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aayoung

Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

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writing

uprooted

you can sit at a table

drinking wine

palms flat to the wood

without remembering

that table was ever a tree

but my heart will never forget

it bled for you

once

asphalt nile

driving to work

sleepy eyes searching for signs

of life

rounding mount adams

on columbia parkway

asphalt nile

church of the immaculata watching over

queen’s tiara skyline

the city unfurls

buildings rising

to meet the sunlight

morning glory blossoms

in cincinnati

 

 

war by candlelight

amidst the curiosities

of my yet to be packed up

roll top desk

i found a diamond bracelet

you had given me

hiding in one of

the apothecary drawers

it reminded me immediately

how you waged

war by candlelight

instinctively i pulled the pin

on that gauche grenade

lobbing the tacky bauble

into the goose shit encircled pond

behind the house

your weaponry

is not welcome here

anymore

this house has a history

 

i put on some water for tea

then decided to mop the floors

of our new little nest

before the furniture gets carried in

before the rest of our lives happen

Murphy’s Oil Soap

water and sunshine into a bucket

carried through the echoing emptiness

of what will be

over original hardwood

placed there in 1941

i love to clean

the ritual of it

i write in my thoughts as i work

images painting themselves

into spaces around my gentle humming

spreading wet across the grain

seeing hands that mopped this floor

before me

wives husbands

fathers mothers

lovers and

put-upon teenagers

oh this house

has a history

built the year

the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor

it’s all still there

nailed down memories

layers of time entombed in wax

someone stood in that living room and heard

we dropped the bomb

we landed at Normandy

of a flag raised in Iwo-Jima

Kennedy was dead

Vietnam was a lost cause only good

for folded flags being handed to weeping mothers

Nixon was a crook

Reagan and John Lennon had been shot

the Berlin wall had fallen

i heard first steps

crying babies

crying widows

joyous laughter

say cheese

wine glasses clinking together

realizing with a smile

this floor is mine

the foundation of a family

and i will love it

then

the teapot

began to whistle

 

 

 

 

 

very much alive

this little poem

feels like poetry

has died

then it remembers

even that

is a poem

it’s very much alive

old goats

yesterday

after 108 years of enduring a curse

the cubbies won the world series

but that’s not what made it a banner day

it was because i

remembered

to forget you

The World is Ours

were i given a room

in an art gallery

i would hang giant pull-down

Rand McNally maps along the walls

the sort your fourth grade teacher pulled down

from a metal box

in front of the blackboard

depicting colorful nebulous countries

we were to learn the name and population density of

 

when you enter my exhibit

the docent would instruct you to pull down

each bob hanging from the strings

to see the works contained

 

after the maps are in place

a projection  of photographs will begin

over the man-made borders

giving faces to the humanity

contained within

 

images of people

feeding the hungry

tending to the sick

cleaning oily beaches and garbage choked rivers

opening doors

rescuing unwanted animals and humans

protesting

embracing

loving

making music

good deeds

kindness of all sorts

ending wars

 

the name of the exhibit

would simply be

The World is Ours

 

primitive

my desire becomes primitive

when i consider the way

loving him is more than emotion

it is biological

chemical

our own space on the periodic table

elemental

i want him

with the parts of me that desire

to nurse children

eat meat

wear fur

find warmth in firelight

especially when

i am beneath him

skin wet

my hands in his beard

watching the muscles ripple

from his shoulders

down his arms

certain

i could remain there

until the next ice age

trick candle

when life has taught you

all love ends

in pain

it becomes easy

to extinguish every flame

but not him

he’s my trick candle

he burns brighter

the more i try to blow

i have learned

to stop blustering

enjoy the party

and eat

the damned cake

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