Anecdote

“All The World’s A Stage”

“All The World’s A Stage”

The funny part about Saturday morning ballet?

Not the pink stretch of leotards.

Not the lobby antics of children just emerging toddlerhood.

Not the eleventh hour rush to the bathroom necessitating the peeling off of pink leotards, despite the sincere queries in advance designed to avoid such calamity

But, rather the stories . The stories from oversharing mothers.

An inescapable drone.

Not the ones that prattle on about their exceptional children.

No, in fact, the blessed mothers who prattle on about themselves, and regard all within earshot as caring listeners.

Which we are clearly not.

A truly captive audience.

For instance, on this particular morning, the performance (and it is a performance) entails a detailed account of living life with the affliction of rosacea.

Too much information is an understatement.

Everything from checking account balance, to birth control status, to dietary habits, to carnal preferences that cause flare ups of said condition.

The collective we, know more about this woman than ancestry.com

And being captive, I became a sponge and absorbed it.

Then, somewhere between Pliés and Tendus, she took a breath, and I experienced her face in vulnerability.

The veil had been lifted, and I saw her for the first time.

Her voice lost its droning tone, and I heard between the lines.

I can’t speak for the collective we, but I heard an isolation of loneliness on the edges.

A loneliness that made me lonely as well.

I wondered if she had a best friend, or if her husband listened at all.

Did he throw in the towel and busy himself with other things?

I learned more than I care to know about rosacea.

And about a great many things of which I did not know about someone I didn’t know well at all.

And as I drifted from being present back into the fold of the group,

I became complacent within myself, and heard the drone again.

The doors opened, our kids came out.

We dressed them and then headed for the exit.

I saw the woman and her daughter at the elevator waiting area.

I smiled as warmly as I could.

She held her daughter’s hand for life.

There were tears at the back of her eyes.

You never know how hard living lonely lonesome can be until you walk a mile in someone else’s ballet slippers.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry

POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 19: “GLORY HOLE 71”

Photo Courtesy of E. Vickery

“Glory Hole 71”

Don’t know what’s more surprising?

That there is such a thing as Glory Hole 71, or that it is implied at the very least, that there are 70 other glory holes.

Of course, I’ve heard of such things, but I never knew they were numbered.

It might be useful to have a Glory Hole numbered.

At bare minimum, if you were trying to keep track of things, it could be helpful.

Why is glory commodified, and why is it distributed at numbered holes?

Who benefits?

Can a Glory Hole ever be filled?

Or does it just remain open?

These are the things I consider when I contemplate all 71 Glory Holes.

G-L-O-R-Y, H!

Glory Hole 71, somewhere near the Bermuda Triangle, perhaps somewhere adjacent to 70 other Glory Holes.

It’s enough to make you wonder.

Poems · poetry

“Falling Angel”

“Upper Deck” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Falling Angel”

Sometimes I have a fear of great heights.

Or, more accurately, a fear of falling from great heights.

Or, more accurately, a fear of dying from falling from great heights.

Sometimes.

Dizzying vertigo, upward and further go,

Into the clouds.

Breathing breeds sobriety,

Side effects include anxiety.

Descending the birth canal,

Into a endless free fall.

Death is just another landing point.

Poems · poetry

“Just Is”

“Above bored” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2018

“Just Is”

The fabric of reality rests on the perception of a fine line.

This perception shifts-shifts.

Ambiguous pluralities abound the spheres.

No quarter for rest-rest.

Anxieties infect a normative mind.

Daydream dreams exist-exist.

Until the senses fail in time.

Doubts sustained persist-persist.

History repeats itself.

A narrative of defeats-defeats.

An ego driven wandering.

Weary soldiers pondering.

A dearth of hope prolonging,

Inevitable demise-demise.

40/40 Poetry Project · Poems · poetry · Uncategorized

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 36 – “Collective Angst”

“Collective Angst”

Standing backwards on a forward moving bus.

Time traveling.

The slack- jawed tension of the mob hangs on every blank face.

There are no dreams to be had on this bus,

None.

Just motion sickness and disappointment.

There’s no telling when we arrive at the terminal,

But it’s certain that it will be the last stop.

40/40 Poetry Project · Poems · poetry

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 22– “Tearing Up”

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“Tearing Up”

A thoughtful mystery unravels itself within a dirty ashtray.

Dozens of mouths and lips suck the filtered marrow of tobacco magic.

Sin after sin is displaced by denial.

They say to use the right tool for a job.

Staring at the runners and wondering why they can’t clear the hurdles.

Distance or height?

Or perhaps, they are staggered out improperly, only at intervals that would guarantee defeat.

Someone needs to set those hurdles up,

all in a row.

A race towards a tomorrow, that when reached in the present, will only be lamented for the regretted past it will become.

Burn, a blazing burn.

Stars that go quiet, must go through a period of fierce interest and catastrophe.

Then the science is applied, and sold along-side other things.

Poems · poetry

“Semantics”

“Semantics”

If there was a word to describe the you of you, I’d write it down with earnestness.

So I could, underline and italicize it.

There would be a place to point, an origin.

Words are born of the necessity to term things.

Terming the you of you proves difficult.

What would be the word that terms a word that is unable to be termed?

Insert your name here____________.

An antonym, a cinnamon synonym.

Metaphorical simile, hard to see.

Albeit, being.

Definition, high.

Confounded by the mystery,

inexplicable novelty.

A word for the you of you,

seems fleeting.

Yet, worth pursuit.

When I dream the dream of that word,

the you of you appears.

Poems · poetry

“A Storm Is Coming”

“A Storm Is Coming”

Building and building,

we wait.

Warnings issued,

preparations.

Some, don’t listen,

and carry on.

Others, don’t believe the weatherman,

despite the evidence.

Rain could wet their clothes,

and they would deny it’s rain.

You can’t change people like that.

Self-destructive nihilists,

want to see the world burn,

so they could say they told you it would.

Reality is not their thing,

The world is flat.

America is great.

The news is fake.

I didn’t say that.

Absofuckinglutely, ridiculous!

Poems · poetry

“My Tired”

“My Tired”

My tired stretches outward, and underwhelms.

Staunch narcoleptics, snoring pots and pans to beat the band.

Slumber robs youth of steady confidence.

Methodical metronome,

cadence of an old age home,

waiting to retire.

Sweaty yellow pillowcases carry the weight of the world.

Quiet, tenderest of moments, forgotten when memories are remembered.

Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.

Lost, recovered? Abruptly.

Dream-weaving steampunk.

Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.

Deep oscillating breath,

skirts the breadth of death.