Wedo!

Well, Here's another New Year's Eve poem that I started work on, on the 28th of December. I don't know how these images pop into my head . . . but I where they go my fingers follow them, and my poetic mind translates to my digits what they perceive . . . and a poem is born, so to speak. :) Oh, the art/pic you can click on and it will enlarge . . . a bit but not as much as I would like. But do give it a try. There's something of value to be experience when you read the poem off the art/pic . . . I hope.

Wedo!

A wintery blister gathering inside the head

every limb of thought, every memory frozen,

collected and stored away in the cluttered

‘memberin’ closet. Each New Year a promise

to clean it up in there and, of course, I never do.

Thunder beneath my naked feet, tonight.

My fingers a bit age-shaky but readily,

steadily enough to hold a cup of coffee up,

toast the ending and beginning of things,

another day, another month, another year.

The grey rains on the march again

across an unbearably cold night again,

their wet hands begging at the window

for more life . . . a lathering existence . . .

a rinse . . . repeat . . . rinse, repeat, repeat . . .

repeat once more . . .

this life better than the one before.

I’m not half the man I used to be,

and honestly, I’ve never been that

half the man I used to be.

Mother would spread a luscious light-brown peanut butter

onto the white face of a Wonder Bread slice. She’d stop,

take a giant sip from her sweaty Hamm's beer, beer . . .

Beer, always by her side . . . her steadfast life companion.

And onto the strawberry jam layer . . . SLAP! SLAP!

another slice of bread on top of that and . . . Vwa-lah!

school lunch prepared, wrapped lovingly

in wax paper, stuffed into a nondescript paper bag,

motherly duties completed for the morning . . .

No gossip here, nothing this morning to stir the tongues

of other mothers, the ones whose children always look

so . . . Leave It to Beaver clean . . . wholesome . . .

bright blue jeans, t-shirts glowing spring fresh . . .

like Wonder Bread in its classic white jacket . . .

colorful balloons along its wide-white ass,

its chest a see-through cellophane vest so all

those caring mothers can see just how healthy,

how decent, how upright white bread can be.

Woodie o1-o1-19