R. Gene Turchin
The snow lay like an unmade bed
Tracked with the night's restless wandering.
All the beauty stolen! The sparkle
Scared with ugly wounds!
I stood by the gate and watched
The cars thrash like swimmers on the storm.
Savoring the moment of the beast,
As it drew them down.
The Sun took her warmth to
Tropic climes. Retired to a condominium
And lazed about in ambiguity
Near the pool all the day.
She left her gift
The soft blanket (if it is)
A traveler's souvenir
Picked up along the interstate
And mailed from Miami.
There was a call that begged procrastination,
So I paused a moment longer to
Scoop the snow for my lips.
(The plows would be a long time coming).
“Can't get there at all,” I cried
And hung up the phone.
Linda pulled her hat on snug
And we went out to play.
night driving on two lanes
This road, I imagine, provides
Ice cream delights for eyes that
Wander its edges restlessly while
Sunlight splashes trees in summer greens.
Passing by with quick cute glances
“Aren't the trees soo....”
“Almost like a movie sce”...ne(s) are most real”
The peripheral corner remembers and plays across dreams.
But let the night curtain fall on
Ropes of rain and thunderous crash, then
Welcome the cast...with new roles to play while
Darkness paints darkness across the (sk)eyes
Tread a cautious step, reluctant page
This script springs not from my hand
For this Road designs its own designs, I
Think a joke, to trick, fool, us all, this dark night.
My father's mind is fading away.
Hazy white wisps,
Drift above the house
In shards of smoke,
Dispersed by wind.
He dances to a spastic cadence
With feet unsure
Bound by gravity
On dry neurons that lay strewn
Like broken twigs across the lawn
Making places so easy to fall.
Words slip through slack fingers
Meanings lost in other times
While faded yellow papers coddle
Scraps of shoeboxed memories
Scrawled letters in funny shapes
A lost traveler
Wearily seeking a child's home.
And old names pitch forward,
Falling flat with faces long gone past,
Lost in fires' cloudy residue
Frail breath of life used up.
Smoke gives no substance to hold,
Only imagined pictures in the
Rising Brownian vapors
That boil up from memory.
Woman with Stroller
She rolls up the avenue the stroller extended before her,
Two boys, too close, in years
Reluctantly fill its space.
Limp, over-bleached-hair, bound severely
Fashions a ponytail
To look more girlish or
Ease the lines scratched from life thorns on her face.
The older, maybe six,
Not fastened in,
Dances beside her,
Taunting out of Control. Out of reach.
Shaved head aging him with meanness.
A small runic adornment is etched with ink at her ankle
Its meaning unknown but “it just looked, like, bad, ya know”
A limp unrolls her gait
Applying awkward angles
To her stroll
So that the tired eyes wince with each step
Not bearing the weight of life well.
She likes water sounds
Table top unit pumping water
From the base through plastic lines
To a metal water fall.
Landing with a splash on pebbles.
Says it soothes her soul.
I hear water dripping from a