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When my father died I dressed
in the clothes I had on
and waited with my
mother for the crematory staff
to come and take his body,
stiff but no longer sore,
cooling, but not yet cold.
When my father died
I pulled the arrow
from beneath his wing
saw the blood seep
onto his red feathers
before he flew away
skittering along,
for he could rise
no higher searching
for a safe place,
and I wept for him
and for myself.
When my father died
I pulled the trigger
that sent the shot
into the bare limbs
where sparrows
land in spring,
to rest,
and shelter.
When my father died
I pulled the hook
from his taut lip,
slit his belly,
slid my finger
up his opened gut,
pulled out his heart,
laid it in ground
moist with piss
and ate the flesh.
I heard the steel drum beat once
when my father died,
carried him
to the high grass,
dug a shallow
grave in the rain,
gave him
his last rites
and left his bones
to dry.
When my father died I saw
his body take three shots
rolling away with each
as if leaping out
of harm’s way,
but the damage was done.
his meat was inedible,
his pelt, like his death
of no value.
When my father died
his body went to heaven
but I don’t know where
his soul went
because I didn’t see it
leave.
When my father died
I saw his body
on the altar
and knew his soul
was already in heaven.
When my father died
his grandsons dug
his grave.
When my father died
the cannons fired,
the flags waved,
the doves flew,
and the night wore
sequins on her dress.
When my father died
I cut the grapes
and made the wine.
When my father died
I moved on
but never left.
When my father died
I heard the heart
within give up.
And when my fathers
all had died
I was left
to clean up
what was needed
to be done,
and did,
but how the years
flew by.

the morning you left your
damp towel still hanging
onto the shower door

the last drops of warmth gliding
down the glass wall
has slowly been wilting
since the day i put them there for you
to smell as you wake nothing but
thorns

left
a droplet coffee next
to the cup next
to the glass next
to my bed

the last bit of your lips lingering
in my room
apart from these things
i will not be not moving
for days
i was home alone again
@found_poet

“Donner Dinner” Robert D. Carver Copyright © 2018
IF EVER TO A DINNER PARTY BY THE FAMILY KNOWN AS DONNER YOU’RE INVITED,
IF I WERE YOU, I TRULY WOULDN’T BECOME TOO EXCITED.
IMMEDIATELY UPON YOUR ARRIVAL, YOU DISCOVER THAT THEN YOU HAVE TO DEAL
WITH A HOSTESS WHO WILL BE MORTALLY OFFENDED WHEN YOU REVEAL
THAT YOUR STAY WILL NOT BE EXTENDED—
YOUR DIETICIAN RECOMMENDED YOU ONLY EAT A VERY LIGHT MEAL
AND YOU LEARN YOU ARE INTENDED AS THE MAIN COURSE ON THE MENU—
AS A GOURMET SUBSTITUTE FOR A FILLET OF MILK-FED VEAL!
YOU’LL BE SERVED UP WITH BOULIABAISE PLUS A GARNISHEE’
AND ALLSPICE, IF YOU DON’T HEED MY ADVICE AND VERY QUICKLY FLEE!

THE DONNER FAMILY DINNER PARTY HAVE A WELL-HONED APPETITE
THAT IS QUITE HEARTY, ESPECIALLY FOR LONG-PIG, AKA HUMAN FLESH,
THEY ARE ALL FOR CONSUMIN’ IT WITH SPICES SUCH AS CUMIN—
BUT ONLY WHEN IT HAS BEEN BUTCHERED FRESH.

THEY PREFER IT WHEN IT HAS BEEN WELL-STEWED IN A POT,
FOR DINNER, LUNCH OR AN AFTERSCHOOL SNACK;
BUT THEY’LL DEVOUR IT WHETHER IT’S COLD OR HOT,
THEY START TO DROOL AND THEIR LIPS THEY SMACK.

MY MUSCLES WELL-BROILED AND BRAZED UPON A ROASTING SPIT OR RACK……
WHEN I ENCOUNTERED THE JUNIOR BONNERS IT WAS NO CHANCE MEETING—
IT HAD FOR A LONG TIME BEEN THEIR CHERISHED GOAL—
I SHOULD HAVE QUICKLY FLED AT THEIR FIRST GREETING;
THOUGH AT FIRST GLANCE, IT WAS MERELY FLEETING.
I COULDN’T HAVE KNOWN THAT I WAS FATED TO PAY A TERRIBLE TOLL.

ANY ATTEMPTED ESCAPE WOULD HAVE PROVEN SELF-DEFEATING;
THEY WERE DETERMINED TO EXECUTE THEIR CHOSEN ROLE;
EACH TO PERFORM WITH GUSTO—NOT TO MENTION LUST, OH—
WHICH ENTAILS MY STEAMING ENTRAILS BEING SERVED UP IN A BOWL;
MY BODY FLAYED, MY HEAD DISPLAYED UPON A SHARPENED POLE!

THE DONNER FAMILY DINNER PARTIES HAVE A WELL-EARNED REPUTATION FOR MASTICATION…
MY LIFEBLOOD IN A BEAKER WOULD HAVE BEEN BRIMMING,
AFTER STRAINING AND SKIMMING THROUGH A SIEVE;
THE AUVOIR DUPOIS, AFTER TRIMMING, WOULD HAVE BEEN CONSIGNED TO SUET;
WHAT THEY MIGHT HAVE BEEN THINKING AS THEY WERE DRINKING IT—
LIKE A CHAMPAGNE SPLIT—

BUT I WAS DETERMINED NOT TO ALLOW SOME CANNIBAL TO EXERCISE HIS MANDIBLE,
WHILE HIS THIRST HE SLAKED,
THEN TO TOP IT ALL OFF WITH A CAKE OR PIE IN WHICH MY SWEETMEATS HAD BEEN BAKED……

INSTEAD I VERY QUICKLY DID A FLIT!

THAT WAS THE WORST NIGHTMARE, EVEN AFTER EXTREMELY LIGHT FARE—
I’M REALLY GLAD I DIDN’T DIE—
I’VE COMPLETELY LOST MY APPETITE!

was not born on a hot summer evening
no sunsets to be felt or seen
through clear glass jam jars on a patio table

was not born on a warm spring day
no Blue jays sang or sat in trees among
amber monarchs butterflies fluttering

was not born in a brisk autumn morning
no sound of crispy cranberry maple leaves being stepped on
no lingering pumpkin spice, cinnamon and nutmeg lattes in the air

born during cold, gusty winds
white blankets covered all dead things

where my father’s numb fingers peaked through torn gloves
when my mother was induced to save us both

it was during a time where all things would soon resurrect
return, bloom and given a second chance

Can death be sweet, like trick or treat,
When your whole-body aches, even your feet,
There’s nothing to do, to silence the roar,
You want to let go, so your body can soar.

The pains just too great, to stay alive,
I know most, just want to survive,
Just remember that term, quality of life,
means nothing now, it’s just a sharp knife.

Why should I care, why should I stay,
my life doesn’t matter, to most anyway,
My kids turned their backs, they think I fell,
Into the center of Earth, to a fiery hell.

I loved them so much, I gave them my all,
Yet when I’m hurt, and ready to fall,
the phone doesn’t ring, no knock on the door,
They couldn’t care, if I’m flat on the floor.

The pain in my heart, the pain in my soul,
is far worse than my body, will ever know,
I want to scream out, I want them to hear,
the damage they’ve done, but they have a deaf ear.

So don’t preach to me, about letting go,
You don’t know my pain, I put on a show,
the drugs can do that, I live in a haze,
my mind never clear, my eyes in a glaze.

So when my eyes close, for the last time,
Just dry your tears, and open the wine,
Don’t cry over me, I’ve had a good life,
Much of it happiness, along with the strife,

All the ups and the downs, life’s a journey for sure,
No room for regrets, no room for a cure,
When my peace finally comes, my new journey will start,
My soul will fly high, I’ll have peace in my heart.

by Ladi Soyode on September 26, 2015. © Ladi Soyode, All rights reserved

He spoke of a place where love was the worship of kings and rage was the vilest sin, in this land, he travelled on the saddled back of unicorns crowned with silver horns and the Pegasus whose hooves were gilded with gold and amber shoes, and of sands whiter than sea shells and of stars that glittered like diamonds on dark and moonless nights he spoke, of the kingdom where love was a god and lovers were saints and nightingales composed serenades to bring back the souls of the undead from the depths of the hour of pain to the mirth of the garden of olives trees and breeze in which Aphrodite made an haven from the labyrinths that made sour the desires in cupids quiver.

He then spoke of the passions of flames whose purity is drowned in shame, a passion without a name whose waters can never be tamed, that flower even in chains, that simple folks pronounce insane, that towers above the courage of the damned and the deeds of the charmed, he found that blood is thicker than water and love is stronger than blood and virgins could be unchaste and in a brothel could live the heart of saints, he spoke of the rich fool that sought to buy honour and the poor fool that begged for honour, he spoke of virgins he spoke of saints in both a passion reigns

He spoke of the evil of cages then he spoke of the reason for bonds and bridges and of vows, that shackles the essence of souls, love for love sake or love for sale, love for lust sake or love for grace, if concealed time shall reveal loves rage, speak not the dialect of snakes, not even for love sake, for it is only in suicide love avenges itself if killed before its time, it dies forever never to again smile it dies forever it does not fight for life, and only in death can it find re – birth, the sunny side of a poisonous suicide, then he spoke of a solemn garden of dark and comely lips that sang hosannas and psalms and lived for the eclipse of dawns, for the day he returns escorted by the temper of storms, and the red birds of paradise with the proudest hue of beaks that all the days of their lives are humbled by the mangrove swamp.

He spoke of the glory of breezy dawns by the shores of a tropical sea, and the honey colored suns that heralded thunder storms and of the people that say God is dead and the others that say he is not because he never lived and a strange tribe that worship cows, and slaughtered men on the alters of crimson gods, and a race that waged wars in the name of the only god of love, and where the aged are scorned by the young who will also get old in turn, of slaves that were born strong and masters that shall die young, of the kind hearted that did not live long and the wicked that outlives their young and a place where souls are sold for the price of a harlots devotion, he spoke of the love that forgives and the mind that never forgets, he spoke of the love that’s stronger than sin and all these scenes that the earth has seen, he spoke of the scented flower that blossomed, in the very heart of a bitter battle battlefield, and the warrior that died for a virgin rose found in the vanquished’s back yard, of parapets and moats, of mud dwellings and palm fronds, of spears and fears and the tears we share within this sphere, beneath this atmosphere. He spoke to clear the smoke.

He spoke of the beauty of the beast, then he spoke of the beasts of beauty, he shared the tales of Triton and Poseidon in cities of glistening crystal, beneath the whales and tireless waves, and the mermaids of the salty oceans whose mansions where of stained glass, with pillars of the rarest blue marble enhanced with topaz and pearls, and of the swift tiger sharks that make prey of seals and stingrays on the great plains of the obscure deep, and the sea turtles that fly above submerged mountains, and of the flower of many colours that can only be found on the summit of aquatic hills, and how a rainbow shimmers at dawn in the firmament of the Neptune sky, of the sea beasts and sea folks, and men who have no souls, he spoke to tear the cloaks, in the deeper masquerade, of this moon light dance, in this phrase between our birth and death, a phase of strife that mortals call life, he spoke of the many sides, of this place we have found breath, and of the lamb whose crest of mercy was perfected by death, he spoke of the moment of the doves, the paradise of the creators rest.

He then spoke of the one that journeyed through the stars in search of eternal peace, from consternation to constellation, from the planet of many moons to the celestial hedge of Saturn, to the jupitians that live within a great spot of red, creatures that neither live on land nor water but build castles in the air, whose bodies are shaped like men and whose faces are that of a child, whose legends and myths points to the sun as the realm the master race made home, and of those whose skin are of pure golden chrysalides among whom there is no infirm nor lame, no war or blame whose souls are as pure as the passion of suns, he spoke of the untruth that warms and the cowardice of guns in this world of many wrongs from outer space to cyberspace there is nowhere to hide or run, to conceal the truth of thorns, the truth that stuns.

Then he reached the crossroads of memories, of haunting remembrances, the confluence of melody and malady, where heaven and hades embrace and demons seek an angel’s kiss and then he spoke again “what does it profit a man to gain the earth and lose his soul”.

We sit and look at the stars.
I ponder their birth and question the purpose.
Do I question my own in the process?
My demand of life in this society as I tick through it.
A shooting star races across the sky.
Where is it going in such a hurry?
Brush the fly from my face.
Realizing I should ask myself that question.
I don’t go as fast as that star but I have a destination.
Or do I?
How few of us have a schedule, or a plan, or even a goal.
And fewer yet have it written down I’ll bet.
I have a plan in my head.
And when something doesn’t pan out I’ll compromise.
Losing track of the goal I had set and the road to get there no doubt.
Ultimately changing my destination or even the goal it’s self.
I think that in the end I’ll have accomplished what I had set out to do though.
Have I missed something?
I don’t remember.
It seems good so far.
Without my goal in front of me how could I know?
I got a good handle on things I think.
The Big Dipper looks huge up there doesn’t it?
I don’t have light years between my high points in life.
But I don’t have to impress everyone.
And I can’t be that whole sky full of stars up there.
Am I enough to impress those that count?
I could possibly do more if I had a system to go off of.
From what I’ve heard there’s no manual for living.
But that doesn’t stop me from creating one for myself.
And who knows, someone could get something out of it too.
That would impress those that counted.
Also, maybe a few that I don’t know or will ever meet.
It’s still not everyone but it adds something to the end result.
I pick up my son and hold his young precious life close to me.
Come on son, Daddy needs to make a list.
A shooting star races across the sky.

-Jason Seelmann
February 22, 2000

I’m only one star.
But I can chose which one I want to b

I never would have asked
If I’d known you would say “yes”
The idea of time alone with you
Is scaring me to death

Axes couldn’t cut me
Half as deep as you
I’m reinforcing my walls
To keep you from breaking through

How dare you look me in the eye
Smile and call my bluff.
I liked the way that I’d been living.
Now my smooth sailing’s getting rough.

There are a million reasons why it won’t work
I don’t want to sing this same sad song again.
But you forced my hand so I’m forced to try
To play this stupid game I know I’ll never win.

What is it about you? Why is my curiosity piqued?
Is it your brain or our matching baggage that makes you so unique?
Is it your cold black heart or the warmth I feel when you’re around?
What is it about you that makes me get so wound?

Your eyes see through me. I must now be transparent.
My words are smashed together, I’m rambling and incoherent.
I want to tell you everything, but my silence says it all.
You’re setting me up but I don’t want to fall.

I bask in the glow that comes from your smile.
I’m such a fool to keep myself in this denial.
I want to hear your words and make you laugh
And keep your smile for myself.

Since our first hello, I have felt like a new man.
For the first time in years, I feel human.
The excitement, the awkwardness, the butterflies, the dreaming
I feel confidence bubble up, replacing my insecurity and over thinking.
I find myself floating instead of constantly sinking.

It is what it is
But I want what it ain’t
I am a canvas
You are the paint.

I don’t want to wait for it.
I don’t want to throw away my shot
I want to show you who I truly am
And lose my fear of who I am not.

The man in me is stepping up
Coming on to take the lead
You are the first woman I want
And the first I did not need.

What’s at the end of this winding road?
I do not exactly know.
But I want to find out
So fuck this fear, take my hand. Let’s go!

Would that I could cough up what cannot be transformed,
the way owls do.
At the base of the meadow,
pines and firs cover the slope.
Gray droppings, roughly cylindrical, litter the ground.
Loose shapes like half-smoked cigars,
30 or more scattered under a pine.
Poke one with a stick,
and find it made of gray fur
stippled with the tiny bones
of field mice and voles.
Owls eat them whole, absorb the nutrients
then cough up fur and bone.

Would that I could cough up what cannot be absorbed.
Partial truths splinter like bones in the throat.
Lies of omission –like spat fur– belong to nothing.
A man tells you his marriage is over,
then reconciles with his wife on the down low
but says nothing, hedging his bets,
until the day his secret fledges,
and shoves you out.
A hard, abrupt landing
thuds the wind from your lungs, the beat from your heart
leaves your chest hollow, airless.

Would that I could cough up betrayal.