distraction in most cases. Our author empathizes with the plight of the person whose body is the source of ridicule and admiration, depending on the day. A poem for those who have taken the sting out of sniveling insults through delicate humor and relaxed acceptance.