A Poet's Frustration

I would that my words soared, birdlike,
Not lie as muddy, quaint stains upon the page, turdlike.

Here We Go

"It’s a’comin hard now, I think. It’s just over yonder, past them trees. Round that rock, over that hill, Gamut. Gotta slow down fer the curve before the trestle."

"I know, I know."

"Let the engine go by now—that’s right. Okay, let’s go! Run, Gamut! Hurry now. Don’t stop, Gamut! Don’t drag yer boots, jump, man, jump! Up yerself aboard the jolly boxcar for our hobo ride to glory, man! We’re bound for glory—whoa! D’ya hear them drums? D’ya hear ‘em, Gamut?"

"Ow! Got m’dang spurs caught!" Gamut yelled. He caught one hand on the handle but tripped over on his back and dragged along over the rocks and brush.

"Gamut, I swear you’re the floppingest flipper I ever—git on up here! H’yar ya go, I’ll grab hold of yer belt and hoist ya up, ya damn girl. There. There y’are."

"Oww! m’arrm, m’arrm--!" Gamut whinnied and whined.

"Quitcher sqealin, y’ain’t bleedin or bonebroke, are ya?"

"M’arrm—like to twist right off, it did. N’that’s a fact. This’n’s a gonner. Gonna fall right off my body, it will."

"Gamut, yer the goldangest sissy I ever—Gamut, yer--."

"An it might not last another minute, nossir, might not—whew!--."

Furd took a look.

"Well, might, though, might. Hard t’say. Might."

Shortly thereafter the arm fell with a plop, bounced once off the boxcar floor, and flew out the door, waving goodbye.

“M’arrm’s gone,” Gamut complained. “Told ya it wouldn’t work no more.”

“Now goldern it, there ya go agin, Gamut, bein’ negative. Ya still got yer other one don’t’cha?” Don’t really need both of em, really--.”

"Psst! Hear that? D’ya hear?—ssst! Someone’s comin. I hear em on the roof. Jump, Furd! Aarrrr…!"

"Wait, hold on! T’aint nothin but a coupla rocks just fell offen a--."

Gamut jumped.

“Aw no, aw no!, now just look there at what’cha done, Gamut. Where’d ya go, man? Ya dern fool. Ya dern fool. Aw, Gamut--."

the pencil beggar

You don’t see them till you’re nearly past, these pencil beggars—
You don’t see them till you see their eyes,
You don’t see yourself there
Till something says, “Go back.”
And you stop, return, genuflect,
And make your humble offering to “the least of these, my brethren,”
And receive a blessing from your own reflection.

Insufferable

“We was sitting around jawing and somebody says what would you buy if you won the lotto,” Neils said.
“Were,” Johann corrected.
“Huh?” Neils said.
“We were sitting….” Not “We was sitting….”
“Well ‘scuse me all to hell. So I says I’d buy me a new car—big old Cadillac maybe--.”
“Said.”
“So I said—I says—dammit, Johnny, shut yer flap! I’m trying to say a story here!”
“Tell,” Johann muttered to the next table, at which sat an old lady reading. She smirked without looking up.
“Oh yeah? Well now, Mister Prissy-pants, what would you buy if you win?” Satisfied he had shifted the scrutiny, Neils sat back smugly.
“Won. I suppose I would buy a new car also.”

On Work

Work is glorious
When not laborious.

I See

I see.
I think.
I imagine.
I remember.

I cry.

The Gift

She approached, a small girl

Bearing flowers in a spring bouquet

And knocked lightly on my door.

They were for me.

But I, standing behind the door,

Said nothing, answered not,

And she went away.

Onward!

“Onward! Onward, I say. “To the heights!” Donat proclaimed.

“What heights?” Hugo questioned innocently.

Donat was taken aback. “Why,” he waved his hand broadly, “the heights, the heights of—of--.”

“Folly?” Hugo suggested.

Donat expelled his breath like a deflating balloon. He appeared unready to take another.

For a long, painful moment he regarded Hugo from under dark, furrowed brows, with utmost contempt. Such density, he thought, was the curse, always the curse of leadership.

“Well, that’s the only heights I’ve heard of,” Hugo defended.

“The point is,” Donat said with measured words, “that we must forever persevere, never quit, always apply ourselves to the task.”

He nodded after each phrase for emphasis, then sat back, pleased with his unequivocal clarity, and awaiting some sign that Hugo had at last understood.

No sign came. Hugo simply looked back at Donat. Donat regarded Hugo in a way that conveyed no communication one way or another.

Evening's shadows appeared, then lengthened across the Turkish rug's intricate red, yellow, and green filagrees. A clock ticked in the next room.

“Could we order pizza?” Hugo blinked at last.

“Let’s do it,” Donat rose, “I’m starved.”