Death-eating father

This ain't one of my 

summer sunshine rhymes

sorry fresh out tonight 

this is for blue black times

I'm not normally one to

let my inner goth out

but there are times when 

she needs to howl and shout

there was a man, a wolf

no, a werewolf was he

he was black Irish charming 

this wolfman father to me

he had a curse on him that 

he alas to me passed on 

or he cursed us both with

his morbid selfish sick passion

death by name, death by trade

my pater was fixated upon 

a modern pre-Raphaelite with

unholy suicidal obsession

So very romantic, innit?

Poe, Rosetti and Millais

such fine young gentlemen

must have their peccadillo play 

look at all the little punters 

those dreamy soul-eyed pens

of halcyon times smoking life away

in disease ridden opium dens 

in laudanum induced stupor 

fantasizing about a red head

who by her own hand made 

herself all drowned and dead

isn't it a bitch when your 

superheroes show their grime?

welcome to my world folks 

that's what happened in mine    

he was my Ozymandias

despite having feet of clay 

we all do of course but

his were the muckiest of clay

by clay I mean earth, dust

eaten up by moth and worm

he dreamt and plotted his death 

practiced  his funereal requiem 

a  bit like poor Mozart with 

death disc played in reverse 

funeral for dear old dad

was expected of our Amadeus 

at least unlike Wolfie

I didn't have to plan for dad

I don't know if on reflecting

it woulda been any less bad

what the hell is wrong with 

these death-eating fathers of ours

bloody consumed with fussing 

about arranging their canopic jars?

so discussing this is hard and

I'm coming to it roundabout 

with all my highfalutin nods

why can't I just spit it out?

me dah detailed his bucket kicking

urged me to join in suicide pact 

his death wish 'bout destroyed me 

his the plan, but mine the act

on top of his threats, the guilt

made worse by the well-intentioned 

wondering aloud at his motives 

my shame increased when questioned

did he jump or was he pushed?

did it predate him enshrined in tomb?

his constant cakewalk with the grave

might it have begun in the womb?

I'm tempted to cut him slack 

cuz that's what I always do (did)

did he have a secret half life

that he kept from me well hid?

Was there some abiding pain that

made him speak fluent self-harm

did my dear grandparents hurt him

and set off his coffin alarm?

but how and when he did shows

endless talk of ending was ruse

to claim exemption without remorse

was a weapon to punish and abuse

I was threatened with his rope 

when he wanted an exit or excuse

suicide promises have a way 

of shutting down home truths 

funny tho it's never themselves

with whom they plan to do away  

vampirically they suck your self 

till you've no spark to light your day 

But I found my voice recently

and I find I've got a lot to say

to him who terrorized little me

dicing with death to get his way

yet too late now the doom's on me

the mirror's cracked side to side

taunts of his self-death ruined me

the gates of my hell opened wide

It's a curse I'm stuck with 

this tendency toward self-harm 

the loop has come full circle

now it's me sounding the alarm

I hate like hell I'm like this

it's knee-jerk though unwillingly

passing on the devil's contagion 

hurting my beloved posterity 

sins of my dad, brain-staining

Mea culpae for my many wrongs

mea maxima culpae, though two wrongs

don't unwrite the death-eater songs

I can't erase what's past but 

I can ease our today pain  

stop the evil juggernaut and

derail the ceaseless self-hurt train

I have to. I owe it to them. 

--with sorrow, contrition and love to the family circle

--and prayers to the Heavenly Father to help me to excise this generational cancer of the soul

--picture is me and Wolfman Jack about two years before he started sharing his death wish with me. Don't let the fond pose fool you. This is Instagram foreshadowing performative parenting for the camera. Usually he was nowhere to be found. Or mad at me. 

                     

It's my poem and I'll cry if I want to

You scold my poems because

they've a bitter bit of sting

the acrid sour anthems 

I've finally begun to ring

I'm "too heavy" you say

that I should write with levity

think of rainbow colored ponies

drink the chalice of poison Hi-C

Much as I'd love to be

a bright whiter shade of pale

tempting as cyanide is not

mine's a Bleaker street type tale

My biography was ever 

tart with lacrimal note

so I owe no explanation

and I'm not taking a vote

you demanding I defend

my verse's tear- salty word

shows you weren't listening 

you never saw nor heard

you turn your back now

as you always did back then 

against deaf-blind-muteness

why should I bother to defend? 

there are none so deaf 

as those who won't hear

none so obtuse as they who

harden eye, heart and ear 

If you still insist on reasons

don't miss your hand pulling strings

flip the mirror roundside right

you'll see how you messed up things

you called me oversensitive 

such hypocritical arrogance 

YOU told ME to sunny up, you?

the death-eating vampire prince?

May I ask why it's essential 

I sing a Nutra-sweet refrain? 

what's in it for you to tart up 

and candy-coat my memory train?

why the gaslighting nonsense

that the problem is the hurt one

that reporting harm is worse than

what and by whom hurt was done? 

Eleventh hour awareness shows

you bound and gagged my voice 

now your dirty blame shame game 

exposes your abuse as a choice 

you claim my remembrances mean

because I'm ashamed I'm to blame

what they reveal is you playing 

your sick Twister DARVO game

but I guess I should thank you 

your agenda demonstrates a lot

my shell-shocked brain now sees

that loving parents you were not

your overplayed your hand

the biter bit by her own fang

you're too up yourself to see 

by your own rope you'll hang

so beware your slip is showing  

you effed around and found out

your pink slip has been issued  

you're fired for messing about 

in this sorry song of mine

it's here we turn a corner

do an about face on shame and

be our lost child's chief mourner 

their pride killed small selves 

time the solipsists were leaving

forget their fanned out voices 

get on with overdue grieving

time to permit myself to

repeat the shit they said

to evict rent-free squatter

flying monkeys from my head 

I didn't think it needed 

to be reiterated yet again

that tears too long unshed 

just burn in endless pain

It ain't pretty inside me 

it's a grubby rubbish pile

But to heal the yuck within

I must dwell on it awhile

if it's inconvenient to hear

if you cannot sit beside me

think how hard it is to live and

don't mellow my harsh reality

Keep your toxic platitudes 

Save them for your rainy day

when your angst overflows

and everyone's gone away

I don't want your cheery

unicorns all sparkly brite 

you scoop their rainbow poop but

beware, lest they come back to bite

I don't give a fat rat's arse

who does or doesn't like my song

It's my poem, I'll cry if I want

you're free to read or move along

Grama-grampa reminise-storys: a verse in scents

Remembering the grama-grampa

house now has faded with time

but the scents and smells stay strong 

in this jumble sale mind of mine 

den redolent of evergreen

from closet conifer lined

I played without toys 

had a grand old time

also scents of mothballs

from cedar closet of hers

placed to protect grandma's

coveted fox and monkey furs

In den lived countless curios 

inkwell, gramophone, ukulele 

something called a stereoscope

church organ grampa played for me

ornate marble top table

I now have in my bedroom 

it holds her Christmas angels

and old Avon bottle of perfume

this ungodly heavy table 

with fussy carved woodwork

made when quality mattered more

than figures in a ledger book

on it family photos displayed

inscribed with spider-writing names

smelt of masonry and musty dust 

from oft-repaired antique frames

a vintage decanter set 

gave off faint odors of hooch

a riding crop adding horse scent

long-gone dog leash, hints of pooch 

everywhere notes of furniture polish

that iconic lemon Pledge smell

grampa took care to dust and wax

if he didn't she'd give him h-ll (🤣)

writing brought back memory

minds-eye looking out window  

in fragrant warm contentment

watching as it began to snow

attic smelt of wet wool mildew

sniffs of kerosene in the air

of army blanket and mattress ticking

and old toboggan stored up there

basement nosed of cardboard 

and the big Lionel steam train 

board games by the fireplace 

smoke with heated metal refrain

in cellar multi-tiered perfumes

engine oil, printer ink and Ajax

workshop, metallic, wood and glue

and solvents of epoxy and tacks 

a beach-sand-water smell

did a spicy fragrance make 

added to the overall aroma

of the house beside the lake

And best was grama's cooking

the savory, sweet and fine

her tiny kitchen table was

the very best place to dine

It's not just about smells 

they have lessons to tell

about treasuring and preserving

and loving often, much and well

It's old things lovingly saved

curious curios, not really toys

lack of playthings far surpassed 

by those bygone gestalt joys

A pair of tiny great grandma boots 

A gun from American civil war,

A furry ancestor hat and photos

And super 8 home movies galore

Each with tidy foxed labels 

history conscientiously taught to me

better than any book I've read 

their bedtime reminisce-story 

from photo album minty paste to

pine wood shaving and boot black 

home movie heated celluloid

they all take me right back

such an olfactory cacophony

Throughout their home dwelt

so many happy memories live 

in how their house smelt

When just a whiff I get

Scent memories in my brain

I'm transported back to the 

home on Crestwood Lane

The lamp post in the yard

a post light was planted

in the many-treed front yard

at the grama grampa home 

to recall feels sweet hard 

I see him at the lamp post

her window waving bent hand

rain or shine they welcomed 

till they joined the angel band 

lamp and window folk bidding

hello and farewell at night dark

side by side joy parenthesizing 

like enfolding punctuation mark

my without was shades of grim

their within sequestered sanctuary 

the old post light signaling a

place with room enough for Mary

the grama-grampa house an

enchanted hidey-hole for me

red brick lakeside castle 

on Michigan's dune strewn sea

journeys start with first steps

my personal Narnia fairytale

entering cedar wardrobe, to

emerge on snowy lamplit trail

Christmas lamp was bedazzled

In her festive noel skirt

His simple holiday offering was

just a wrapping paper insert 

paper faded by the bulb

as it decorated the years 

memories of him standing there

always brings me to tears

That's how everything was at 

The grama-grampa home so bright

Like lamp post nothing fancy but

giving so much more than light

yet all the much muchness

those dear old people gave

makes nostalgia bite harder

now that they are in the grave

But I must take care not to drown

in hole black as printer's ink

if I should tarry too long at 

the memory fountain to drink

I must only let recalling

fringe-flutter firefly by 

not capture nor cling lest the 

poor thing and I surely die

So I'll let their yard beacon

beckon to the yore day

but too long in back then 

I shan't allow myself to stray. 

Because I have now joy

the delights of my soul

people in the today time

who make my picture whole. 

Love to Gram and Gramp from Marilisa

Music of the swamp

critter sounds resound

in the riverside damp

knowing folk call wetland

we just knew it as a swamp

tree frog sawmill buzz

burp chirrup of bullfrog

companionable jamming

on an old bog log

don't let's forget the 

orchestra insect band

and slurpyish munch of

deer dining in marsh land

this is cattail country

I've long been keen on those

the bushy exploding fronds

as fuzzy as horse's nose

And on swamp things furry

that pearly grey pussy willow

which Jake calls kitty toes

we could make of them a pillow

no idea what they grow into

softy beansies are fine for me

not sure it's required I know

the full Systema Naturae litany 

I sing the all creature choir 

that in misty symphony play

such merry melodies abounding 

just cause it's Tuesday

Specter at the feast

This began as a nature poem

bout cattails and pussy willows

those pearl grey fuzzy orbs

our Jake calls kitty toes

but then I lost the plot

increasingly common for me

well divergence as Frost says

paths not yet taken are poetry 

Which brings me to winter

nodding to Robert's snowy night 

not my prime time to pen on

being much too cold to write! 

what's the point or am I 

just pointlessly rambling along?

P'raps I'm on the road less taken

and I'm still writing words to my song

And there's the point: we're all

just making it up as we go 

weaving tapestries out of fragments

not knowing what we know till we know

And yanno, as I write I think 

I like it so much better this way

letting the verse go where it will

allowing the poem to have its say

Characters in my story do that

start writing on their own accord

butting in where I don't see them

and then demanding to be heard

Suddenly I'm not the author 

he's taken over the show

I'm playing ghost writer to

a character I don't yet know

like lunatics seizing the asylum

who's not and who is in charge

If I'm the one who invented them

they've become remarkably large

Or maybe I'm the nut who

just thinks she controls the plot

maybe he's in my head composing

while this pen pusher is not

And then if it's real or made up 

Am I the one with the choice 

or am just a seance medium 

an instrument giving them voice?

So who's the specter at the feast?

persona non grata perhaps is me

Banquo, the murdered killjoy?

my character real while I'm the story?

I'll break the fifth wall a moment to say that yes, disturbing, right? I'm wondering if that's why so many writers went mad (can you go mad? Is it a place on the map? not sure if that's the worst place to go?) Anyway. Such is our lot. And yes, I absolutely have had specter characters emerge out of nowhere and demand a bigger part. One of which was just starting to rear his head in my book "Heir Supply." before my computer caught a virus. Alas the tech guru pronounced the machine "toast." Sad because both books saved on it were viable for publication. And these books only exist in my head

And I'm not even sure "he"  had a name yet. He was an itinerant odd job man. Who wrote himself a bigger role. And unfortunately American names from back then are all SOOO banal. Fred (yawn) George (yawn wider) Ben (cracks head open yawning too hard). I mean why can't we name like the Brits?? Roman names like Septimus! Or Saxon, Ethelred! So I will give our character a Bible name my husband recently referred to and which surprisingly, Bible scholar me had forgotten (never heard of, gasp, no forgotten) Elkanah. 

How about that, Elkanah? What do you think?. (The author and audience await his nibs' approval). We could go with Ahasuerus?? I can't believe I'm kowtowing to a MADE UP person!! Funny how I've NOT forgotten as much of the book as you'd have thought I would being written mostly in 2010. 16 years ago!! Damn!!! I wish I had that file. Maybe it wasn't that good. But it was over 100 pages long with the gist of it in my head. Yes, even you Ekanah/Ahasuerus whoever you are. I'd have love sparring with you over the passages. 

I probably won't go back to the poem because it's so difficult trying to rhyme. Seriously, you're very constrained. I would like to return to the marsh poem. I can see the place in my head-- Harbor Island in Grand Haven. Not so much a marsh now. Thank you Progress. Still, weeping willows ...

Red light district poppy cabaret

Field of Pompeian red poppies 

in our back garden blaze

parades of scarlet ladies 

queuing for sun dance days

Architectural floral marvels 

impossibly large petal heads 

pirouette and jete upon the

slenderest of stem threads 

In moulin rouge chorus can-can

Voluptuous vermillion lassies 

degage their heels up high and

show off blush pink under panties

What a frenzy of ruby hues

These sensual blooms bestow 

our own red light district puts on

it's annual cabaret show

Enthusiastically bombastic

Our flirty flower girls

Are ever so rosy cheeky

with their ruffles and whirls  

They tango with the wind

Drop curtsies to the Sun

With garnet glowing blossoms

we got the blues on the run! 

Such bejeweled radiance for

that so-fleeting spring time 

they turn themselves inside out

Their torch song in crimson and mime 

Each gives without ever taking

Opening wide her fiery heart

No admission ticket needed, quick 

The second act's about to start

but with entrances barely begun

their pageant too soon ends

And we must bid adieu to

our cheery cherry red friends 

We loudly applaud "brava" 

one last encore and bow to all 

Blowing dancers final kisses 

in their flaming curtain call

We'd shower them with roses

Throw bouquets at each foot

But as they'd outshine the votives 

The point would be quite moot 

And now the stage is dark

no more a berry merry maid

their little beacons burnt out

as they wither in the shade

Starry eyed and enraptured 

We exclaim with giddy head

wasn't this their best year ever?

our private rhapsody in red?

Lucky us with front row seats 

for the world tour of "Poppy Dance!" 

Compared with, no Broadway stage

performance stands a chance

Your rest my girls you earned 

thank you for our lovely show

each season's farewell gets harder

when mother nature calls time to go

with gratitude for the dance

(photo attribution John Haslam from Dornoch, Scotland, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)  till I can find my own pictures

Imaginings for my baby grands

 As our score of grands hits 13

I've some Omi imaginings to share

of wishes and hopings and aims

various hats I hope you all wear

before you, your parents and auntie

were children belonging to me

my baby birdies of back then 

now perch in the big bird tree

I love them with all my heart

and prouder I could not be

sometimes I confess to getting 

lost in regret and memory

regrets of all my shouldas

it's an overplayed refrain

memories of how I let 

them down and caused some pain

But my loves, that's the part of

growing old that I'm not proud

the maudlin regret refrain

We think and shouldn't say aloud

So we've all been there, the

older folks and now me

how we appreciate what we had

only when it ceases to be

But I'll be damned if I let

this devolve into melancholy

I saw too many people drown

in what is basically self-pity

Because regrets should only serve

to teach us to celebrate the day long

all our loved ones here and now

carpe diem shall be our song! 

Alas the Prophet says I can't 

visit your tomorrow house, it seems

Ancestors can't can go where you are

not even in our dreams. 

(this is the part where we cue sexy guitar riff, sip some wine and grieve a bit)

We can't rewind nor fast forward

we've neither tomorrow nor yesterday 

so let us dive in and enjoy 

this lovely present called today 

And so as they fly up to

the place we call "grownup" 

I give thanks to have you

all to overflow my cup 

My very dearest little dears 

I ain't the wisest owl on said tree

but what wisings I've got are yours

So listen up to Mama Omi 

You've all so very much muchness 

M. Rogers says, just by being you delight

You shine so brightly it hurts and

I'm happily blinded by your light

like 13 waterfalls carousing

you rain down so much joy 

to wash away our pain 

my each little girl and boy

you pour your light like water

on all the lonely people below

for those blessed in your orb

We're lucky to be in your glow

For you aren't merely uniform

you're a lovely parquetry of bits

some parts with jigsaw symmetry 

and the rogue piece that never fits  

we're none picture puzzle perfect 

And that's exactly as we should be 

my hope for you babies grand is 

you be the you-iest you you can be

For the Lord looked on, he knew

he saw that all of you is good 

That your enough is enough

your being just as you should 

for in this race we call human 

we fear failure too much I fear

but what exactly we're afraid of

is to me not entirely clear

I fear we're afraid of stumbling

but it's not a failure to fall 

the only way you can fail is

by never even trying at all

When bumps come and they will

go ahead shed tears for the pain

then adjust your bum on your bike

and soon you'll be rolling again!

And who cares if you don't make it

Omi'll always cheer you all

the only thing that'd make me sad  

is if falling kept you small 

My babies, fly your YOU flag

don't hide your light under a jar

inhabit your you fully, as gran said

tell 'em who you are! (dammit!)

I hope your reach exceeds grasp

don't settle for safe on shore 

and exceeding reach, visions 

seek and open up the door

don't let can't limit you

can't never did nothing till he tried

shatter your glass ceilings

bust the pane way open wide! 

But grandiose dreams don't mean

you must perfection sustain

some days we just survive and 

and somehow try to maintain 

I love you in dazzling red and blues

on far ups and way down days

all the sort of in betweens

when the best we got is grays. 

You don't have perpetually shine

some days you just feel dim

but Omi loves ya no less, honey

cause you're still sparkling within

May your possibilities be endless

may the choices always be yours 

and opportunities limited only by

an overabundance of doors

But don't worry if you miss one

we all do, and it's okay

if you ignore and walk on by

there will be more another day 

So let's end with rousing crescendo

a full chorus in full voice then

a song of praise for our children

we'll shout the great Amen

(I know you thought this was ending but I must make a nod to my Alaska and Lake Michigan)

May you range free where

the deer and antelope roam

May whatever place you live in

always feel like home. 

And if you need space or shelter  

you're welcome with us to take 

there will always be room for you

in the blue house by the lake. 

with love from your Omi

I have a new grand boy

I have a new baby grand

not piano, a little boy man

born as the church was about

to start the O antiphon. 

He brings the blessings to 13

an embarrassment of riches for me

a luckier Omi on big blue marble

there never, ever, never could be

It's hard or maybe impossible

to express the joy you are to me

for a kid who existed on sufferance

to be grandmother to so many 

I wish I had known in then time

when I seemed to bring no one joy

that the day would arrive when

I'd be given this shiny bright boy  

a foretelling of his star plus

12 stellar lights around him

a prophecy of our own constellation 

would have lit those days so grim

days of winter with no Christmas

So little summer sun back when

Even Lake Michigan refused me

Nothing much to celebrate then

I had such big ideas, Cassius

the world was my oyster you see

I was sharp smart and gung ho

but there was so much denied to me

horizons artificially narrowed 

my firmament shrink wrapped

it's hard to reach potential 

when your resources are tapped

Despite a major recession

I did push my boat out to sea

In the crappiest car on the planet

I made it to Grand Valley

I'd have liked to go further

but not enough on board family 

yet grandad said with pride that I

was the first to make university

I wish I could tell more about 

great Omis and Opis of your'n 

but I know so very little

not even where they were born

Think of that, my baby

Omi never asked our people

it would have been so easy to

inquire about their nativity

Perhaps you see, being closer 

to the womb than me 

why did I take for granted

they'd live eternally?

It's a sad mistake to think

that they'll all always stay 

They'll always be here for us

and never ever go away

I wish that was true, Cassius

If wishes were horses we'd ride

I'd ride with you forever 

If from passing time I could hide

So  ask your questions now

before we olders must fly away

I wish I'd asked my Omi 

She said I'd regret it some day

My boy, this is going to

a long away far ago time

and farther away than that

And you can't visit what was only ever mine. 

And as Kahlil says I can only

visit where you'll inhabit in dreams

you live in the place of tomorrow

and I sadly can't go there it seems

but I can dream a world for you 

where time won't let me know

with no press and sealed skies 

and oceans wide places to go

May you walk with chutzpah

and fully inhabit your shoes

don't hold back, dive in, honey

you've only adventures to lose

If this saddens anyone let it

be me and never you, I hope           

you're maxing out your youness when 

you read these words that I wrote

Love, to Future Man from back then Omi