Screw Iowa! - Poet's Corner

I had two of my poems, Darkness & Snow, published in the Poet's Corner of Screw Iowa! yesterday.  These are my first poems that I have submitted anywhere and am happy that they were accepted on the first try.

DOPPELGANGER

I don’t know where these hands came from, but they’re not mine.  My hands were young and strong and smooth like finely crafted tools.  These hands are not mine.

Whose eyes are those?  They struggle to see their own reflection.  Surrounded by creases and folds their fading irises are shallow and dry.  I had dark eyes that glimmered and saw life everywhere.  How does one steal someone’s eyes?

Those legs, brittle and shaky, like a parasite you were drawn to my body.  I have no strength for that withered pair.  Bring back my limbs!  When I was alone they carried me to friends.  When I was with friends they danced.  Oh, how they danced.  Cowards!  They escaped and let these shams take their place.

Hair?  Dejected and depressed by the constant gray you abandoned me and left the ground infertile.  No fraud even desires to take your place.  I hope you find color and hope wherever you are.

This heart.  This heart is mine.  It pounds weakly because it’s alone.  The sole survivor, but it is mine.  It weeps for the loss but it fights on.  Slow down heart you have only yourself to support. Stay calm.  That’s it.  Rest.


Daybreak

Cloudy morning.
Clouded mind.
Gray on gray.
Mist refined.
Sun breaks through.
Warm and kind.
Green on blue.
Night resigned.

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Pish Posh

"Pish Posh" She said

"Tell me you didn't just say that!" I said

"I know it's such a 'momism' isn't it?"

"Totally. I'm all, are you like sure he's coming and you're all 'Pish Posh'. What's up with that?"

"I kmowww, right. Sometimes I think I'm like a total nerd or something."

It was at that precise moment that the very earth beneath her feet could take no more of this pointless chatter and swallowed her whole like a piece of spaghetti being slurped off the fork of an uncouth child.

Subliminal

Life can throw a lot of curves.
Open your mind and focus and the lines straighten out.
Visualize what is important.
Exercise and strengthen your heart.

Youth lasts but for a moment.
Old age has only one alternative.
Understanding how to transition is key.
Reduce your baggage and hold onto the joys.
Shed the weight of the world.
Evoke happiness to those around you.
Laugh every day through sickness and health.
Find the secret to happiness in these words.

Warm peace

Sun, hot on the deck. 
Dogs bake thinning fur and pant. 
Serenity shines

Pigs on Rails

Cary Wilson’s house, a shack really, sat on a forgotten piece of land surrounded by overgrown shrubs and an occasional scraggly tree. Any rich soil that may have existed in the area had long since been washed away and carried down a small ravine that winded its way into other tributaries that led, eventually, to the Missouri river. The remaining plant life battled for limited nutrients and clung to the clay and sand that remained like misers in a field of fool’s gold.

His home had once been a roadside stand selling fireworks imported from China, back in a day when the small road that bordered the plot had been a main thoroughfare. With the construction of an eight lane highway to the north, the smaller road was seldom used, had been ignored by the states road repair budget and the potholes were winning the war against the blacktop.

Still, Cary didn’t mind the quiet solitude and the house, in spite of the absence of any charm, was his and the roof barely leaked even in a strong storm. He had lived there since his parents died forty years earlier and had left him a small stash of money. He had pooled their nest egg with his own meager savings and bought this tiny place bounded by the road on one side and the rails on the other from a fat, red-necked man who was moving out east.

Cary once held a job as janitor for the high school in town where he worked until he was sixty five. He drove his old, red pickup to town five days a week for twenty two years until he retired. The school threw him a small party on his last day with a cake and soda in big bottles. He took the leftover cake home and finished it for breakfast the next day.

Soon after retiring his truck’s engine gave out. It was the only vehicle he had ever owned and he could not bear to part with it. Getting a new truck was too expensive, he left the truck parked near the road where savage rust took its toll and dripped mineral rich water onto the weeds beneath it allowing them to flourish. Some days he would go out and just sit in the driver’s seat with the doors and windows closed and just enjoy the quiet confinement of his old friend.

It was a Sunday four weeks before his 70th birthday that the man from the state came to see him. He was a proper looking man with a tan that you only get from a salon and a haircut that had more layers than Cary could count. Three cell phones were strapped to the man’s belt and one choked out a distracting “Ping” every couple of minutes.

Cary generally had very few visitors beyond the postman who only came a couple times a week and often came in the afternoon while he took his daily constitutional along the railroad tracks. So, when the government man pulled up in his shiny, forest green convertible it was an event of some magnitude.
“Morning!” The man called out as he walked gingerly from his car toward the small porch that Cary sat on enjoying the sun.

Cary thought that he looked like a tribal dancer that he had seen in National Geographic as the man hopped from one clump of grass to the next in an effort to keep his fancy shoes clean. Of course Cary had never been out of the state and had never seen a tribal dancer in person, but it made him chuckle at the thought anyways.

“Morning.” Cary said watching the man complete his dance.

“I’m from the state board of special projects. Can I talk with you?”

“I reckon you already are.” Cary said thinking himself very clever.

“Right you are.” The man said with a broad gracious grin. “You are Cary Wilson?” The man asked.

“Yep”

“I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Wilson, that we, that is to say, the state is looking to build an airport down a piece from here and your place here is right about at the end of the runway.”

“An airport?” Cary asked, genuinely confused.

“Yes, that’s right. You must have received the letter?” The man asked.

“I s’pose I’d remember a letter like that if I got one.”

“Yes, I guess you would. I do apologize for that.” He said taking another step towards the tiny porch.

“I don’t want an airport ‘round here. I’ve already got the tracks there.” Cary said nodding towards the steel lines at the edge of his property.

“Yes. Well those tracks will be coming out, they’re closing that whole line down and putting in quite a large airport. You must have heard about that?”

“No, but I don’t have no TV.” Cary said as he turned his head to look longingly at the tracks. He spent so many afternoons following along the path laid out by the railroad. A path that never varied no matter how fast or slow he walked, solid and constant. He’d walk one direction one day and the other way the next. He spent countless evenings sitting in a lawn chair watching the freight cars pound their way down the tracks. He would imagine what was in the cars and would imagine the places they were going and he would imagine being a pig in one of the cattle cars staring through slats, watching the world fly by and not knowing their destination. He couldn’t imagine a life without those tracks.

“I see. Well, this is awkward. I’m here to make you an offer on this land. It’s really quite a generous offer. You could buy another place and have money left to take a nice trip or something.” The man said showing perfect teeth in a broad smile.

“You want to buy this place?” Cary said looking over the pitiful grounds that sprawled out before him.

“Yes, yes. This land and all the other land around here. Though most of the land around here belongs to a developer and…

“What if I don’t want to sell?” Cary interrupted the man.

“It is a generous offer, believe me. It will make you quite comfortable. Truly, your ship has come in.”

“But what if…”

“If you don’t take the offer then the state will use their eminent domain rights to this land and they will move you off anyways.” The man blurted out impatiently, no longer smiling.

“So, it’s a good offer?”

“Yes, yes quite good.” The man said finding his smile again.

Cary thought about taking the money and using it to travel to places he had only dreamt of. He could go to St. Louis or Chicago, maybe even Paris. Paris had always sounded so far away and different. People wearing berets and speaking their gentle gibberish while their poodles stood proudly at their feet, it was something he had always wanted to see.

He signed the papers that day and two weeks later a certified letter brought him a check for the full amount minus the taxes. A tidy sum for this dump. Cary thought, standing on his tiny porch looking over the sad piece of clay that he just sold.

Six weeks later he gathered his meager possessions and packed them into a few boxes. He carried the boxes to the road and waited for the cab he called. As he waited he looked down the long, straight road that came to a point on the horizon. He could see the enormous trucks entering and exiting the construction site where the airport was already underway. A pickup truck with an orange flashing light on its roof barreled down the road towards him. He was startled when the truck slowed and turned right onto the short path leading to his old house. The trucks’ driver, wearing a helmet the same color as the flashing light, nodded at Cary as they went by. Part of him wanted to follow the truck and see what they were doing on his property. But he remembered that it was no longer his property and he could now see his cab making its’ way down the old road to take him away to new adventures unknown. A week earlier he had watched as the last train unceremoniously creaked down the old tracks headed for its unknown destination never to return. There’s no going back now. He thought as he looked back toward the old tracks one last time.

The cab pulled up onto the gravel shoulder and came to a grinding stop a few feet from Cary. The driver spoke very little English. I guess I should get used to that. Cary thought considering his plans to travel abroad. They arrived in town and he stored his shabby boxes in a storage facility, put the key on a string and placed it around his neck. Next he cashed the check and proceeded down the street to a travel agent.

“I reckon Paris is nice this time of year.” Cary said, doing his best to sound worldly.

“Well, anytime of the year is nice in Paris.” The agent said.

He sifted through the many catalogs of trips to Europe; the train excursions, the river cruises and bus tours. He made up his mind that a bus tour would let him see the most. To the surprise of the agent, he paid for the whole trip right there in the office with cash.

He had a week until his adventure started, so he booked himself a modest room at a backstreet hotel in town. He spent the rest of the day marveling at the variety of channels on the television. He had a television once, but the small antennae on his roof and his remote location only allowed him to receive a couple of cloudy stations. So, when it died without warning one day he didn’t really miss it much.

By dinner time he was exhausted from staring at the steady glow of cable TV. He went to a small diner next to the hotel and sat down in a booth by the window. He stared out the window and watched the occasional passerby and considered his trip. He thought about seeing the Eiffel tower and flying in a plane.

“Can I get you something honey?” An older waitress with ketchup stains on her apron interrupted his thoughts.

“I reckon you can.” Cary said fumbling with the greasy menu. “I’ll just have a burger.”

“You want fries with that sweetie?” She said dutifully writing his order on her yellowed pad.

“Fries? Yes! French fries!” Cary responded smiling to himself. He thought about having fries from their native country.

He ate his meal in silence watching the sun set over the small buildings in town. A tow truck growled down the nearly empty streets and it sparked a thought in Cary’s head. His heart began to race as he worried about what would happen to his truck. In all of the planning and hustling he had not considered his truck. He had to go back and at least say good bye.

“Can I get you some dessert dear?” The waitress offered.

“No, I got somewhere to go.” Cary said; put a twenty dollar bill on the table and left.

He considered going back to the hotel first but decided just to head directly to his house. When he was younger he would sometimes make the long walk from his house into town. But that was a long time ago and halfway back to the piece of land that he just sold he found that he was getting very tired.
The spring’s evening air cooled as the sun completed its’ descent over the horizon and the shadows disappeared. He wished that he had gotten his jacket from the hotel but it was too far to go back now.

The long road that led to his house had very few streetlights so soon he was walking in the darkness of a moonless night. The wind picked up and he pulled his hand from the warmth of his pockets and crossed his arms to keep his body warm.

As he passed the construction site of the airport he could see the dark silhouettes of the giant machines looming in the distance like prehistoric monsters waiting for unsuspecting prey. A mist carried by the increasing wind began to slap him in the face and he forced his old legs to pick up their pace.
Finally he arrived at his beloved plot. He walked up to what had been his home and saw that the door had been nailed shut and a notice had been posted in its’ middle. The mist turned quickly into a pounding rain so he didn’t bother reading the notice. He moved quickly to where his old truck sat rusting amongst the tall weeds. He pulled hard on the handle once, twice and a third time until the door opened with the screaming creak of old age. Cary sat on the deteriorating seat and pulled the door shut with another squeal and a comforting thud.

The inside of the truck seemed all at once quiet and peaceful. The rain turned from a torment to a relaxing patter against the thick metal of the ancient vehicle. He leaned over against the heavy door, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small spiral pad of paper with a pen penetrating the spiral coil. He pulled out the pen and flipped open the pad. He carried the pad around with him on his walks and would sometimes write down something interesting he saw or would draw a picture that struck him at that moment. It was something his father had always done and Cary picked up the habit long ago.

The first pages had gotten wet through his pocket and the running ink had turned a picture of a poodle wearing a beret into something that looked more like frog displaying a knowing grin. Cary shook his head, tore the page out and placed it on the seat next to him. He skipped down several pages until he got to a blank page. With a click of the pen he began to write a note.

The rain continued through the night and into the morning. When the maid found that Cary had not slept in his room in the small hotel she became worried about the sweet older gentleman and told the front desk clerk what she had discovered. Standing at the counter waiting to checkout of the hotel was the man who worked for the state wearing an impeccable grey suit with a yellow power tie. “Excuse me.” The government man interrupted. “Is that Mr. Wilson, Cary Wilson that you’re talking about?”

“Yes it is.” Said the maid.

The man in the gray suit ran his hand through his manicured hair and shook his head. “I think I know where he is. The damned fool.” He said, carefully setting his hair back into place. “Can you call me a cab?”

The taxi arrived and the man from the state board of special projects explained where he wanted to go. The driver, who spoke very little English, remembered the location from the morning before. They traveled in silence, the man in the gray suit and the driver with a name too long to fit on his license. The sun burned its’ way through the clouds as they left town and headed down the long rambling road. They passed the airport construction site, now busy with tattooed workers clearing the thickets and digging into the clay making room for shiny buildings and runways.

They arrived at the old Wilson estate; the government man told the cabbie to wait for him while he looked around and got out of the car with a sigh. He walked up to the house and saw that the nails in the door were intact and he observed the sign on the door. For a moment he thought that he had been wrong and had made the trip for nothing. Then he noticed the truck sitting idle on the far side of the plot, the chrome grill somehow still gleaming in the sunlight amidst the rusted frame.

He walked gingerly across the land performing his dance, saving his leather shoes from the muddiest spots. As he neared the truck he could see Cary sitting in the driver’s seat, at peace. Once at the truck he tapped on the drivers’ side window, but there was no response. He pulled on the heavy door open and with a squeal less pronounced than the night before, it opened. Cary didn’t move and the man with mud on his imported leather shoes could see that he was not breathing.

He looked at the dead man and then to the cab and then back at the corpse again sitting peacefully in the truck. He was uncertain what to do next. The rain and all must have been too much for the old guy’s ticker. The government man surmised. Then he noticed the paper resting on Cary’s chest. He reached into the truck and carefully lifted the paper by a corner to read it.

There was nothing in the state board of special projects field guide that explained how to handle a situation like this. But something in his heart told him what he needed to do.

Four days later Cary Wilson was laid to rest, seated in his truck and buried right where it had been resting for so many years. All according to the final requests he had written on the paper from the spiral notepad.

The service was short and was delivered to a small gathering consisting of a man from the state board of special projects, a cabbie who understood very little English, a hotel maid and a travel agent.
At the end of the long runway there’s a pile of rocks and a small cross and from that spot you can look up and watch the planes fly overhead carrying passengers staring through slats, watching the world fly by confident in their flight plan but not really knowing their destinations.

Dark Limerick

Darkness fell upon his cold eyes
His mourning wife wails and cries
No casket was gotten
His body now rotten
He is valued as a feeder for flies

Mid-tone Limerick

A blue so deep the bottom is lost.
A light so fair it melts the frost.
A page not turned.
A bridge not burned.
A life explored is worth the cost.

Haiku/Haiku

Five beats to the first. 

Seven feels long to the ear. 

An odd meter, yes.

Snow

White that makes envious all that claim to be pale. 

 

You come to us in tiny fragments of infinite complexity, like a trillion ambassadors of a land of lost magic and mystery.

You inspire and excite the hearts and minds of children.

From your cold womb are born angels and men.

Snow.