POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 12: “Day In Day Out”

“Day In Day Out” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2018

“Day In Day Out”

If I paddled upstream,

I would remain in place.

Everlasting lines at the grocery,

Folks fighting tooth and nail over clipped coupons.

The is no clear cut winner in that scenario despite whomever wins.

Facebook comments are often misleading and misinformed.

Ranting and raving is rewarded with a higher blood pressure.

Some salad bars are filthy.

The sneeze guard is filthiest.

That is of course, until you pick up tongs that may or may not have fell on the floor.

Day in day out, disappointment looms large.

I remain impressed by how bad it can get, and how quickly that can happen.

And then, somehow, I remember everything I forgot

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“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.

“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.

“It Always Hurt Me To See My Mother Cry”

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“It Always Hurt Me To See My Mother Cry”

 

It always hurt me to see my mother cry.

 

I remember in early childhood, there being instances.

Like that time when I was in the third grade,

and she was lunch mother at school.

Somehow the hospital was able to notify her that my grandmother had died after a prolonged struggle with breast cancer.

She must have been brought to the office on the second floor to receive the news.

I remember her coming down the maroon staircase,

floating on grief, red and runny from the emotions.

My stomach sank.

 

I remember in later childhood, there being instances.

Like that time in the seventh grade, when we moved from my second floor childhood apartment.

My parents were packing like gangbusters, and my father was in the basement.

My mother leaned over the back stairs and shouted down into the abyss to get my father’s attention.

Forgetting her surroundings, she sprang back up, but not without smashing her skull on the decorative wooden stairwell stalactite.

I heard the bang from three rooms and a long hallway away.

It least is seemed a long hallway away, to an adolescent boy.

Cringing in the darkness, aware of the flash of pain she suffered and the anxiety surrounding the impending move, amidst a sea of trailing sobs.

 

I remember as a young college-aged adult, there being instances.

Like that time as a freshman in college, when my grandfather died.

Watching her at the funeral, linked arm and arm with her older brother,

as they walked behind a flag draped coffin, and the music medley of “Eagle’s Wings”, the “Marine Corp Hymn”, and “Danny Boy” played.

The tears rolled violently and syncopated sobs echoed up into the abandoned balcony, hanging in a hushed choir of hyperventilating breaths.

I remained stoic outwardly, but disarmed inwardly by her display.

 

It is odd for me now, so many years later, to reflect on the trail of tears that defined my mother’s pain, but also allowed for me to see a more human side of her personality.

There was certainly a cleansing quality to those instances all the way up and down my early life.

 

There were times when I wished that I could have spared her that pain.

 

But, having experienced what I’ve experienced in my life, I recognize the magnificent importance of sorrow, and its presence in our lives.

And, upon further reflection, I truly appreciate the balance and value it provides to our souls.

“I Would Rather Be A Mystic”

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“I Would Rather Be A Mystic”

In a world of vanity,

I would rather be a mystic.

Deranged politicians espouse morality while acting immorally.

Intellectuals are derided for pursuing knowledge,

And uneducated citizens take exception to discourse.

The asylum is being run by the inmates,

And apathy grows prominent by the minute.

Human blight, cheering on the failure of progress.

Twisted hearts hate for hate’s sake.

The truth is right there at the end of our noses,

But the comfort provided by cowardice Trumps reason.

Grow up!

If you keep going left and right,

You will be traveling in a circle.

Immobilized.