I write and talk too much. I write and sidekick for the nationally syndicated Weekly Rear View Radio Show. I co-host the regionally syndicated “Everybody’s Cooking” on public radio. My fourth cookbook is in the works. I just completed editing and retranslating (with the author) the war diary of a 12-year-old Bosnian poet (published in two languages in Europe and being typeset for US publication.)
When I grow up wanna to be a poet; a journalist for the soul.Ê
The Fiddler and His Lady
He made his fiddle a lady
in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub
As the drums and strums
danced the clack of Keryl’s spoons
the old men scratched their violins
But not Maguire’s lady
She cooed and sighed
as his chin so gently rested on her body
His peaceful touch drew across her
like a warm breath through hair of silk
Then the rogue Jim made her weep
til she bit us with her pain
and a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness
But he knew his lady so well
The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing
She laughed like he’d never made her grieve
Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy
who jigged on the stains of the floor
She giggled at the jests of Macguire’s bow
and the boy floated above the hardwood
his feet occasionally tapping the floor
At closing time
Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed
and locked her away
as if she only wanted to sing to him
He hugged her under his arm
protecting his rare lady from the damp chill
of the Irish summer night.
van Gogh Says
van Gogh says to God “I do not like
your gawky use of trees in your landscapes so
I made my own.
You make the starry night breathe
but do not show the dynamics except
for in creeping shadows of leaves.
You pottered a flawless conch shell
a billion years ago but
what were you doing during post impressionism?”
do they?
it’s the pebbles
that make life insurmountable
boulders
we expect
but too much gravel
we trip on
when
it’s so black all day has ceased
when life is as bleak
as bleakest jet
i lie back
look to the core
of the charcoal night
i gaze deep
into the soul
of the ancient pitch
and ask “do
the stars still shine tonite?”Ê
One Strong Wing
(for Christian)
If I had one strong wing
I could fly away
said the boy with the stolen face
Burned so bad
that death was a hope
his eyes were the only thing left beautiful
the only thing left human
All looked upon this tiny charred shell
and could not see a boy
Even his parents disavowed his once-life
now a vagueness of scars
If I had one strong wing I could fly away
I could feel the soft breeze
and not this confusion of sense
on what was once my face
Someone heard
the quiet wail
He still had no wing
but he flew 5000 miles
He flew to where surgeons
were sculptors of flesh
and potters of noses
Operation
operation
operation
etc.
They failed
to make his face a child’s
But the cleverest magician
took two toes
and made two fingers appear
on the once of a hand
If I had one strong wing
I could lift a discarded life
and make it seem mine again
But I have two near-fingers
so I cant feel anything again
anything
except my face
No Tomorrow
I have no tomorrow
but I rejoice
I know that life is but a candle flame
that can be snuffed by but a wisp
I live life as “last times”
the last time I’ll see a friend
the last time I’ll kiss my children
the last time my love and I entwine
each last time is a gift
one more gleaming chance
to hear the quiet groan of a lumbering sunrise
to sip the last drop of a melting sunset
to pocket a falling star
somewhere in the coat of your soul
I’ve seen fate
and it is but a rice paper partition
between boisterous life and voiceless death
every conversation final
make sure all is said
every question concluding
ask what you really want to know
every moment dying
cup it tight
and peek in to see the flicker
of a firelfy called life
Strings
I still hear his footsteps
They scuff slowly behind me in uncomfortable shoes
His criticisms were so matter of fact
as if they were never mentioned
but sharp praise always tasted of pride
Money couldn’t understand him
Just his presence made life an overwilling marionette
For me, my father never pulled strings
Strings were last resorts
His talk danced a circle
and a smile would cameo at the right place
All would be done
He knew I’d have to learn
to pull strings for myself
I thank him for that
Now I’m cursed to wonder:
is he pulling a few for me now?
The talk has stopped
but I hear the shoes
Time Hates Love
Time
hates love
Time
erodes the potency
of “I love you”
with each repeat
Time
steals each lovely detail from another
we burned to praise
Time
always makes “forever”
into the fattest lie
But if Time turned every word
ever spoken in love
into a hoax
it would make no difference
if somewhere
somewhen
just one kiss
were true
The Relationship
She.
He.
She, He,
She? He?
She! He!
She:He
He:She
He; She
He, She,
He.
She.
The Bubble
All of life
seemed to be in the tiny bubble
he had just blown.
His little breath gave it life
as it grew and lifted
off the wand.
A twisted rainbow danced
in the thin soap sphere
as it rose.
It glided
out a window.
It sheened in the sun.
And floated into the bluest of skies
until it vanished.
I know now for sure
it died
in a sudden burst
not far from the window.
but as a child
you could
never convince me of that.
The Day Reality Asked Dreams For a Dance
On the day Reality asked Dreams for a dance.
But Dreams declined. “You are often
crude and would step on my hopeful feet.”
Reality straightened his tie with the fate prints. “You never
take a chance. This
joyous dancefloor awaits us.
Would you let a few
sore toes get in the way
of becoming yourself?”
Dreams folded her arms. “Today yes.
Tomorrow maybe”
Reality snickered “You always talk
of tomorrow like he’ll walk in the door,
kiss your hand, and
spin you endlessly.”
Dreams turned her eyes. “He will. For I
am a passionate kiss. And you Reality,
you are but a cold fish handshake.”
Reality stretched
his neck in the stiff ivory collar. “Then I
shall dance with Yesterday.”
Dreams looked Reality straight in the eye “Yesterday
knows only one dance.”
Reality tugged his cufflinks “But
she knows it well. And once again
you’ll just sit here and watch.
Guzzling up
all the punch of Life.”
“Sipping,” murmured Dreams,
casually looking away, “slowly sipping”.
This affliction of poetry: there is no cure. It was only in remission all these years I’ve written humor on a nationally syndicated radio show. Through the numerous articles printed in Writer’s Digest Magazine where my cartoons have appeared as well. Even through the passion of writing three cookbooks. Why do we write poetry: because he have to. I thoroughly appreciate those involved with the Web poetry movement which is putting the most real of things back into our virtual world and giving us an electronic brick wall to spraypaint the graffiti of our souls.
all poems copyright 1997 by J. Kevin Wolfe. Author gives web publishing permission for free public viewing.
All rights reserved by author. One time print rights available by agreement.
J. Kevin Wolfe