Call of Duty

As a five-year-old, I peed in my pants
when my Pa from behind kicked my butt with his boots.
Slaps on my brother’s cheeks were wakeup calls of morn
for his mathematics were wrong.
Nightmares of midnight - the shrieks of my mother
battered for she questioned his immoral adulterous fervor
she cried out my name and called me
for she hoped that I might save her
from the hands of this pain giver
but I did not.....
withdrawn to my corner, I saved my skin from wrath so hot
with a coward’s sweating heart.
Three slave souls imprisoned by life
fed on cuss and curse.
Alas, he sent my brother away
after he got rid of my mother
every night, he’d turn my head the other way
sleeping by my side with a new woman in bed.
And I ran.

I grew up with wounds on my heart
and the bleeding never stopped.
Every night, in darkness, I wake up
and hear her cry
she calls my name again and again
this time they are mere echoes of a bygone pain.

Now I’m strong
an adult.
But time moved on
situations vanished and gone.
Yet, her cry rages in me
strident and deafening.

I discovered where he lives,
uptown by the lakeside.
With a hand gun under my jacket, I drove.
He opened the door, baffled at my sight.
His hair’s white
above folded forehead and eye bags
wrinkled cheeks and sagging chin
bent back and staggered walking.
Gone is his brawn empowered vigor
at my mercy is this old and fading figure.
Heaving sighs, he got dumped in sofa
breathless, I sat facing him
with strange nagging nausea.
Lips on his naked gums are quaking.
I looked into his eyes as he looked in mine,
my hand crept under my jacket
and I held the cigar at him.
His hand shook receiving it.
I ran out to my car
can’t say why I’m hearing my heart beat
loud and clear.
I drove back into the night
without an answer to the cries that await.

Me

As a boy,
when besieged by sorrow
I lost myself in reveries of my soon-to-be youth
- with immaculate daybreaks
tender ray’s caress
dew speckled green leaves
chortles of vivid hued blossoms
by the melodious lissome rivulet
treading the copious meadows
a snug chalet
in still dell’s midst
I laze in her arms on hearth-rug
through the winter mist.

And when I got there
they were never there!

As a man,
through toil and woe
at times as mistletoe
a fragile glass fragment
beneath her high-heel shoe
I see my twilight times
- wafting in placid breeze
sunrise in Swallows’ twitters
butterflies splashed shrubbery
mellowed hazy church spire
as I walk by Cinchona array;
yapping merry old cronies
with fishing rods on waterside.
Hanging vistas of bygone miles
the mementoes on tenacious walls
and sunset on numinous isles
calling flocks of fluttering sails.
By the tepid ingle-nook
in sturdy stoic spirit
I sip vivacious wine
a lonely wight
through the winter rain.

But I dread getting there
for the fear of not finding them there.
Thenceforth, no times remain to dream
no sequel left to be seen

living relentless rude nightmare.

In the Avenue at Six

She is desirable.
I’ve been watching her since school.
Every man’s paradise
a salivating merchandise.
She burgeoned with time
now a buxom dame
who flaunts her youth if in red today
in purple the next day.

She stands on the avenue’s side walk
when the clock strikes six
they pull the cars over with sudden brakes
away she goes into a Bimmer’s back seat
and smiles at me as it zooms down the street.
Sometime in the morn,
he drives her back home
I see the contented look on his face
they all were, who were christened in her embrace.

Every night, I return home
........without her
but tonight, got more dough to be her beau.
There she is, in heavenly blue
silky hair like a water fall
lipstick’s glitter sending a call
her perfume or body odor
fueling my mind’s frantic fervor.
She looks at me with ever seducing eyes
unwrapping a smile out of social disguise
I rush up to her with a hand on my wallet
nerves giving in, for it’s been a long wait
and a Cadillac comes to a screeching halt
only to race away with her,
kicking dirt on my shirt.

I got hands in my pockets
I’m walking back home
......without her
her name is glee
and she is a bitch who wouldn’t sleep with me.

Eyelids

Ostentatious dark heavens sparkle trinkets above my mortal habitat
ephemeral full moon bequeath her grace to the worn out roof’s heart
I glance through ageing casement at the silent fleeting juncture
eyelids shut the scenic moment slithering along the lanes of rapture.
Grand ma shook my shoulder and walked unshackled by wheelchair
Pa trounced his abhorrent esteem, was lighting candles with care
serving the roasted turkey was mom who regained her lost years
my brother is again effervescent with fortune’s bows and spears.
Perplexed at mirror’s revelation of restored corporeal assets
I heard olden amiable voices ascend the depths of interred hamlets
voices grew strident, they were cheers of returning long gone chums
they blathered and gibbered like always filling my home with hums
I shook their hands, cracked champagne amid balloons and jig
sniggering kids were unwrapping the gifts swaying through shindig
still sunk in ecstasy and my eyelids disclose my eyes
uncouthly sunrays peep through casement and pour on the tiles
stepping out of somber bed, I walk my dim morose abode
forlorn but dumb walls greet me, cataclysmic newspaper awaits my nod
silence whines at me while the whimpering time is reluctant to move

I stare at the protracted narrow day, tying my battered shoe.

Come and Gone

Marigold treasures in the meadows enlivened by dawn’s affable pat
tranquil green quills by the night quiver the parrot out of her squat.
Loping across the quaint borough, clambering the lofty boughs
when boyhood wanes like a whisper, lost in its yen for youth’s swift toes.
Bask in summer’s warm cuddle, sail on ornate dale’s springtides
saunter through golden autumn showers, adore the glacial snow rides.
And one dusk alters the reflection in the mirror, visage seized away
resist the twirling winds of sunset, but titivations fade with the day.
Marigold and the meadows decay, parrot wings flap beyond all return.
Gape at unabated vicissitudes in solitude as clouds muster on a plummeting sun.
The day, a blessed memory; the visage, a token of the cherished past
to recollect through the redolent night, for bygones are forever lost.

Winds of Change

I’m still here
yesteryears are gone
I still see
not dreams
but only those my dwindling eye can behold
I still hear
the birds and the flowing waters
they are mere sounds
not quite the melodies they once were
I still walk these paths
and no longer wonder what lies beyond
for I now know they end where they began
I still ask myself
not How?
but Why ?
I’m the same man
though the one in the mirror is not
my old wristwatch is the same as ever
but it’s the times that have changed.
I look at those mountains,
those woods,
and those cornfields;
I knew them all my life
they’ll be there tomorrow
but I’ll have to go.