USING A PRISMACOLOR #1 FINE LINE MARKER, BLACK

My daily exorcism
is writing the forget-me-nots
in the margins of the New York Times.

A pliant testimony
built on crying children
and their screaming mothers
("this is how you act / stop crying!"),
these are the words deep within a life
absent of words meaning anything,
the drone of a tenor saxophone
with a broken reed
or a plea for help
or a blaring boom box
replacing any thought,
any action,
any move,
any forward tactic,
any resolve
that predicates substance.

I would drag my knuckles
three fingers deep into the earth now
if only to know that I am alive
and created something,
if only a trench,
if only a sly, modest burial ground
for hamsters and abandoned childhoods.

I saw a picture of a young boy today -- 
maybe three or four years old --
on his way to the first day of school,
his education formally begun
as the starch of his shirtsleeves
cut through the crisp campaign
for a cool autumn.

Life goes on.

And here I sit,
scrawling little symbols into sidelines of permanence,
my only way of coping
with the bleak headlines of today,
full of the same child-like curiosity,
an ear pressed to the door of tomorrow,
an eye looking back
to where I can no longer go.

Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

ON POSSESSING

You win some, you lose some,
and when you continue to lose some,
you win a few of the things
thought lost or failed.
You watch as the what-you-thought-you-losts
float past the lilies (a symbol!)
in the garden you've tended,
(whether it be a window box or pasture wide).
The thought of lilies pretending to be dandelions
is humorous, you surmise,
their truth-telling petals waving to you
like an old pal long forgotten,
scent strong with an immutable candor
of what you've learned
and what you've learned to let go.

Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

ON POETRY

It's not so easy to rattle off a poem,
but, IMHO,
(that's in-my-humble-opinion,
not I-might-hate-otters
or, the ever popular,
is-Madge's-hands-orange?)
it is easier than pulling a rabbit out of a hat
or cutting a straight line on paper
with only one pair of scissors
or creating non-sequitur, grammatically incorrect acronyms.
I would consider those marginally difficult tasks.

Still, a poem is not unlike pulling the trigger of a gun,
which can lead to death or (worse) serious injury
or a creed for which men die
in the name of God and country,
a fragile, dangerous weapon.

Sometimes, I wonder
if, by swallowing a sword,
we fall on it, too.
(That is a poem itself;
Haiku, actually.)

But what makes a good poem
is not rhyme nor reason
but our universe exploded,
its broken bits of rock and dust
put back together the same way
we placed Humpty Dumpty
back in the china closet
with grandma's Gorilla Glue:
there is something within you --
edible, delicious words --
that made it stick,
whatever they were
back when you believed it,
back when you could be saved.
Take us back there
(I beg you, sage)
to the rabbit in your hat,
the sword in your sheath,
to your little finger on the trigger.

Poetry is only as loud as your unspoken grief,
only as tantalizing as the paint
on the walls you've built around yourself.
It is the torch you carry to not only light the path
but to set the world on fire.

Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

A STEP TOWARDS THEM (for my favorite poet)

Basquiat said, "Forget it,"
and created an art in himself,
glowing in profundity
long after the coroner used a human-sized spatula
to place him in the earth.
Poor Mozart continues to rot
(somewhere)
as Marina Abramovic bares her breasts
in the same way
the low brass interpret Mahler:
recklessly, loyally,
marking time in their own way.
The rest of this world marks time, too,
differently, though,
baring silk ties instead of boobs
from 8-5 or 9-6,
major holidays off,
increasing benefits with years of experience.

On the train home,
a man asks me for a nickel,
and lies burn holes in my pockets,
for I am surviving too
and surviving two
lives: one of want,
one of necessity
(you guess which is which)
Do not compromise.
Do not compromise.
Do not compromise, I bleed.

A single burning bulb in the twilight, perhaps, 
is the only pleasure
we have.
Is the earth as full of them as it is of us?
(You guess who is who)
I want.
I necessitate.
I bleed.

A glass of whiskey when a glass of water would do and back to work. My heart is in my pocket, it is Lunch Poems by Frank O' Hara, and the world, refusing to stop, spins on and on and on and on

and on.

Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

UNDERNEATH THE BED

That's the scary part:
the lump in the throat,
the feeling of weightlessness
before plunging off the edge
of a roller coaster,
the ground fading away
as the plane takes flight,
the moment before the needle
pierces the skin --

or the less dramatic:
the first step,
the sudden glance,
sweaty palms against each other,
the not knowing,
the cold of the sheets,
the sex of a glowing clock --

and after:
the ice in your glass,
the empty in mine,
the last sip,
the draw of a cigarette,
the darkness,
the silence,
our eyes still on fire,
the music heard,
the morning yet to come.

Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

WHEN BREADCRUMBS FAIL

The smell of summer rain
means we will never pass
by this place again, friend.

Lightning strikes in the distance.
The pitter-patter
rhythmically beats against
the aluminum window frame
as I press my face against the cool glass,
trying both to stay awake
and to wake up:

the rain will turn, shortly, into snow,
the snow into wind,
and the wind into time escaped,
masked in gentle thunder
amidst a downpour of torrential loss.

Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

ILIAD

Rage -- my dearest Achilles --
is no emotion
but a benchmark,
a checkpoint,
a return
that swells out of nothing
into nothing,
(from something small, perhaps,
into something large)
triggered by no false hope
or dashed dream
but, instead dinner parties
and well-provided-fors
and, before you know it,
over the roar of the television
(because, Thank G-d,
you can now afford cable,
am I right?)
you are neck deep
in darkness,
alone and pulling the silken sheets
up to your chin.

Oh, how the injustice stings your eyes--
once you are able to see that light, friend--
because reality has been generous
with the all-too-morose display
of you and your feet parallel beneath you:
not even one pinky toe out of the two you possess (!!)
dares to caress the doorframe,
as the world, rolling over and over,
passes you by and takes your seat center orch
because this is general admission, dummy.

Getting mad?
Getting hot, now, hunh baby?!
The anger building,
churning underneath your tectonic skin,
(and who spells huh with an N in the middle of it anyway?)
until, one day,
you see a young boy standing
hand-in-hand
at the bus stop
with Nanny dearest,
bright-eyed, wary,
collar gently pressed,
clean and hair combed;
he is a remembrance of you,
some Anglo-Saxon specter of a past Presbyterian self,
tempered, though, by the reflection
of a tired, old face
attached to a head
on a body
unfamiliar to you, 
wearing the Emperor's clothes,
standing stationary
as the cars swoosh by:
How did you get here?
you ask,
but only if you've been paying attention.

You deserve it,
every moment,
don't you get it?
Point to point,
every fraction of an inch
soon becomes a mile;
every strike eludes .500

The churning goes on,
and you may have escaped the volcanic future this time, lad,
but boy oh boy
man oh man
it is there and there
and everywhere
so cling to those unconventional spellings
and the silken sheets, stud,
because even the tide
comes in twice a day,
nature's Da Capo
where you'll swim
or you'll drown
simply by where you've decided
to nap on the beach.

Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

A VERSE FOR NIKKO

Some boys learn it late in life,
some at age fourteen:
there is no "happy" or no "sad,"
just states of "in-between."

Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.