RAIN DANCE

(Public domain photo courtesy http://www.public-domain-image.com/)

For Ron

You ran outside
To dance
Under the cloudburst,
Get yourself
Drenched,
Tempt the lightning.

You peeled up your T-shirt,
Pulled out the waist
of your jogging pants,
Both front and back,
To catch as much rain as you could, then
Struck a goofy ballet pose.
And you kept
Looking back at us, grinning
To please
A dry but bemused audience
Behind the store front window.

“You know, he does
No drugs or alcohol,”
Your former girlfriend said,
“He just gets like this
Naturally.”

I laughed, dismissed
The strike of
Inner lightning
Waking up the dancer
Long asleep in me,
Whose wounds no longer let him
Run out in the rain.



--© 2010 by Jack Veasey

AN OPEN READING FAUX PAS

For Stacy, whose name is not Tracy.


Last week, I got up to read –
A bounce from your poem –
And mentioned you
By the wrong name.
You corrected me
Loudly.

I don’t know
Why my mind
Won’t wrap itself
Around your name.
I’d even asked
Another friend about it
Earlier that night.
He gave me
The right name. But
The wrong name
Popped out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, people
Were waiting
For my reading.
I tried
To introduce my poem,
While you commented angrily
On everything I said.
I cut off eye contact with you;
I met the eyes of the crowd.
You got up and left
Before the poem
Started. Later,
Yet another friend
Would tell me
You did not leave
In a huff, but I found that
Hard to believe.

I’ve known you
For awhile, talked with you
Often, and should
Have known better.
But I’d been embarrassed
That I couldn’t grasp
Your name, never
Admitted it to you. I kept
Asking others about it,
But it just wouldn’t stick in my mind.
I should have just written it down;
I don’t know why I never did.

And now
The secret is exposed,
Having been blurted out
In the worst possible way,
In public even -- to embarrass you
As well as me. Worse
Than calling someone the wrong name
In bed; there’s not even
A third party involved
To mix things up!

OK, there’s a problem
With my memory, a glitch
I hope is not a glimpse
Of worse to come (my mother
Died with Alzheimer’s.)

But what I did
Was not deliberate.
Perhaps the way you handled it
Was also not a choice –
Sudden anger
Sometimes overrides
The will.

I will do what I can –
Apologize to you.

I only hope
That I remember to.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

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

ABOUT MY ABSENCE

In case anybody's been wondering, I haven't been updating my blogs because I had no internet connection for over a week. I'm back on now; things should be back to normal (for me, at least) in a couple of days. Sorry to disappear like that.

A VISIT TO YOUR MYSPACE PAGE

For Essra


Last night, I listened
To your song
About your father.
It made me smile
Sadly.

“He was always mad as hell,” you said.
I remember.
You mentioned
How handsome he was.
I remember that, too:

Dark skin
Dark hair
Dark eyes
Dark spirit --
But fiery, always
Still burning.

He told me once
That war
Was natural,
Just Nature’s way
To shave off
Excess population.
I told him I thought
That’s why some people
Were gay.
He huffed
And shrugged that off.

He always had to be right.
He had that in common
With you; that,
And a charm
That doggedly disarms
All but affection,
Even when a rough edge
Cuts.
Your philosophy, of course,
Is just the opposite of his.


I noticed that I was
High on your friends list,
Though I haven’t been in touch
In much too long,
And I was moved.

How often I forget
What is important
To attend
To what is
Merely pressing.

The passing of my own father
Was one of many things
I thought might change that.

Then, I blinked;
Years had gone by.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

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

GOOD SHEPHERD

(Bernard Plockhorst (1825-1907), The Good Shepherd

Judge not, lest ye be judged.
-- Jesus Christ, quoted in Matthew 7:1


Before you read
Your poem, you tell us
That the subject
Will be Christ,
Because He’s
Your priority.

You don’t call yourself
A “warrior for Christ,”
And yet that’s the impression
You create
Of your intention.
You seem very angry.

Your poem cites
Several Bible passages,
But, to your credit,
Mostly doesn’t try
To quote them.
You say you don’t care
If we sinners
Are offended.
“He didn’t save us
So we could be polite,”
You add. You glare
Into my eyes
As you steamroll your way
Through this part
Of your poem.

You say
You did many bad things
Back before you were saved.
You robbed
And hurt people.
It seems less
Like a confession
Than a threat –
You hurt them,
And you could hurt us.

I remember
My grandmother’s favorite
Holy card, the one
With the painting
Of Christ carrying
A lamed lamb.
Christ’s eyes
In that picture
Were gentle.

Paradoxically, I also picture
Warriors for Christ
Who killed and tortured millions
In the Inquisition --
Especially old women
Like my grandmother,
Who worked to heal the sick,
Who offered herbal cures
And helped deliver babies.
For what crimes
Were these women killed?
Well, one might say,
“God knows.”

I feel like that lamb,
Looking for a shepherd,
Seeing nothing here
Except another path
To slaughter.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

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

THE BULLFIGHT PAINTING

(Public Domain photo from animalvoice.com. The painting I describe in the poem below is not in the Public Domain, but maybe it's better to see an image of the subject that doesn't even try to prettify it.)



One of those hideous paintings you see
In a bar or a barbecue joint, that
The owner adores and paid a big fat
Price for, by a name in the industry

Some folks call “Bullfight Art.” The matador’s
In white, cape red as the bull’s blood, which we
See spread across his broad black back, set free
From veins by banderillas in each shoulder.

The cape’s a blur, trailing white lines behind
It, a nod to Impressionism. For
Art’s sake, the bull’s head lowers, aiming toward
The cape, although his tormentor’s nearby.

The man’s the center of the scene. His grace
At murdering belies his tranquil face.


--© 2010 by Jack Veasey

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

EX-TWILIGHT

Photo of sunset from orbit, taken by NASA STS-127 crew. From Wikipedia


April 30, 2010, 6:30 PM



Last day of April,
The kind of day
When evening looks like
Afternoon
To those
Slow to adjust;

As my partner and I
Pull out of
The restaurant’s dazzling
Parking lot, I say,
“It’s so nice. Why don’t we go
For a drive?”

-- Forgetting he has night work
Starting in an hour.

Back at home,
The blazing sun
Still lights up the drawn shades
That face the West.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey