2022 · Poems · poetry

“Rain, Dear?”

“Moist Surface” ©️C.P. Hickey 2022

“Rain, Dear?”

Splatters drip abundant

Down sloped trolley exoskeletons

Wintering coats repel most water…

But, not all

Surgical masks punctuate the crowd

Riders on then off

The catastrophe of a wet commute

Hangs soggy on the brows of all

2022 · Poems · poetry

“Counsel of the Crowd”

“Umbrella Academy” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2022

“Counsel of the Crowd”

Boston Common jury pool

Sitting just to wait

Impaneled peers passing by

Hundreds of thousands of judgments

Rendered unconsciously

The horde wills itself

Despite small protests

Barrister bums profess innocence

Regardless of their guilt

Happy clams waiting to be plucked

Away from an unjust motion

To dismiss outright, doubt

Just is

Thumbs are on the scales

Just is

Only pretending to be blind

Just is

She’s in it for the handicapped placard

Just is

Courting the illusion

Writing to sit

Peers passing disaffected

Pooling common

Just is

2022

“The Night Before the 4th”

Alexander Ignatius Connolly “Bubba”

Years ago, when I was a wee lad, my grandfather, Alexander Ignatius Connolly, used to sit me on his knee and teach me “ditties”.

In my family, a ditty is a crude variation of a commonly known song, with lots of word interchange and improvisation.

Around this time of year he was keen on getting me to sing “The Night Before the Fourth”.

He would clap his hands, and move his index finger up and down in time with the singing. I think he had grand dreams of being the famous Alexander of the Ragtime Band.

The best part for me, was watching him laugh like hell when he got myself or my sister to repeat off-colored lyrics. It was a great victory for him, and from my experience, there is nothing cuter or funnier than a kid dropping some profanity without knowing that they are being naughty.

So, for Alexander Ignatius Connolly, this one’s for you.

Please sing the BOLDED words to yourself, using the “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow” jingle.

The night before the fourth.

The night before the fourth.

The cat shit in the shavings.

The cat shit in the shavings.

The cat shit in the shavings, the night before the fourth.

This was usually followed up with a quick question/answer poem:

Listen! Listen!

The cat’s pissing.

Where? Where?

Under the chair.

Quick! Quick!

Get the gun.

All, hell, he’s all done.

2022 · Summertime Rhymes

“Sand Thrift”

“Seaweed Merkins” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2022

“Sand Thrift”

Sweaty seaweed merkin

Tubular carbuncular barnacle

Surf’s up

Swell roaring

Waved in, waved on

Horizon plied with UV radiation

Québécois down for holiday

Sipping seltzers while passing judgment

On body positive ‘Muricans

Every breaking wave supplying sobriety

Salt infused air blowing way by

The downward smell of tide approaches

Sand creeping into every crevice

Grinding out pearls

For shells to covet

Wetly moist wetsuits

Hiding disparities

Musty smell of musk mollusk

Creepy beach bum listening to “Goodbye Horses”

Slide the shore in parallax error

Breezy foam blowing upon dreams like birthday candles

Long cold beers quenching patch

Art among the sand denizens

A good day’s sun soon rolls on

2022 · Poems

“Wind Phone”

“Winding Wind” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2020

“Wind Phone”

I had heard tales of a wind phone

Somewhere in Japan

Talk to your dead loved

They said

I bought a plane ticket

I flew on the wind

I found the wind phone

It was somewhere in Japan

I waited in the queue

My turn finally came

I approached the booth with trepidation

It was white

That is to say the booth was dreadful white

And there was a small neatly organized table

Organized in precision in only the way a small Japanese table could be

Upon it was a phone

Black and dull

What was once shiny glossy

Passed through thousands upon thousands of hands

Hand to ear

Mouth to word

Word to air

Not ears…

Wind phone!

Talk to your dead loved

They said

Only, I chose differently

I didn’t talk to my Father

Dead these eight years

I didn’t talk to my Mother

Dead these twelve years

I didn’t even speak to the baby we lost between my first son and my first daughter

Perhaps, his name was Hieronymus

No, I spoke to no dead loved

But, I put my words into the wind phone

Hoping the wind would find the ears of my second son, Paul

He is minimally verbal

But, luckily for us, more verbal than most

I try to persuade the wind with my silver tongue

Persuade it to unlock the mystery of my second son

Who often releases words on the wind,

Hoping those words unlock some type of understanding between us

As I look out over a Japanese valley

The wind carries my words away

Not to be heard,

Nor understood

The wind phone holds me silent

As I wait for a connection

Whether my second son was there

Or ten thousand miles away,

Our words are carried over the wind

And, pass us by.

Blowing fierce into the stratosphere

Carrying our DNA back to the stars that we came from

Out to somewhere where our dead loved

Are rejoined in a Big Bang connection

As I hung up the phone

I looked backward at the queue,

And felt shame for my wind blasphemy

I had to try

Before I myself become dead loved

I hope they can forgive me—

I hope Paul can forgive me—

I then thought to myself…

That maybe sometimes not being able to talk to your dead loved

Is not as bad as not being able to talk to your alive loved

Poems · poetry

Waiting in Good Faith

“Terrain” ©️C.P. Hickey 2021

“Waiting in Good Faith”

It happened again

A summer not as planned

Bug bites in the single digits

Sunburns of no consequence

Waiting for something else

To

Happen

Hoping certain certainties avoid

Protecting those we love from life

And the harm of thoughtless folks

Libertines have become civil libertines

And exact destruction

When passing through the self-checkout line

Not wanting to wait in long lines

Circumventing the gradual path

Because…

People die from the consumption

But, not that consumption

Animals of learned habits

Bad habits

Stain the narrative

A story told

Obfuscating

A selling sexy self-lies

That only we ourselves believe

To get to the next instance

Where choice

Or, it’s illusion

Stammers, sputters, and relents

Waiting for a break

Waiting in good faith

Poems

“Treebeard”

“Treebeard” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2021

“Treebeard”

Roots red riot

Reaching up into a stratosphere

Wagging straw doodles

An itch not scratchable

Forming a Bedouin burning bush

Pandemic nettles preventing tight seals

Masking my contempt of you, at you

There isn’t a light apparent at the end of this tunnel

Nowhere to go but up

Breathless

2021 · Poems · poetry

“Stripped of Memory”

“Light Lit” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2021

“Stripped of Memory”

The memory of this place consigns its pain to me

A bunch of grapes plucked off,

Empty sprigs form quiet stress

Place-holding taunts and barbs,

The burnt toast ghost of treasured anticipation

Who will remember what I can’t?

When I can no longer bear witness

Such is the narrative:

A leaf blows off a bridge

After having been stuck

And dances the air

Until it comes to float on restless waters

Carried away to be counted among other forgetful forgottens

Poems · poetry

“The Misery Of Society”

“Claw D” ©️C.P. Hickey 2020

“The Misery Of Society”

The misery of society

Resides in sobriety

Of peer pressure sanctioned

Social media propriety

The goal is correction

By way of projection

Behavior game wardens

Chastising selection

What causes offense?

Despite the events

Or mind’s eye abstraction

Devoid of pretense?

A champion scolder

A high holy roller

Supposing to know

All that is kosher

Here is the trick

Mister Etiquette

The perception of correction

Is solely your shtick

A word to the wise:

Should be no surprise

Keep your thoughts to yourself

We don’t need your advice

Nor do we need

On all thoughts to agree

I’ll say what I like

Despite your unease

The misery of society

Resides in sobriety

Of peer pressure sanctioned

Social media propriety

Poems · poetry

“The World Is Ripe Fucking Madness”

“The World Is Ripe Fucking Madness” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2020

“The World Is Ripe Fucking Madness”

The world as seen from a half-baked moon

Often appears innocuous

In truth, it is besought with ruin

Contradictory ideas imponderous

Sages and mystics shouted down

The mob’s will absolute

Traveling through a wounded world

Holding hard to ignored truths

Lonely, lonely common sense

Is commonly uncommon

Withdrawn within self-defense

A disillusioned Brahmin

Floating in the cosmic void

A world ripe with fucking madness

As others nurture schadenfreud

Most end swallowed up by sadness