Finally! I worked on this one for . . . maybe four months? Still not sure I "got it right" but I tried. If nothing else, it IS the longest B-day poem for myself that I have ever written. Did a little research too where I discovered Nicolaus Copernicus. Something in common I have with a historical genius . . . sort of. So, here it is. Needed four pics to get it all in there. Anyway, Happy B-day to me! P.S. If you want to read it off the pic, you can click on it to make it larger . . . if you need to.
My right hand is cramping . . .
Septuagenarian-ism
“I’m
but a shadow
a
single moment
stretching
Its legs out
as
far as It can before
the
candle goes dark”
*Pamiątki
Alive
inside a dream, it seems. A sugar memory
a
touch, oh, that touch, I remember those scratches,
those
brutally long nails strolling between my thighs.
It’s
late, so very late, deep within a summer’s night
a
hint of sadness swirling in the dark crevasses,
a
silent moon spying on us, the sheer, white curtains
waltzing
to the sounds of a cool morning breeze
and
that crazy-ass black cat draped across
the
far end of the mattress . . . yeah, that’s
what
I recall . . .
Seventy
years . . . almost.
Can
barely see myself through the steamy mirror.
But
I’ve no desire to step from the warm shower
and
wipe my reflection dry, why should I?
Large
canyons, the cracked, waterless river beds,
the
great craters that time whittled into my face?
No
need to visually confirm the devastation,
I
know it’s there as it has always been there
like
that damn cat, watching me with its unblinking eye.
My right hand is cramping . . .
broke
it nine years ago
while
mounting my mountain bike. I swung the right
leg
over the seat a bit too manly and BAM!
over
the top of the whole damn thing,
my entire bodyweight slamming into
my entire bodyweight slamming into
the
open palm, smashing the hand I write with
into
the gravel driveway. A nervous Allsup's cashier
stuck
his head outside the double doors, “Dude!
are you alright, MAN! You hit the ground . . . hard!”
are you alright, MAN! You hit the ground . . . hard!”
Hitting
the ground . . . hard, day after day
from
the first moment gravity grabs hold.
That’s
what living is.
Formulated a model of the universe
that placed the Sun at the center
of our existence . . . the church was pissed!
during the winter months, the summer’s heat, whenever it rains.
open-handed slap to my bare ass. I still feel the bruises
every time I sit down in a hard-back chair.
disappears into the crowd:
Palm & Tarot Card divination
Rated #1 in OKC”
“Hey,
David look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Palm reading!
take it back!”
“But—’
“No! I won’t touch it!”
Knowledge of the future?
I’ve no use for it. Neither does David.
Where’s the fun in that?
I wake up, I think, my eyes open, Yes,
I think they do. The “BEEP, BEEP, BEEP,”
the coffeemaker nudges me out of bed,
on the dusty windowsill. It has no reason
or I might imitate a dying dog howling at his last train
or maybe I’ll bark at the countless ghosts that try
too hard to make me cry-out about the rude,
unforgiving nature of a nature that nurtures
youth and ignores the wisdom of that oak tree
that’s tasted time, sampled the bitterness
of each passing year
staring out the widow to the street below.
freak accident, you might, you just might
make it to the grand old age of forty.
before my seventieth birthday.
Nicolaus Copernicus, dead at 70 years old.
-By Woodie for his 70th B-day
Nicolaus
Copernicus (February 19, 1473 – May 24, 1543)
Renaissance-era
mathematician, astronomer, Spoke five
languages:
Latin, German Polish, Greek and Italian.Formulated a model of the universe
that placed the Sun at the center
of our existence . . . the church was pissed!
I
feel his ghost tap me on the shoulder.
Seventy
years old . . .er, almost.
Still
breathin’ if only barely.
The
legs still work—if only barely— but theycomplain a bitduring the winter months, the summer’s heat, whenever it rains.
The
heart still keeps the time in concert with the rhythm
that
the good nurse prompted into my DNA with her sturdyopen-handed slap to my bare ass. I still feel the bruises
every time I sit down in a hard-back chair.
@
Art Walk, April 13, 2018
A
Mystery Kid, a demon, a big smile on his gremlin face.
He
hands me a business card and then POOF!disappears into the crowd:
“YOUR
FATE IS IN YOUR HANDS
Readings
by LenaPalm & Tarot Card divination
Rated #1 in OKC”
“What is it?”
“Palm reading!
Hold the card up so I
can take a picture of it.”
“No.”
Why not?”
“Because
you won’t can take a picture of it.”
“No.”
Why not?”
take it back!”
“Yes, I will! Just hold . . .”
“NO, you won’t take it back
and
I’ll have to throw it away!”“NO, you won’t take it back
“But—’
“No! I won’t touch it!”
I’ve no use for it. Neither does David.
To me it’s like jumping to the end
of a good novel just to see
how
it all turns out. of a good novel just to see
Where’s the fun in that?
May
23, 2018
This
is THE day, “the big day”
as
my sister would say.I wake up, I think, my eyes open, Yes,
I think they do. The “BEEP, BEEP, BEEP,”
the coffeemaker nudges me out of bed,
the smell of coffee beckons me “Come drink,
come
drink me all up, all this stimulating caffeine
all
that electricity sliding down your throat.”
Dawn
waits on my consciousness
to
notice that daylight sits awkwardlyon the dusty windowsill. It has no reason
to
be hasty, to slow down or to speed up.
No
place to go. It never gets old . . .
I
may dance a bit with both broken hands
stuck
inside my robe’s dirty pockets,
my
bony legs knocking together, Dancing, YES!
Dancing
an old man’s version of an Irish jig,
a
country reel, or perhaps a Scottish strathspey!
“Oh, my!” the knees will plead, “we’re not ready
for that!”
for that!”
I
might even sing this aging morning,
my
gravelly voice crackling like rain against a tin roof, or I might imitate a dying dog howling at his last train
or maybe I’ll bark at the countless ghosts that try
too hard to make me cry-out about the rude,
unforgiving nature of a nature that nurtures
youth and ignores the wisdom of that oak tree
that’s tasted time, sampled the bitterness
of each passing year
and
has never given way to sapless tears
for its broken branches, and all those leaves
that
have fallen to their death because winter
demands that it be so if for no other reason
demands that it be so if for no other reason
than
it pleases the tyranny of the season.
Crows
gather underneath the elms outside
right before the day arrives and brightens
this
dark mood I find myself indulging in.
**Renesans
(February 19, 1543)
Copernicus
sat in his favorite, high-back chair(February 19, 1543)
staring out the widow to the street below.
In
the middle ages if you were lucky enough
to
make it passed childhood,
IF you were rich enough, healthy enough,
and
not a casualty of war or some otherfreak accident, you might, you just might
make it to the grand old age of forty.
“Fuck!”
Coper whispered to himself as he
slurped
his morning coffee and watched
the last of the plague wagons roll by. “I’m
gonna
live for fuckin’ ever.”
Nicolaus
Copernicus had a massive stroke
four
hundred, seventy-five years (minus one day) before my seventieth birthday.
Nicolaus Copernicus, dead at 70 years old.
Another
ghostly touch . . . this time
on
the back of my neck.-By Woodie for his 70th B-day
*Pamiątki = Memorabilia
** Renesans = Renaissance
