Six Apologies, Lord by Olena Kalytiak Davis

I Have Loved My Horrible Self, Lord.
I Rose, Lord, and I Rose, Lord, And I,
Dropt. Your Requirements, Lord. ‘Spite Your Requirements, Lord,
I have Loved The Low Voltage Of The Moon, Lord,
Until There Was No Moon Intensity Left, Lord, No Moon Intensity Left
For You, Lord. I Have Loved The Frivolous, The Fleeting, The Frightful
Clouds. Lord, I Have Loved The Clouds! Do Not Forgive Me, Do Not
Forgive Me LordandLover, HarborandMaster, GuardianandBread, Do Not.
Hold Me, Lord, O, Hold Me

Accountable, Lord. I Am
Accountable. Lord.

Lord It Over Me,
Lord It Over Me, Lord. Feed Me

Hope, Lord. Feed Me
Hope, Lord, Or Break My Teeth.

Break My Teeth, Sir,

In This My Mouth.

Minnesota Thanksgiving

 

For that free Grace bringing us past great risks
& thro’ great griefs surviving to this feast
sober & still, with the children unborn and born,
among brave friends, Lord, we stand again in debt
and find ourselves in the glad position: Gratitude.

We praise our ancestors who delivered us here
within warm walls all safe, aware of music,
likely toward ample & attractive meat
with whatever accompaniment
Kate in her kind ingenuity has seen fit to devise,

and we hope—across the most strange year to come—
continually to do them and You not sufficient honour
but such as we become able to devise
out of decent or joyful conscience & thanksgiving.
Yippee!
Bless then, as Thou wilt, this wilderness board.

Covalent Bonds

Covalent Bonds
by Sunbry Fieldhat

Zane Grey slipped near the drain
losing his never to be forever balance

He was often careless like this
lost in the milieu of millennial-like
reflections on self, and life, and the careless
way he stepped, reflected the careless way he
lived

Losing touch with the ground was simply
body following mind

Inevitably and quickly
his brain case,
filled with brief wonder,
closed the gap
met the ledge

A robust stream
of blood
slipped warmly down
his neck

His girl, exasperated,
having made allowances
for his flitting mind and
inattentive hands heard the
thud but didn’t move

better to let hope rub a rush to heat
than call 911 right away


 

 

Shower and Steam by Bryson Hatfield

I’m letting it all rush over me,
each molecule
how the exasperation of
the heat rubs off
oh
and the allowance of such a thing

every complex covalent bond slipping warmly
over my skin

waiting for the inevitable

fall

and I wonder what part of them stays with me
what is with
what is without
what do i keep
what falls freely
without my knowledge.

what bit of intense connection did I lose
because I was too busy
too careless
too wrapped up in millennial narcissism

something lost in a moment
slipped forever down the grey drain


 

Visit Little Spud In The Big Apple to see the poem in its original context

1960 by Billy Collins

In the old joke,
the marriage counselor
tells the couple who never talks anymore
to go to a jazz club because at a jazz club
everyone talks during the bass solo

But of course, no one starts talking
just because of a bass solo
or any other solo for that matter.

The quieter bass solo just reveals
the people in the club
who have been talking all along,
the same ones you can hear
on some well-known recordings.

Bill Evans, for example,
who is opening a new door into the piano
while some guy chats up his date
at one of the little tables in the back.

I have listened to that album
so many times I an anticipate the moment
of his drunken laugh
as if it were a strange note in the tune.

And so, anonymous man,
you have become part of my listening,
your romance a romance lost in the past

and a reminder somehow
that each member of that trio has died since then
and maybe so have you and, sadly, maybe she.


 

This poem called to mind one of my favorite recordings (below) which has embedded in it some remarks/reaction and laughter from a lady in the audience which I feel is priceless and which I anticipate and enjoy hearing every time.  It really puts you there.  No, she wasn’t chatting up her date, but fully immersed in the experience she was having.  I especially love her laugh around the 4:18 mark, and again at the end.

 

If you wish to purchase the book this poem appears in, here is the link: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-rain-in-portugal-billy-collins/1123721806?ean=9780679644064

 

 

Wine and Vinegar

Little Spud in the Big Apple

“At the end of the day all my conscience can experience is limited to what is in my own mind,
so,
why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

penned quietly with the pads of fingers unknown to my device of primary communication,
“I can’t say that you need to care, I’m not one to always care either but I think it’s important for something deep inside.”

Letting the words steep like wine,
age with the settling dust of time,
and after years,
softly popping the cork out,
noting how the tannins have developed themselves,
and though this has taken so long in my world of words
it is nothing to the ticking seconds,
to your mind,
you have forgotten,
will more likely than not forget again
upon reading your old thoughts:

“why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

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