The Birthday Poem
(For Dennis Sheffield, a friend)

10/15-17/03

For each time

the steamy air

wonders of a

clearing for recognition.

It pushes like a river.

The day that quenches to quiver.

So much is the focus.

The intentional rump of jumping and stomping,

as each person purposely takes another step;

Jar visions to slack.

Turn and see each occupant, those junior

look-a-likes tempered brighter.

There's nothing ahead of you until you

get there - if you get there - and turn

around and wait to do it again.

(If fate continues to befriend)

Place yourself a year ago behind you.

That one is through.

When it's all about you.

So much is the process:

From a wet blanket

To a gift, a quilt;

That baby handkerchief held,

Then wipe away your own stains

With something more stern and stiff.

A need to commemorate.

The touching occurrence

dangles glaringly as

a woman's piece of

expensive jewelry,

waving to all the

public.

Twirling, there is no dispute.

Yes, there may be a surprise.

Happy with your joy, joy?

This is relevant until the word "goodbye."

To see it all or see not all

Looms to possibilities of at

Least one wonderful moment, or even one

moment to observe yearly

occasions momentous.

Look, all of your friends.

Look, presents.

What would it be like? Describe the ambience?

What about the weather? How many people?

Will there be a blindfold? Could it go on forever?

The day is double-glazed, full-throttled.

The day is calm and memorable.

Collection of faces picked from duration,

and there is a quiet relation with a voice

that may have been faded, rampantly

evaded of an invite.

Exactly jaded.

There is the evaluation.

The query in the eyes of each elder;

Do you feel that you're, now,

moving on up there?

Do you feel grown up yet?

No, let me guess?

Can I count on you, now

that you're mature?

Do you grasp what

responsibility is for?

A party, a party!

There could be a party!

Imagine all the guests.

A party, a party!

If there is a party,

Please, be the best dressed.

Move onward, young thing.

(Something a teacher would say)

You'll stand for all the days

and feel a bit strained.

Scarce weren't grays that lowly crept.

They appeared before the rule of time.

It's possible the grand entrance

appeared while you slept.

Youth, you may think, has committed a crime.

Silent, as it rightly occurs, but the years

they roll and roll.

Roughly, age can afford to be vital or petty.

Each in humanity decides the poll.

You're enlarged.

There is a symbol of praise.

The realization of your creation.

Worlds imply the emergence of an important day.

An excitable tremble.

It is an absolute endeavor.

Remember, remember.

Conceivable to the greatest physical pleasure.

Back and forth, invade the earliest memories

of a favorite family member.

Ask him or her if they recall you earlier.

Endure the heaviest of their words

and the most elongated of their words.

They'll paint a picture.

They'll tell how far you will grow.

(Even if they don't know)

They'll tell you things you should have known.

The long-beaked bird flew away.

Had flown to the air of sweet earth.

The long-beaked bird could hardly stay -

Hardly stay for the day of your birth.

Definite the rite.

A twenty-four hour legend.

All the lights flash

to create the incredible,

But little is less of the burning light -

it's haunting, so brilliant when born.

A joy that spawns beyond common sight;

never to leave any lovelorn.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Favorite poem and poet week: This week, I recite "Whispers Of Immortality" by T.S. Eliot. 12/19-21/13

Whispers of Immortality

  by T. S. Eliot

Webster was much possessed by death 
And saw the skull beneath the skin; 
And breastless creatures under ground 
Leaned backward with a lipless grin. 
 
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes! 
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs 
Tightening its lusts and luxuries. 
 
Donne, I suppose, was such another 
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate, 
Expert beyond experience, 
 
He knew the anguish of the marrow 
The ague of the skeleton; 
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye 
Is underlined for emphasis; 
Uncorseted, her friendly bust 
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
 
The couched Brazilian jaguar 
Compels the scampering marmoset 
With subtle effluence of cat; 
Grishkin has a maisonette; 
 
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom 
Distil so rank a feline smell 
As Grishkin in a drawing-room. 
 
And even the Abstract Entities 
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs 
To keep our metaphysics warm.

 Source: Poets.org

"The Loss Of A Poem Of Heart And Soul" and an addition poem this week. I apologize for the quality of the vid. 12/11-13/13

The Loss of a Poem of Heart and Soul
February 22, 2002

What was that lovely sentence written yesterday?

The one incredible first line.

The beginning.

A break from imagination that wouldn't allow me

to stop, but bring to a shine.

The civil course of action is to have it done.

Later - probably much later - a little annotation.

The results may not be the gift of great sound,

the arrangement may seem like your world

is a little warped, a little down.

To handle it: write from all places and vacant spaces.

May forces allowing any mind to stack further on

the ego, resolves for some importance of pinpoints

that will not delay the chart.

Especially in the middle of great thoughts.

© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

There is true light and life in Africa

May 16, 2007

Someone, somebody, maybe someone all wrinkled and everything

sat me down and regaled stories of tribesmen, whose toes should be

tormented with ingrown nails, whose craggy feet should bear the right

to whine of bunions, hardened corns and calluses, old warts, unsightly

hammertoes and constant hectoring from heel pain.

This is because they travel by plain walks and runs, they hunt this way,

and the bold directness of their lives should be mirrored beyond the

mere travelling beams of accolades.

© 2007 Jarrod C. Lacy

"Jeff" (an excerpt) is the posted poem this week. 12-4/13 - 12-6/13

Jeff (an excerpt)

July 16, 2005

He said he had the gift after I shook his hand.

There was an out-of-town accent:

"My name is Jeff."

Winn-Dixie had a bit of skeptic on the front of

her property, but there we met.

Forward, I was but uneven with his face, bearing a

trembling stance.

To myself, "Can I trust the All Mighty to corrode

my concerns about a new face, and protect me as

I clutched the far-side of my grocery basket?

I trust you, Lord."

He said he just had to comfort me, for there was

something about me.

He noticed my doubt and caution.

"Man, I'm just goin' give it to you straight, man,

and be honest..."

I was immensely tight with the pause of readiness, if

self-defense would become prevalent, but there was

a little embarrassment, though I listened.

His twenty-something handsome features correlated

stunningly with his slightly over 6-foot frame, and as

I studied the smooth, unblemished driftwood that was

the shade of his skin, while I waited his narration, I told

myself that, "Yeah, I'll just keep my eye on 'im this

way."

He was dressed for the humidity that day, and despite

his lean muscularity, he was easily identifiable as a

jock, before he even mentioned it, looking awesomely

luscious in man's laziest apparel: a bleach-white tank

top, exposing the youth and strength of his arms, saggy,

grey sweatpants with dangling white drawstrings, the

bottom legs scrunched to his knees, and crew socks

matching the retina-frying brightness of his tank, and his 

dingy sneakers were no surprise, while his left hand clutched

a thin dark jacket, as if to say he was expecting the temp

to lower at night, in the middle of an Alabamian July.

"I've been here for over three months, and even though

the missions here are nice, they have same problem as

any other, anywhere else: too many bodies to provide

for. I'm not saying that I'm better than my situation, but

every now and again, it'll be nice to stand as a man

if I wasn't always standing in line, waiting for another

sack of something provided by unknown hands; it

makes me feel as if I'm not trying hard enough to get

back on my feet."

All I could do was reply with a cool hand "I here ya, man."

He furthered his examination of me, and continued with a

softer flow.

 

© 2005 Jarrod C. Lacy