You are a memory.
Like a wildflower
in the pages
of an old book,
like a monarch
hanging in a shadowbox
above the fireplace,
like a Polaroid
in an album
under the bed,
like paisley wallpaper
yellowed with smoke,
like sand between our toes
where a mountain once stood,
like an old star
in the summer nights sky.
by Doc Marek
All summer I wander the cemetery
between the fenced-in family plots
and the ornate stone mausoleums.
Occasionally I find my way to the nameless
resting in the north corner;
orphans, tucked away
a century before
in that one place where
the sod struggled to take root.
There the markers are
little more than sand;
birthdates once carved
reduced to shadow,
as if those dates
were as inconsequential
as the bones tangled
in the roots below.
I wonder if their caretakers ever came
without planting another,
or if they sneer at them, even now,
through the white fences of the
manicured family plots across the path,
convinced that, as in life,
they were destined to make better dirt.
Along the perimeter,
an overgrown pyracantha
swallowing the black
of the wrought iron fence,
so that only the speared tips stretched
from the thorned belly,
every sprig in late bloom;
fragility falling, fair petals
loosed from the branches
to which they cleaved,
spreading casually
where the headstones met the earth
as though there were some covenant
set to celebrate the value of their flesh,
so fleeting, so forgotten,
but so much more to me than
those who busied themselves
buying implied comfort
that will never delay the inevitable.
What if he comes asking?
Every now and again I pause to consider—
what? Possibility? Odds are he might come
with tempest blessings, bearing
questions of creation, divine inception, asking how
he came to be in that womb, at that time, and he will know that
we share more than consequence; what then will I do?
Answer the bleakest of his ponderings, unfiltered, uncensored,
the untruth utterances that are not fit for the moment, or
condemn him to know that all men make faults
and my faults made him.
When the time comes,
we will choose whether or not to walk the curves
of the Mobeus strip together, to rehash inches lost and gained
with each rotation, to sift through the honest sands
of hindsight; perhaps then I’ll know
whether or not to share the tale of how our lives
were one day woven, torn, and mended;
but which truths will I tell?
From the symphony of sorrow and joy colliding, it is clear
that all truths are just the sound of the innocence dying.
It comes in flashes,
blurred as the world on the other side
of stained glass;
back deck in disrepair,
untreated, crippled and rotted;
across the threshold
mound upon mound upon mound,
dog kennel buried beneath,
Rubbermaid barrel
brimful with nasty;
compost stewed in pots,
sink full with dishes, water,
and week-old potato peels—
black something steaming with fruit flies;
hallway carpeted in clothes
wet towels mildewed
on disintegrating tile;
half the living room
occupied with cabinets,
ten-year-old renovations
not yet begun;
a shag carpet path,
stained and matted with fur,
weaving through the gauntlet of the unidentifiable,
puerile trappings
frozen in the periphery
decimated by hackneyed chaos;
and beneath it all,
the petals of the lotus
crushed to potpourri—
a reminder of good
long lost.
invention
becomes
the mother of
the incandescent
in here
beneath
the hum
and rigging
all
wires
and false
senses of
places to go
invention
becomes
tired of itself
tired of reinvention
tired of movement
and political traction
invention
all folding
back in
on itself
reminding us
of history
those calm
pages
we were read
as children.
in the center
of the rug
eyes slightly
slanted
a half-sleep
a half-ringing
telephone
by the stairs
shes cold
in a thousand
hairs
while her
eyes
walk a thousand
miles
yesterday she
thought more
of herself
in the lighting
of the patio.
there is calm
amidst
the ruckus
amidst
the backbone
of her mouth
and she’ll know
more for certain
as the
ground stops
swelling.
what
can we be but
children
when all we want
can be handed over
cash still writes
the checks
that pave
our feet
over the snow.
the expression
written
on the wall
is that
the sweat
continues
its path
remains
on course
until
all the right
words
are soiled
into
the minds
of the children next
to the countertop.
are we justified
in our
methods
actions
all leaving
the dinner plates
to a feeling
of the often-misread
no we’re still
in here
as cold
as birth
as tired
as youth
notion
the breath
as it reflects
off the walls
of January.
Joshua Robert Long is an American-born poet who’s work has appeared in OTCC Magazine, AURCO Journal, Fresh Fish, and The Hogcreek Review. He has an upcoming series of poems to be featured by Spork Press and is the author of 3 books: Translating The Avenues (Walleyed Press), Mixtape (Walleyed Press), and Leaving Frost Upon the Walls, which was self-released. More information can be found on joshuarobertlong.com
A change could be a bloom
as well as a withering.
Her half‐world suspended between
two superstructures: a mystique of waxed floors
and shattered mirrors, spiderwebbed with cracks.
On the rim of her sky
were only hints of sunrise,
like goldfish swimming in ink.
No one was disturbed
by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones,
the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils,
the movements of her braid.
She bleached out herself, gradually
the way of old photographs, in a slow bath of acid:
first moles and pimples, then her shadings and face,
until nothing remained but general outlines;
a wax doll to stick pins into.
The above poem is a cento poem that experiments with lines from novels, manipulating them, and thus creating a new work of poetry. A list of the works used can be provided upon request.
I am riding the spooked horse
through a world of shadows –
In my visions,
there is nothing but ghosts
of all things.
There is another world
behind the one we live in.
Everything I see here,
is a shadow
from that world.
When I am riding,
things I see before me
disappear.
There is no more grass
or trees, skies or rocks.
When I am standing still,
I am traveling
on a horse made of bellows.
My mind does not sway like
awkward young lovers slow dancing
at their high school prom.
My mind does not run up and down
a beach like water carried by the tide.
And my mind most certainly does not
billow like a branch in the breeze.
My mind is erratic and sporadic,
It’s fantastic and its spontaneous.
It jumps from room to room,
wall to wall like electricity
it is
electric.
My attention deficit is not a disorder,
it is a way of life.
A way of life that not all can understand
but for the few that do they can’t live any other way.
Side to side, up and down but never
billowing back and forth between
hobbies, interests, goals and direction at the speed of light
hyperfocus
hyperfocus
hyperfocus.
Everything else ceases to exist until a new
fascination catches your eye.
Some take medicine to slow the brain,
but I think this defeats it’s purpose.
Attention deficit is not a disorder no,
it is a way of life that allows for
creative explosion.
