Archive for February, 2013

February 25, 2013

poem

by jhon baker

god, or somebody,

bless

him

 

I take the doctors pink and white pills

and the blue/green one

with water before bed and

again when I wake up

everyday

and, supposedly,

they keep me sane and stable.

 

it’s not pleasant to die on the cross

or in back alleys and one way streets.

 

when I’m sick I swallow vitamins

and drink a lot of orange juice.

it helps.

and my hair doesn’t fall out

any faster then the approaching middle age.

I do not have cancer

though I smoke a pack a day.

 

It’s not charming to be awoken after dying

without permissions from the dead.

 

yesterday I spent an

inordinate amount of time in bed

for no reason

and had a lot of dreams,

none of which I remember now.

life, is boring – Henry says

and friends, I believe him

 

 

– Hoc Scripsi

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February 20, 2013

writing about love

by jhon baker

my son tells me that when I run out of ideas

to write about love –

and if I’ve written about love before

it should be easy –

I suppose it should –

but it rarely is.

 

some of the hardest poems I’ve written

were about love –

filial love, sexual love, bonded love,

platonic love, Greek love,

love of self or of youth, of beauty

of women or men

woman or man.

 

all I ever write about is love

in one form or another

and sometimes, I guess,

it is easy.

though you would never know it.

 

 

– Hoc Scripsi

February 14, 2013

sitting down to write a love poem

by jhon baker

 

 

do you know how hard it is

to sit down and write a love poem

without it coming out sentimental drivel.

I want to know who you were

who you are now

and who you will be,

your history fascinates me.

as does tomorrow.

today I am with you

and glad of it.

 

 

– Hoc Scripsi

February 12, 2013

Sylvia – parts 1 and 2

by jhon baker

Sylvia part 1

I listen to your voice,
late November,

reliving a moment long
worn away by time’s
passing
and memory.

did you mean to see it out,
taste of poison
fruits? or come
back.
all questions lingering
and a scar,
a very real scar,
traces round our heart,

I’ll show you if you come to see.
no charge,
no heart beats like ours

out of the ash, we sift
and sift, but find
no more

no phoenix burning
the midnight air.

 

Suicide – Sylvia part two

February, 11 2013
you are gone today
fifty years gone
left,
without a word
after
a lifetime of words
each neatly arranged
each carefully reviewed
a life meticulously considered
but
you no longer suffer
and
your pain ended

I wonder what your last words were
who they were to
a goodbye and kissing your children
perhaps
a goodbye and that is all

how are we to mourn
each passing hour
is a passing day
and this just another
poem
about your death
which you couldn’t write
anymore

you staggered
and saw it out
confessional until the last
asleep
on a pillow
the sun rising to meet its
worshiper.

 

– Hoc Scripsi

February 11, 2013

mundane details of a life – part two

by jhon baker

I have to mail out a few letters

in the morning –

one to a banker that

I forgot to mail this morning,

one to a friend who doesn’t write back often

and some submissions with SASE all ready for

rejection.

 

all this makes me think

of how I miss adjusting the carburetor

in the driveway nearly everyday

so the car would run well enough

to get me to and from work waiting tables

at some chain restaurant on the verge of going bankrupt

where they didn’t care if you shaved that day or not

and most days I didn’t shave and smelled like gasoline

and used oil.

 

I eventually grew a beard so I wouldn’t have to shave at all

and quit the restaurant for less demeaning work

elsewhere but never found any

just more jobs and surviving

just over broke

renting rooms or couches

or spending late nights at doughnut shops

so I wouldn’t have to go anywhere

and those places never close

even though they had locks on all the doors.

 

but today I have to make sure that I mail

out these letters and that one to the banker

about bond funds and such

these are things I don’t really pay attention to

–       at least not yet

and my car is fuel injected and almost new

and my son asks me

if I regret anything in life – he’s nine –

and I don’t know what to tell him.

 

 

 

– Hoc Scripsi

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