Uncle Arch was gassed in World War I.
And he would fall asleep
in strange places.
If he wasn’t actively involved in what was going on.
Uncle Arch would fall asleep.
They said it was the gas
that made him do it.
The gas that filled the trenches…
Maybe he slept because he was just so relaxed
didn’t have to worry about
I started writing poetry again in 1981 after I met Kathy. We were in one of those periods in a relationship when you feel you can tell each other anything. (Sadly, these periods come and go. Sometimes you are too busy to tell each other anything. Sometimes other matters interfere.) Anyway, this was during a period when it was safe for me to write poetry. Now that I’m 72 it’s also a safe time to write. Who cares anyway? There are few consequences. All is well. So, here’s a poem from around 1981.
Mammau and Pappau’s house,
Always called “house”
A place and people
Front porch broad and friendly
With brick floor, cool on bare feet
On soft breezy summer evening.
Front door with locks only Pappau understood.
Front room with big windows
Often looked out of
Offering a safe vantage point
During powerful, lawn-furniture-scattering
Piano room where Boo’s piano lived
A place of bright sun.
Den, full of people on Friday night,
The room dark, except for the flash light of the
White and gray and black tones of men fighting
Sponsored by Gillette.
Me, past my bedtime
Out of bed
Sitting on the stairs