POEMS

I will be posting poems here that have been written since the publication of POET’S MODEL. I may post a few older ones as well. All will be included in my next poetry collection.

____________________________

The Thing That Was There

Does it ever happen to you?
Has it ever—
At least once, memorably? Often?

I’ll scan something: a list, a column,
A block of prose;
note something I want to come back to.

Finish what I’m doing,
Come back, try to,
To what seemed so interesting.
Can’t find it
Look again
Still not there
I saw the thing!
Try yet again.

If it’s online I do a find.
Still no results
Maybe I’ll try a search engine.
It may show up, perhaps ask Did you mean…?
No, I meant what I said.

Titles and names yield pages
And pages of irrelevant entries:
Who coined the word invention?
(That takes you to Quora,
Costs you a few hours. Fun, though.)
Phrases generate
Too many results to be of use.

I go back to the original
Look again, again. Again.
Nothing. Zero.

So, where did the spectral phrase come from?
Was it really there?
Was I thinking something else simultaneously?
Did a previously lost thought demand expression?
Did someone else’s thought
Fall through the ether
Conflating with the words before me?
And is someone now searching for it?

Why did I start this as a poem?
I wanted an explanation.
Maybe I was being summoned
to write a poem.

© 2018 Michael McGrinder


The Mighty Hudson

Sailors on a ship.
Passengers on a ferry.
Revelers on a yacht.
Lovers on a sailboat.
Loner in a kayak.
Fly on a popsicle stick.

© Michael McGrinder 2017


Gobsmacked

Again.

Nothing new about Mama smacking me.

In front of a nun this time.

Whack!

The principal: Sister Eucharista.

Her lips tighten, pale, bloodless.

The top of her back veil dips forward

as she nods (almost, not quite)

imperceptibly (definitely displaying approval.)

Eight years old

as the smack resounds

throughout the school halls.

Ballpoints are new, imperfect

come with a wax protection,

sometimes hard to get them started.

Then they skip.

I get ink all over me.

His penmanship is atrocious.

The crime brings Mama to school

to the principal

I’m eight fucking years old!

I always know

I’m going to catch it from the nuns.

My hand sweats,

messes the paper:

it won’t accept the ink.

It gets worse.

I never finish.

I want to explain about

my sweaty palm

the wax on the tip

the cheap pen skipping

even on dry paper.

I start to speak.

The pen . . .

Never finish

Gobsmacked.!

Talking (back to, j’accuse)

to the nun, the principal

Sister (expletive deleted) Eucharista

Sounds like a dance

La eucharista ista rista

Leetle Seesta

Gobsmacked.

My face red where hit

from the hit;

red everywhere else

from humiliation

and anger

and frustration.

Censored. Always censored.

Could have much to do

with my opposition to it

in any form. Ever.

Gobsmacked.

For my penmanship

for my mouth

for embarrassing Mama

in front of La Eucharista

pale and jowly

Naaah eucharista !

Can’t get words on paper ?

Not allowed to speak?

Gobsmackit!

How the fuck

did I become a writer?

©2016 Michael McGrinder


Now I Remember

It’s under something

that’s under something else
that’s under some other thing

that’s next to something

that’s next to something else
that’s next to some other thing

that’s on top of something
that’s been misplaced.

© Michael McGrinder 2016


MRS. WILLIAMS REPLIES

Yes. I was
saving
the plums
for breakfast.

They would
have been
delicious shared
so sweet
and so cold.

Reheat
your oatmeal.
It’s in
the icebox.

© Michael McGrinder 2015

POET’S MODEL abookofpoems

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Published on November 8, 2015 at 5:26 pm  Leave a Comment  

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