“Presiding”

“Presiding” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Presiding”

There are sounds in graveyards.

Earthen sounds of sorrow and surrender.

Sonic suppositions and wailing gypsies.

Contemplative gorge.

Terror of impermanence.

An impasse, but not passive.

Hang around long enough and you train your ears to listen.

On the fringe of life, abutting, and right up against it.

A city of ruins, leading paths to a suburban eternity.

Invited patience sublimates itself to the alpha regret.

Sinister doubts press courage from beating hearts.

The busy silence teases out the denied emotions of Faustian bargains.

Legions of lifeless bones, marked by dust and stone.

A marathon sprint to stillness.

Perpetual motion, dispatched to be oblivion.

Authoritative immense silence speaking volumes to those not willing to look.

A distant buzz of lawn-grooming engines, drones on.

A lulling drone; consistent.

Cars passing by on the periphery, allowing measurable distance to be heard.

Rushing toward a graver situation.

Whistling past the graveyard.

Tenants without complaints, barely registering.

Rotting remains, animate the six-feet deep dioramas of death beneath our feet.

Worms, et al, explore yawning canvases.

A subterranean bacchanalia.

Mourner’s tears ant farm tunnels in the shoveled earth.

This offends the dead, but no one understands why?

Perhaps grief humors the living, despite the noise of the dead.

“Windermere Plantigos”

“Windermere Plantigos”

Abutting a frenzy of dancing air,

Petals and leaves propel themselves still.

Potted points of oxygen emissions.

Nature dovetails with man made structures.

Breaking left and right,

Aboveish and belowish.

Invisible force,

Much like gravity,

But not as omnipresent.

A delicious chill leaks down my back and puckers my cheeks.

The time of seasonal consistency approaches its end.

Onward to the new death,

And dying things.

That somehow make it their business to appear at a later time.

“Raindrops and Tubesocks”

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“Raindrops and Tubesocks”

When I was a kid,

I enjoyed being outside in the rain.

Not directly, of course,

But, huddled in a doorway, or a shed.

Breathing dampy.

Listening to the regal pitter-pat of raindrops drumming on corrugated roofs, or the splintered plywood of makeshift forts.

Raw earth and drinking greenery would tickle my nostrils,

And car contrails of mist would space the distance according to the traffic tempo.

If you listened carefully, you would hear man-sized Tonka Trucks, pile-drivers, and the whistling sound of landing planes on final approach.

The safety of a semi-dry place during all of this,

Made me feel the good alone.

Defying nature, until it was time to return home.

When I peeled off my soiled Chuck Taylors from puddle stomping missteps.

My white socks would be ink black.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 12 – “Dappled Spectacle”

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“Dappled Spectacle”

We lived on the second floor growing up.

The sounds of neighborhood proximity danced through the screens and curtain sheers on sunny shadowed mornings.

The aliveness of the day pulled us out of our sweaty summer beds, and coaxed us out, out.

At times, our apartment felt like the sun, and we would need to escape outside to a Bunker Hill breeze.

There was one box fan for the whole apartment.

It toiled, satisfactory, but disappointing.

A dip in the Clougherty Pool, could take the sting off.

Then we’d play endless evening rituals, while our mothers squatted on park benches and smoked butts.

The Slush Guy would come ringing his bell.

Small 50¢, medium 75¢, large $1.00.

Lemon, Watermelon, Banana, or a Rainbow.

We’d haunt our mothers until they fidged quarters and moist dollar bills that smelled of tobacco from their change purses and cigarette cases.

My mother always kept her potential cigarettes in the refrigerator. She’d say, “it keeps them freshah.”

Summer nights lasted through orange-blue skies, that got further into shadow, just as the games of hide and seek would start to get good.

Then we’d hear the call.

Time to go back to the heat rising second floor walk-up.

Sweat the night, and be up all the earlier the next day, to get out into life.

A very special thank you, to the neighborhood of North Mead St. a great place to grow up, and share with so many great people. I truly miss them all, and dance with their ghosts as they wind their way through my head.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the rest.