“The End is Near Sometimes”

Poem 23 exists as a therapeutic exercise. Thank you to JEB, up in NH. Your suggested phrase helped me to revisit some emotion.


“Suffer Buffer” hpcimedia.com/images/website/DIR_34/F_29603.jpg



“The End is Near Sometimes”


Sometimes on Summer Sundays,

people pass out of this world.


Elemental souls leaving behind dead meat.

Honorable hardworking hearts,

hiccup and then stop.



There is a specific room in the emergency wards of most hospitals.

A grief room.

The horror show.

Some call it the suffer buffer.

An administrative attempt at compassion.

Staged grief.

It is preferred that you “act out” in there.


We don’t want the others to think someone is dying nearby.

Only sanitized grief is allowed.

Dignity displayed in disposable units.

Shuffled inside, while they cobble their strategy.

The content is similar,

the names are changed.

Tissue boxes that don’t look they hold hardly enough.

The door opens.

Please…this way.

The chaos dizzies.

When you arrive at the spot that you are designated to stand,

gravity holds you there.

So many things to see.

Yes, this is it.

It’s time.

It is no longer an abstract.

The moment is upon us.

Hope, has left the room.

Tears well up.

The point of no return has come.

The attending physician somehow gets your attention.

Her eyes are full of two things:

Professional compassion and the consequence of truth.

Eyes still locked.

The decision has been made.

Acceptance of that truth stings for a moment.

Then a desperate attempt to salvage the seconds left.

The chaos falls away.

The people go out of focus.


The only thing left in the room,

a vessel that contained love.


The transfer is complete.

The eyes, always the eyes.

Expressive eyes at one time,

need a gentle palm to close the lids.

Fingertips insuring that rest is obtained.





What next?


The end is near sometimes,

and then it is right on top of us.



Poem 22 ska-doo. Very close to the end of this run. Just 8 more to go after today. A hearty thanks to Carol S. for dropping today’s inspiration on me. This is for all the tense moments in my youth that were surrounded by faux machismo. Concentrated moments of ultra-violence. Although, they were few and far in between, I still had my share of uncomfortable situations that were reduced to violence for the lack that age’s wisdom provides. It’s laughable how indestructible we all thought we were. Now that time has got a hold of us, and a bunch of folks I grew up with have passed on out of this life, I can see the fragility that was the reality.  It taunts me for having really good luck in not getting caught on the wrong end of a punch that could have had consequences. Also, why have most fights I’ve been involved in or witnessed consisted of at least one or more males taking off their shirts?




The tension is tempurpedic.

One swing at a bystander and we all fall into the mix.

Shouting, spittle, and red faces.

Rocking, lilting, back and forth,

back and forth.

If that prick looks at me the wrong way,

I’m gonna elbow him in the face.

The beer bottle flew past me,

and thick spittle landed in my ocular cavity.

It slid down my nose and hung from my nostril.

I didn’t see where it came from.




Brawl berserker.

Doffing shirts and tumbling into the fray.

A veritable donnybrook

Lots of sizing up and flinging.

The biggest guy on their side just went down with a busted nose.

He’s crying like a child.

Two guys over there are flailing at each other.

Straight up toe-to-toe, hockey saw punches.

I ran up to two of them and while one was sucking on a cigarette,

I pointed at the other.

Neither expected me to take that pointed hand and smash my elbow into the smoker’s face.

Sparks, buckled knees, blood.

The second guy got the hook return and was laid out cold.

The cops were on the scene, I knew one.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and told me to “get the fuck outta here!”

As I fled, I caught a cheap shot from one of theirs.

Real grinder. Looking for any reason to drop dukes.

He couldn’t gain traction with anyone else,

so he clipped me while I as scurrying away.

I didn’t fall.

I took the punch.

Saline solution gargled for days in order to keep the cut from infection.

The adrenaline felt good.

Almost as good as the time I stood the drunk asshole up,

only to knock him out.

Violence in small doses.

Feeling the lethality of the anxiety pre-fight,

is worse than the blows sustained in the fight.

Tempurpedic tension.

Honorable mention.

That moment when you know its going to go down,

and there is nothing to stop it.

Madness, chaos, purging of anger.

Pepper-spray feels like razor blades slicing through your eyes.

Flushing the red pollution out with Emergency Room toilet water.

Waking up with stained pillows.

The heat is on.


Pride worn, and served.

An elbow shattered by a pipe.


Dufflebags full of courage.

Put some pins in Doc,

I can handle it.

Apprehension puts you in a box.

Sometimes the only thing violence understands is violence.





Poem 21 comes on the heels of an auspicious day. A lot of folks suffered from eclipse fever. Here is a small tribute to the great deal of fuss made about a heavenly matter. Thank you Haley H. for the inspiration. And to all you flat earthers out there, eat a bag of eclipse.




A solar foofaraw.

A celestial event.

Looked right in it’s maw,

and retinas are spent.


Tinfoil and pinholes,

promised safe views.

A collection of assholes,

on channel five news.


Looking up to the heavens,

instead of their palms.

Hapless expressions,

on science savants.


A great galvanizer,

this grand foofaraw.

Succinct synchronizer,

elliptical law.


When events in the sky,

pull you up from below.

Keep a well focused eye,

on the coronal glow.


These events are rare,

and define the space-time.

Perceived solar glare,

amplifies the sublime.


Look up, look up!

A newer reality.

Truly abrupt,

passed its totality.


A box of used glasses,

and plenty of tricks.

Another one passes,

goodbye eclipse.








“Friscalating Moonlight”

Similar to poem 19, poem 20 harkens back to my past. I offer deep appreciation to my greatest muse and partner, Lissette. We share love, laughs, tears, successes, failures, hopes, fears, and all that comes to us under a sun eclipsed by a moon. Wes Anderson’s character Eli Cash spoke the word that inspired this poem, and although it isn’t a real word, what this poem presupposes…maybe it is.

“Friscalating Moonlight”_originally conceived on 6-21-05

The moon knows what to make of this,

for I know not.

It hovers in the heavens,

guiding confused couples through life.

A labyrinth of passions,

dead ends,

and darkened roads.

Illuminating possibilities, chances, and hopes.


How it mocks me.

How it laughs at held notions of propriety.


“You mortal fool,

can’t you recognize perfection?”


Beams directing me to embrace her.

Searching for expression.

Tender silhouette,

stretching against the night.

Remove the hair from her eyes,

and stare into bliss.


One moment stolen in the moonlight,

preludes an eternity of satiety.


Thankfully, the moon cannot penetrate a roof.

For I know not what to think of other than her,

and in the safety of my hideaway,

the moon can’t mock me.




“Unrequited Love”

19th poem on the 19th day pulls me backward in time. My life has been full of requited love for some time. There was once a past version of myself that didn’t believe that. A thank you to my friend Mary Ellen G. for reminding me of how we can always appreciate what we have, by sometimes remembering times when we didn’t possess the proper perspective. Please enjoy my take on this notion…



“The Tender Trap” © C.P. Hickey 2017


“Unrequited Love”_originally conceived on 6-21-05

There is somewhere I have not been.

Unknown to me,

but certainly sought.

Endless concrete desire permeates my essence.

My limbs quake at the thought of your touch.

Awoken from one dream,

straight into another.

This cannot be real.

Real doesn’t feel like this.

Uncertainty, follows me closer than my shadow.

Thoughts restrained,

words unspoken,

actions withheld.

Just one time,

allow me to grasp your hand,

In fact, will me to.

Want me to trace our hopes and fears into your palm.

Might I kiss it,

and never be able to kiss a hand so lovely?

I should be committed,

for committing myself to the notion of a high road.

How would you love me?

Would you bend to me?

Would you allow me to drink fully from you?

Could I take a moment to sigh,

perhaps, forever,

and for that moment lose myself in you.

Don’t look at me like that.

You have killed me, and resurrected me with that gaze.

I cannot touch you.

As soon as  I do,

I’m gone.

Lost forever.

Lost, somewhere I have not been.