PoetryPause Blog – Matthew Ashbrook

I like the way I feel
When she’s sitting next to me;
It’s not a feeling of what’s gone
Or a future that might be;
A feeling of some comfort
And contentment through and through;
A feeling of well-being
Though defining’s hard to do.
Kind of like a promise lost
When days turn into night
But just as it is getting dark
She reaches for the light.

The time is drawing near,
The dog must go outside;
To take a little walk,
Relieving his inside.

But now the snow is falling
And the wind is rather brisk,
I’d like to wait ‘til summer
But I can’t take the risk.

He’s small, his bladder likewise,
So he can’t wait that long
But still procrastinating
The waiting I prolong.

He’s dancing by the doorway,
He whines to beckon me –
‘Just a few more minutes
And we’ll go find a tree.’

He cocks his head to listen,
To understand my plea;
‘Let’s get your coat and mittens
Or sorry you will be.’

We do for others often
Some things we’d rather not;
But when you care for others,
This is what you’ve got.

Time to stuff a turkey’s corpse
With sage and stale bread;
He won’t mind a bit at all
‘Cause after all he’s dead.

All his feathers plucked and pulled,
He’s naked on the stove;
His neck and giblets found inside,
A hidden treasure trove.

Through the body’s cavity
You reach ‘til deep within
And fumble ‘round his empty chest
Where once his lungs had been.

Pulling out the bag of guts
To cook or to discard;
A message from the now deceased –
The turkey’s calling card.

Cremated in the oven’s wrath,
The hours pass you by;
‘Til all the body fluids drain
While all your guests standby.

Retrieve the largest knife you own
And slice it through his skin;
Then divvy up the bird’s bequest
And feed him to your kin.

When I was growing up a boy
The races all were known
By color that their skin evoked,
The shading and the tone.

The natives of America
Were known for their red skin,
The Asians from the Orient,
Their shade a yellow spin.

Hispanics every shade of brown,
And Africans were black,
And marauding Europeans were
White for pigment lacked.

None of course the color called,
‘Twas just a useful tool –
Pointed out the origins
Not meant as being cruel.

Offensive I found at the time
A simple child’s toy –
Crayola Crayons multi-pack
That brought so many joy.

For inside each and every box
A color wrapped and bound;
Labeled with the signature,
A crayon flesh was found.

As a child, I found this strange
As everybody’s skin
Was flesh of equal quantity
Though many not my twin.

The crayon mimicked white man’s skin,
Not yellow, red or black –
As if the only flesh there was
Was that upon my back.

I doubt that crayon bears that name
Today as once it did,
But it disturbed me at the time
When I was just a kid.

Identifying people now
By color isn’t right,
But somehow through the changing times
I’m referenced yet as white.

So heretofore I call on you
To tag me with the hash –
No longer reference me as white
But simply Euro-trash.

See the little arrow?
The little tiny dot?
The sea of black and blue
The little bitty spot?

The foreground is a spaceship,
And Saturn’s golden rings;
The dot the earth and home to
The mightiest of kings.

The conqueror and conquered,
The wealthy and the pawn,
And every petty grievance
That mankind ever spawned.

Novelty eggs
On the ceiling above
An old-fashioned stove
Where cooking was love
Where bacon from hogs
Kept out in a pen
Would deep fry the eggs
From one of their hens
That Virgil would tend
Along with the crops
And baling hay
No resting, no stops,
Having toiled all day
Doing steel mill work
With his twinkling eyes
And an all-knowing smirk,
While Mabel kept home
Making butter and bread
And fresh chicken fried
That kept us all fed
On a farm playing host
To cattle and pigs
And guineas and horses
And old oil rigs
Where a Piper Cup fell
One day from the sky
And explored what was left
With the wonders and whys
The stuff that comprises
The man that I am
Their souls full of grace
And gentle as lambs.

In the vacuum of departure,
Your presence becomes thought;
Distilled into the memory,
The presence you had brought.

In a town of too few people,
Fewer can be felt;
And loss intensely written
On those to whom it’s dealt.

Upon the vapor trailing,
Behind the parting jet,
The sediment of spirit
And you, I’ll not forget.

Three frolicking fingers serrated
By strings that musically muse;
Resulting in calloused contusion
From hours of six-string abuse.

Well known that the artist must suffer,
Tormented producing his craft;
But the artist’s suspicion would never
Suspect he’d need fingers to graft.

His anguish should stem from the ether,
By a soul and a spirit that ache
Not waylaid by cavernous fingers
Left in the suffering’s wake.

They’re folding up tents now,
The show is leaving town;
A show that brought a smile,
Leaving nothing but a frown.

A parking lot that’s empty,
No lights ignite the night;
No revelers in chorus
Laughing in delight.

The trapeze been dismantled,
The circus rings are packed;
The big top hits the highway,
Along with every act.

New faces will be waiting
For the circus lights that shine;
When the old show reassembles
Somewhere down the line.

Nothing ever changes,
The new replace the old
To follow every footstep
In every story told.

You’ve got to put your feet up
Every now and then
To reconcile footsteps,
Take note of where you’ve been.

Contemplate the baggage
You’ve gathered on the way;
The good, the bad, the humdrum
That brought you to this day.

Gaze across the landscape,
Survey the open skies
And ponder on the meaning,
The hows and whats and whys.

Reorganize the closet
Of thoughts within your mind
To calm a restless spirit
When thoughts have misaligned.

To reconcile footsteps,
Take note of where you’ve been,
You’ve got to put your feet up
Every now and then.