Noel Negele- Two Poems

Tough December.

When I was younger

I had just turned eighteen

I lived for a couple of weeks with my grandmother

(Since I didn’t talk to my father then

And my mom was in Greece)

In that gloomy dark house, made of wood and red bricks

With its leaking roof

And the rain drops oozed and leaked left and right

      -Being December and all-

And we had positioned buckets

In all the areas of seepage

And we would empty them every three or four hours

Even at night, I’d regulate the alarm clock and in the absolute darkness

I’d empty them holding a candle whose flame trembled

Much like my patience

We didn’t have electricity most of the time

The state sold the electricity

And as with most things

On the expense of the poor

My grandfather had recently died,

He was a good man and funny

Died in his sleep one morning

Had a disease that didn’t hurt him

Life was kind to him on that

Like a proper lady

But my grandmother

Married to him since the age of sixteen

Hadn’t gotten used to living by herself yet

And she had become a pathetic and whining old woman

And when she was alone and wasn’t aware that I was watching

She talked to her self –

A really miserable sight

To see a crooked short little human

Ignored by life and forgotten by death

Having murmuring conversations with herself

While knitting and bleeding her fingers in the process

Because her eyesight was terrible

She also had this extreme phobia

Of thunders

And it was their time too

She would cover the mirrors

With blankets

For some reason

And slumped in bed and tremble

Even though I tried to comfort her

By saying its nothing

And even attempted to explain to her

That thunders come from the electricity

That passes through and shakes the air particles

And that the noise is mere vibrations

But things like these have no effect to the uneducated

And anyway it was too late for her to unlearn

Her habits and fears

Even if that resulted in her benefit

She also had insomnia the poor thing

And that’s why I’d buy two bottles of wine

Cheap of course

And we’d drink each night in the kitchen

Talking

And then she’d finally fall asleep

And I’d go to my room

And get hammered with the solid conviction

That I would never allow myself to get old-

Also  to endure the day passed and the one that would follow-

Life began each morning and had new torments and boredoms

To donate

The next days my grandmother would still whine about her insomnia

Even though I’d listen to her snoring till 5 in the morning

When I’d fall asleep,

Another habit of hers it was too late to take away from

One night I asked her about grandfather

And she told me stories

And told me of his final night

She said he sat in the kitchen

And crooned a poem he had written about his mother

And that he would meet her really soon

My grandmother

Yelled at him to come to bed

But my grandfather responded that she should not wait for him

Because tomorrow he would die

He was sure of it

He didn’t sleep at all that night

And at dawn he went out

And bought fruits

And a lot of strawberries that my grandmother liked so much

And he laid at 7 in the morning

And never woke again.

The worst thing was that no one ate

The fruits

Everybody was too sad to eat

I guess in an old couple

The one that dies first

Is the luckiest.

Ushtray Note

And you lean the bottle

over the empty glass

trying to fill something

but the bottle is done for.

You are more sober than drunk

and you are alone

smoking

typing away

searching companionship 

in a world with people

that are already there.

And you're left 

scratching your beard

thinking

under a sky

as empty

as everything else.