Two Poems by Philip Butera

 

A Raven Among Crows

 

He drove a candy apple red Oldsmobile ninety-eight

and I waved to him

from the picture window as he left for work.

He was always leaving for work,

being at work, or going to work.

I wondered what work was.

I never wanted to go there,

to work,

because it made my mother sad

and me lonely.

 

Across from my small white house with a green awning

was a playground.

 I spent my youth there.

We were kids with Italian last names

but we were all Phil Rizzuto hitting home runs

in the summer

and Rocky Marciano

winning by a knockout in the fall.

During the long cold winter there were snowmen,

snow angels, snowball fights,

and fantasies

of spring.

I overheard words like leads, bids, and deals.

They all meant the same.

My mother and I would spend

the weekends catching buses to my grandmother's.

If we stayed home

my mother would sit at the end

of the white couch with the gold trim

her eyes dashing between the television and the

picture window

while I played with tiny rubber cowboys

and

plastic blocks

 on the green rug with green swirls.

 

I learned that work came with after-work

at taverns and bars.

 Time

was an ocean of waves

that capsized dreams

and

held

hope hostage.

 

The seasons changed  and the playground disappeared.

My father was a raven among crows.

He drove a Cadillac

and we had a summer home

on the lake.

But the distance between my parents

never mended.

 

Restless,

I roamed,

wanting to fill the emptiness,

to understand the unspoken vocabulary

inside me.

Sometimes

I was a shoe with a broken heel.

On a few occasions

I excelled

and wore a smile.

I learned daydreams

gave you the answers

you want,

rarely the truth.

 

I found friendship and warmth,

even love.

I circled,

nested at times

but I never took flight

among the

blackbirds.

They Are Balloons

 

They are balloons, colourful and complete.

Gauzy clouds in the late afternoon blue sky

are their background

and a peeking sun with a golden welcoming.

I am a distant figure changing with perspective

continually failing to catch up with me

even when the stars say I have.

 

The white strings from the balloons

are wrapped around her wrist

and it is obvious she is comfortable

with herself wearing loose reds and oranges

dismissing the contrast.

She has no shadow

only a late summer wide-eyed enthusiasm.

She smiles

but not at me.

She smiles

because the wind is refreshing and the day is lovely

and because she has balloons

for no reason,

she just has them

and they complement her mood. 

 

I have a small knife in my pocket

and not much faith in myself.

She is happy and I hate her for not being ambiguous,

because I am confined within me

while she glides,

glides with her balloons tied to her wrist.

 

For me– there is no up or down,

only a rattling of obstruction

and a clattering of confusion.

I like things sharp with no memory.

She is genuine and filled with delight

animated and alive

like her balloons.

Beyond sheer happiness in a realm

where multiple balloons

would rather be tied to her wrist

than travel heavenward.

 

She has shoulder-length light brown hair

and round sunglasses,

singing an old song, I almost recollect.

Her voice is familiar,

I think.

Or is it the voice in my head I am hearing?

I get closer to her.

I open my knife in my pocket

confessing my insecurities

while I watch the girl

with balloons tied to her wrist.

 

The cheerful girl knows she is exceptional,

sitting on the soft grass untangling the balloons.

One by one, she sets them free.

One by one, the wind gently sweeps them up

and as one white balloon

becomes trapped in a large tree's thick branches

I wrap my fist

around the knife's blade

and squeeze.

Philip Butera received his Masters Degree in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor, and High Places and Forever Was Never On My Mind.

Two novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24 episodes Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/) and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript.

His next novel, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out Fall of 2023. One play, The Apparition. His current project is collaborating with a British photographer, a French artist, and an American graphic artist to produce a coffee table book in praise of Women. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.