The dark conscience shimmies its way back to
your house with a vengeance. You’ll spend some quality
time, get re-aquainted. It brings news of
your children, the things they do not/will not/cannot
share. You learn of their hearts lacerated
again and again by the blades of whatever
you neglected. You learn of their fears which
are hot wires from fallen telephone poles, hiding
in wet grass – oh, your children with bare feet.
Rubber-soled shoes are the answer and where were you
to hand them out? No matter that you tried
to combine the skills of a cobbler and a chef,
the failure is all that counts.
She came at me with her mouth
and nothing bloomed nor glistened
but the trees in sun, dull in despair
at the indifference of it all
she injected searing lava into my veins
the arch of the back
the crash of the ivory tower
would’ve sailed ships
through the stormy sea of her name
marooned on remnant’s way
what an awful night
an awe inspiring evening
where two souls become one
through hips and hot springs
coursing through the ferocious wasteland
isn’t that the passion play?
sensuality, misery, ecstasy and mystery
the almond tree blooms
only to wither away
not by natural rot
implanted by the botany of desire
but a quick nick to the roots
poison tipped- ashes of tomorrow
cooling those river springs
the course still flows
putrid acrid scent
the worst part is…
who wouldn’t want to sail through that name again?
clinging to denial and pale hope
collecting fallen lashes
each one a crucifixion from uncanny amber eyes
It’s a good day
End of February, almost winter end
My ashes in a green box.
The pastor’s Isaac sermon
is not wooden.
Almond blossom woke him up
through the open window.
My daughters and granddaughter in white,
their friends in jeans.
Success with the caterer.
The catered food is much better the
when my husband Peter died.
I did order cheap.
My family strolls
Along my boulevard ‘s awakening trees.
They sold my scooter
And the climbing gear
But I’m already peak’s air
Hanoch Guy spent his childhood and youth in Israel surrounded by citrus orchards ,water melon fields and invading sand dunes. He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English,.
Hanoch is emeritus professor of Jewish and Hebrew literature in Temple University
He has taught mentoring and poetry classes in the Musehouse center in Philly.
Hanoch has published poetry extensively the US,Israel and the UK in Genre,Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies Poetry Motel,Visions International,Voices Israel and several times in Poetica where he won an award
He has also won an award in the Mad Poets Society.
Seamless… yet, chaotic & psychotic
in their Cinzano and Martini bottle un-sobriety.
Amazon-thighed, with belt-sized skirts…
they noisily prepare to storm the battlements
of ‘Modern Day Literature’
via wailing promiscuity, drunkenness
and the trembling High Street.
‘Tis ‘Hunting Season’ most ridiculous,
Durex bullets, lipstick kissed & tossed as missiles
up & over into the un-delicate, sweating throng.
There’s a ‘Riot’ in the toilet stalls,
a ‘Witch-Hunt’ in the public bar
& a ‘Tournament Of Tears’ backstage…
crouched low & cowering
behind the Blake & Auden collections.
Boots the Chemist is out of Kleenex & Clap Lotion
for 3 Boroughs in each & every direction.
It’s simply not safe to be a Poet nowadays,
when broken fingers under ‘Clear Heels’
are your reward for composing free verse
for the Vultures, Hypocrites & Losers
then daring to publically preform your Filthy Art.
After a long silence she said,
“You’re lost all right. So lost even
Stanley couldn’t find you.”
“Stanley the plumber or Stanley the janitor?”
“The explorer, asshole. You knew what I meant.”
I didn’t reply
There was nothing to say
Besides all we shared these days was silence
After awhile she said,
“You’d like everyone to think you suffer.
That you’re a lost soul. But you know
what you are?”
She paused for effect, not really
expecting an answer,
“You’re nothing but a fuckup.”
“What would you know about souls?
Lost or otherwise. You have no soul.”
“It’s all a pose. Your Romantic Poet
pose. You could get lost in a closet.”
“Like Patty Hearst.”
“That’s sick. Really sick. You’re totally
twisted, seriously demented. Bent.”
I finished my beer
Went to the fridge
Took out a cold one
Thought, “What the hell?”
Took out two cold ones
Might as well save a few steps
It was going to be a long night
and I was lost
so lost no one
would ever find me