UNPROVEN IDENTITY

At the bank
On which the check was drawn,
I was forced to open an account
To cash the check.
According to society,
I don’t exist,
Although I had
My state photo ID.

I couldn’t demonstrate
That I was real –
My mere flesh
Was not enough;
My blood, not
Visible. Perhaps I should
Have cut myself.

But then, the hospital
Might not have treated me…


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

THE MOMENT CAPTURES US

(Illustration from "Old Deccan Days: Hindoo Fairy Tales, 1888)



You lost control
of the kayak,
Trying to turn it around.

I wanted a snapshot
Of the alligator,
Lounging on the log
Stuck in the center
Of the river.

The current
Was stronger
Than you were,
Which shouldn’t
Have been
A surprise.

The 8-foot gator
Turned his head,
Eyes on the camera,
Then dived
Across my lap
Into the water,
As the boat
And log
Connected. Had he lashed
His tail, he might
Have broken my neck,
The way I know
You wanted to.

The camera
Was too cheap
To catch the moment;

All I have left
Is a blur.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

“BIG” JACK

(Public domain photograph by Anna Cervova)


His eyes are watery.
Not such a surprise
Since they’re blue,
But they’re also red
At the corners,
Behind the thick glasses
With broken brown frames
Held together at one side
By bunched Scotch tape.
His V-necked t-shirt
Shows a chest
From which all hair
Has disappeared.
His guard uniform,
Long unworn,
Hangs cattycorner from him
On the outside
Of the closet door.

He sits sunken
In his yellow-green
Stuffed chair,
His black and white cat
Sacked out
On the back of it,
Fretfully drowsing in
A twitchy dream.
Old books line the shelves
Built in the wall beside him,
An assortment of odd titles:
Ancient “Advice From Heloise,”
“Word War II Chronicles.”
Collected crossword puzzles,
And “Essays of Bishop Sheen.”
From the left arm of his chair
There hangs the cord,
With red light, of
A heating pad. His wife
Will have to watch in case
It starts to smoke, or so
She likes to say.
Him, she no longer watches,
Though he smokes a lot
These days; the doctor says,
“just let him go. It’s too late now.”


He looks at, and past,
The TV where the blurry picture rolls,
For scenes he remembers
More vividly than the last hour.
His cousin the priest
Will come later
To hear his confession.

His son, who towers over him,
Now knows
That hanging on
Will hold him here;
He overheard
The hospice lady
Tell him so.
He suspects this time will be
Their final visit.

Like the doctor said,
“just let him go.”

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey



(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

QUALIFIED

(Public domain image from Tango Desktop project)



Your sneer
Lights up the room.
Sadly, nobody
Knew to wear sunscreen.
It would have helped
Had someone cried,
“Hey, here comes
Cancer.”

You take a situation over
Without notice, or perhaps I should say
“Warning.” Nobody else could speak
Without some haughty
Comment from the stolen seat
Where you roost
Near the front of the room.

Now the rest of the game –
For you it is a game, if not
For anybody else –
Will be your turn.
All other turns
Were cancelled
At the moment you arrived.

Your rant is full of references
To the Old Testament.
You talk about it
Like it’s history;
You cite deeds of its characters
As if they’re facts
We share as common knowledge.
You offer no proof
Of your contentions;
You act like
No proof is needed.
All anyone should need
Is your pronouncement;
Your pronouncement
Makes things so.
How like the God of the Old Testament!

Somebody with eyes to see
Catches the rest of what goes on,
The subtler part
That many people miss (though
Everybody
Feels affected by it).
The dark and boiling cloud
That gathers just above your head,
The little lightning bolts
That strike at members
Of the audience.
A person with a nose for news
Can sense a tang
Of sulfur in the air.

Your intention is
To shrink the rest of us,
Leave us diminished
In the presence of
Your vast hostility.
But you’d snicker
Should somebody point this out.
That is the hidden center
Of your message:
That you’re so much better than the rest of us.

Hell would be an eternity
Of lectures
Like this one.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )