John is both a linguist, and a musician…evident in the imagery and melodiousness in his poetry…Am not giving you too much here… some to savor on a September evening, that feels like late August. — Annie
AUGUST AFTERNOON
Thelma wore a shawl and rocked
on the two crescent moons of her chair,
while the cat sprawled out
like an old fur piece in front of the screen door.
Henry lay on the back porch swing,
reading a tabloid from the Piggly-Wiggly:
WOMAN MISTAKES GLUESTICK FOR DEODORANT-
CAN’T TAKE OFF DRESS FOR TEN DAYS…
The photo said it all.
Billy stayed in his room upstairs
with a mayonnaise jar of fireflies from Sunday night,
their uninspired habitat having drained their batteries,
and on the wall next to the open window,
hung a picture of the family together in the snow one Christmas,
the gray and icy river behind them contradicting
the present, passionate buzz of cicadas outside.
JB
******************
FIXED POINT
He was a bouncing ball upon the words
of someone else’s song,
outwardly happy and energetic,
but inwardly grateful for small things,
like the suppository box,
that showed the good taste
not to include visual directions.
A respectable sinner of quiet yearnings,
he dreamed of breakfast in bed,
but settled for greasy eggs and bacon
in a torn red booth
at AUNT SHIRLEY’S CHICKEN SHACK.
Life became a race
which he was no longer interested
in winning…
His watch ticked and the days clicked
by and by,
dominoes falling one against another
until that morning when
the meaning was gone,
except for snow outside and
a stream of sunlight
through a crack in the curtains
upon his red blanket, kicked aside,
like discarded Christmas wrapping
with no hope at all of gift exchange.
JB
***************
MANUSCRIPT
Minutes are quick passages,
layering themselves into days
that stick together finally
like pages in an old novel.
Part of the plot, lost along the way,
must be rewritten,
motives revised (if remembered),
characters redone, because
they were too romantic,
and unmarked chapters reordered,
because one day
the binding gave way.
No one remembers where they go,
these fragments of thought,
these hopes as empty as
teachers’ desks in midsummer…
when silence repeats
all the Once upon a time’s
of a life.
At last these costly dreams,
paid for my meager time,
lie scattered on the floor,
and a clock hangs on the wall,
like a big price tag.
JB
*********
PROSE FRAGMENTS…JUNE, 1954
The Aunt Jemima toaster cover smiled
on the gold-speckled counter top,
where Mom made pot roast
for Aunt Edna and Uncle Lou.
Sunlight filtered through fruit-print curtains,
like an X-ray of Pete’s Produce Market,
while the twins and I played hide and seek,
and I stayed inside the kitchen window seat
with the vegetables until Donald threatened
to put my turtle Trudy in the oven
if I didn’t come out.
After pound cake with peaches, the radio played
“No Other Love,” a tango for trombones
that made my parents dance
over the salt water taffy wrappers
we kids had dropped on the floor.
Screens pulsed with moths
yearning for the Chinese lamp in the front window,
and when company was gone and I lay in bed,
I wondered if the next day my clothes
would still smell so strong of peppers and onions.
