Poetry For People / My Stuff
I have a diary!
In fact, I have several. As I was going through my drawers, (still cleaning out–getting those pictures organized), I found all these notebooks that I had been writing in. Actually, one, looks like an official diary. It has a rich, brown, leather cover with a strap and snap button on top, with thick, vanilla, lined paper inside. It’s nice and I don’t remember getting it, but my daughter wants to have it badly.
At any rate, I must have used it for something because there were some things written, and one thing that I thought was pretty good.
So here it is, posted just as I wrosted (That was a deliberate misspell) No title, as usual:
—————————————————————————————————————————–
And now I must go to bed
and dream of wild men.
And in the morning I am going to
put curls in my hair.
I didn’t know how the story ended.
Middle of the bed
Middle of the balcony
In a huge apartment
On the floor;
I will bet that you can’t remember
even half of it.
If you would dance with me
If you would lay with me
There was rain and we had rain
There was a jungle that you ran through
You were always chasing me
in the dark.
I could never get away.
Poetry For People / The Famous Stuff
This is the second poem in my “Icarus” trilogy. Finally. Click HERE to see the first one. Then take a look at the one below.
Icarus by Edward Field
Only the feathers floating around the hat
Showed that anything more spectacular had occurred
Than the usual drowning. The police preferred to ignore
The confusing aspects of the case,
And the witnesses ran off to a gang war.
So the report filed and forgotten in the archives read simply
“Drowned,” but it was wrong: Icarus
Had swum away, coming at last to the city
Where he rented a house and tended the garden.
——————————
“That nice Mr. Hicks” the neighbors called him,
Never dreaming that the gray, respectable suit
Concealed arms that had controlled huge wings
Nor that those sad, defeated eyes had once
Compelled the sun. And had he told them
They would have answered with a shocked, uncomprehending stare
No, he could not disturb their neat front yards;
Yet all his books insisted that this was a horrible mistake:
What was he doing aging in a suburb?
Can the genius of the hero fall
To the middling stature of the merely talented?
——————————
And nightly Icarus probes his wound
And daily in his workshop, curtains carefully drawn,
Constructs small wings and tries to fly
To the lighting fixture on the ceiling:
Fails every time and hates himself for trying.
——————————
He had thought himself a hero, had acted heroically,
And dreamt of his fall, the tragic fall of the hero;
But now rides commuter trains,
Serves on various committees,
And wishes he had drowned.
just shy of pretty 