Five Poems by j. lewis

 

on the anniversary of my death

 

which falls on an uncertain date

yet to be determined

by accident or fate

i will arise

 

i will arise to cloudy skies

dark and low and threatening

pregnant with promise of rain

that soon will fall

 

will fall on some green lawn

that covers my mean coffin

or over a rust-red sandy plot

beside my mother

 

my mother who was too soon gone

who's waited long, is waiting still

for my sincere apology

to hear me say "i'm sorry"

 

i'm sorry too, anticipating

that she'll give grace for grace

acknowledge the heavy times

we both were wrong

 

both were wrong and knew it then

but could not speak to ease the pain

nor knew how to forgive the hurts

or better yet, forget

 

better yet, forget the struggle

to be free from each other, free

from the thousand constraints

that bound us together

 

bound us by accident or fate

by dna, by bittersweet legacy

by choice, at times by fear

and randomly, by love

 

by love, the fiercest bond of all

that calls past death, past life

reminds me i must reconcile

now, before today becomes

the anniversary of my death

 

 

breakfast of champions

 

two ribs and a half-slice

of left-over carrot cake

 

the tang of the first bite

hickory smoked. heavenly

 

then cream cheese frosting

heavy with walnut bits

 

a single piped icing carrot

gracing what was left of the cake

 

last night's feast is today's breakfast

chased by cold milk, not coffee

 

younger dreams flow through me

reminding me - I'm a champion

 

 

i am riding a dead horse home

 

the horse, of course, doesn't know

that he's dead, he's so conditioned

to keep moving. that rocking, constant

forward gallop is all he knows

 

he doesn't sleep anymore, or eat

doesn't remember or think about

the last time he stopped for water

for rest. has no idea where he's going

 

doesn't care. he only knows that his job

was to carry me where i pointed

as fast and as smoothly as possible

no tripping, no trotting, no stopping

 

given a choice, i'd swap him out

like a pony express mount, leaving

the old and exhausted behind

taking a fresh horse ahead

 

but there are no choices here

no alternates, no replacements

i feel him fading under the saddle

but he won't give up, won't falter

 

so because i've forgotten how

to dismount at full speed

and he does not slow down

i am riding a dead horse home

 

 

colour drought

 

i sat down in a small cafe

off a numberless highway

road heat and tan dust

mixing in the sweat on my back

 

"what'll it be?" asked the waitress

hair and face and dress

all faded shades of grey

 

i answered "what colour's the water?"

 

"most days it's brown,

but we got a new filter so

today it's sidewalk grey."

 

"no," i said, "no. that won't do

i need some colour. red, blue

even yellow would be good

anything but drab"

 

"well," she replied, "maybe

you haven't noticed, but

there's a drought on colour-

all the bright stuff's gone.

dried up and blown away.

even the coffee's turned

khaki tan."

 

i knew then that cat stevens

had been here before me

which is why he wrote

"if my colours all run dry..."

he saw this drought coming

prophesied "i won't have to cry

no more."

 

but that was the cat with the music

and i'm just another tired tourist

so thirsty for brilliant colours

that i'm thinking of trying

something from the black market

if that hasn't gone arid too

 

don't let me close my eyes tonight

and dream again of colourless horizons

 

 

scraping the barrel's bottom

      (to be read with a southern drawl)

 

i lowered my expectations

‘cause i was told

that happiness could only be got

by asking less of others

 

mind you, it was horrible

watching things done poorly

if at all, when with a little effort

they coulda been done

proper, neat, and on time

 

oh, it's a challenge to watch

a task being done half-fast

when full speed is called for

and not jump in to help

 

but i tell you, i've learned

that taking on another body's work

just because they ain't doing it

only leads 'em to think

they don't need to do it at all

 

burned too many times, i stopped

stepping in when i felt the urge

when i couldn't stand seeing a job

not done right, for no good reason

 

i've also stopped believing that

there's any peace to be found

by wanting less than the minimum

and so, by golly, i have once more

upped my expectations.

now up yours

j.lewis - (Jim Lewis) is an internationally published poet, musician, nurse practitioner, and the editor of Verse-Virtual, an online journal and community. When he is not otherwise occupied, he is often on a kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in California. He is the author of five full length collections, plus eight chapbooks. Learn more at https://www.jlewisweb.com/books.asp