Wednesday, March 18, 2015

J.K. Durick- Three Poems


In children’s tales it’s simple enough, a deep dark
Woods, a big bad wolf, lost in one, the other huffing
And puffing, trolls and witches, evil step-mothers aplenty
In films, when Hollywood has its say, it gets a bit closer
More ghosts and the partially dead, of course, madmen
And stalkers, serial killers, dark houses and lonely roads
In reality, on the other hand, it’s complicated beyond
The cliché, the evening news, the morning paper, it knows
Well where we work and where we shop, the roads we drive
It knows our house, our various addresses, it waits and
Watches, it lets itself in, slowly creeps up on us, trips us
Traps us, calls us late at night, and knows exactly what to say.

           Dining alone

The hostess seems almost apologetic
Keeps up her chatter as she whisks
Away the other three place settings
As if solitary man won’t notice that
They planned for four and not just
One person by himself trying to make
The best of it; even the waitress looks
Over the empty places, perhaps she’s
Calculating her tip, but then recovers
Enough to look over at me and smile
My ghosts will join me soon enough
The ones I dined with so many times
Before they moved on and became
My ghosts; we’d always begin with
A couple of rounds from the bar and
Appetizers to share, then dinners we
Would all sample and complain about
Or praise as part of our ritual, there
Was more food than we could eat, and
Loud conversation accompanying it all
But now there’s not much else to say
Just order, it seems so slight, nothing
From the bar anymore, unless soda
The smallest of the three cuts steak
Sides and salad; there’s not much to
Say or to share when dining alone, no
Witty banter, or did you hear the one
About, no loud views about the food
When I eat alone I speak very softly
And my ghosts only whisper in reply.

             That Sound
The tick of rain on the air conditioner
The persistent measure of it
Like a clock, time finally going mad
Missing every other beat
A one-armed drummer drumming
A half measure playing out
The tick of rain on the air conditioner
Continuing on and on, like
House sounds, the stretching, settling
The background clicking it becomes
Or a tone deaf poet reciting a line
Without rhythm, without rhyme
Impatient fingers tapping, waiting
Dealing with another delay
Some ill-defined insect sending out
An annoying mating call
The tick of rain on the air conditioner
Counts off: one-two, one-two
Like time has gone mad ticking, tapping
Dealing with another day.

J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Camel SaloonBlack MirrorMilo Review,Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.

No comments:

Post a Comment