FEAST FOR GRANDPA

RWP #102..prompt was childhood memory of food


FEAST FOR GRANDPA

March 1955

no dinner bell rang

the bellys are ready

ignoring the cries of the mourners

forgetting the corpse

overthrowing all the tears

drinking from his hat of memories

vodka

eating homemade bread

from the the bowl of his Russia

borsch

dancing the Cossack dance

to the balalaika beat

vodka

eating pirogies

from his lost hat

celebrating his adventures

slipping out of Russia with two frozen apples

from Odessa to Saskatoon

peering through a gypsy window

with an imagination of velvet roses

with an endless appetite for the new fix

forgetting the killer who was a poet

rather to be poor than famous

dancing the Cossack dance

vodka

eating dill pickles

from some Bolshevik jar

dancing the Cossack dance

to the past poetry

of Alex Pushkin

vodka

sour cream with everything

Russian

everyone dancing

to the bayan beat

craving food and jazz

vodka

cheese

cabbage rolls

beef stroganoff

more bread

more borsch

vodka

remembering his Socialist thoughts

liberal ideas

his love for his homestead

his family

his zest for life

his love of music

poetry

sour cream

tasting the food he no longer could eat

vodka

farewell dedyshka.

STUTTERING

RWP#101 Prompt using all these "P" words

STUTTERING

He was that unhappy stranger

grooking on some street in Brooklyn

stuttering

cheering

for the posthumous Dodgers

with some forgotten platitude

speaking without aims of words

unable to prevaricate prayers of the preacher

stuttering

speaking

his transformed theology

walking his lonely processional path

unable to procrastinate his endless effort

breathing the poets' polyglot poetry

stuttering

answering

lost lovers with charitable progressions

with their porous plaster

and bleeding words of pernicious pimps

unable to turn on and tune out passions

stuttering

trespassing

the stolen parallelogram poems of prayer

and empty plethora of unseen sight

withholding the lost prickle of judgement

blinded by speakable poets

stuttering

stuttering

stuttering

with the pppppppppppppp pea words.

DREAMING

RWP#100...Prompt is dreams


DREAMING

I left home a long time ago
in a tin cup on the track
with a suitcase of emptiness
looking for a landslide of answers
from the preachers of truth
dreaming
to be a madman painter
like Van Gogh
burn words of sick poets
like Kerouac
shoot crap with drunk hobos
like Mr. Mudd
stop pucks from the Rocket
like the eccentric Sawchuk
throw sliders and screwballs
like spaceman Lee
remaining speechless forever
because it takes two to talk
become more boring with time
to attract the ladies of the lost Zodiac
forgetting all the grades failed
because the schoolyard was a horror show
disturbed by my friends in prison
who couldn't be trusted to conspire
dreaming
to sing Your Cheatin Heart drunk
with the great Hank Williams
to be a drunk writer in Havana
like Hemmingway
to be a stoned jazz singer
backing up Billie Holliday
to be a poor elevator operator
stuck on the ground floor
to be a gigolo in Montreal
unconscious and healing the unknown
eating a smoked beef sandwich on the Main
with Leonard Cohen without his hat
migrating to some unknown land
with a ceiling higher than Christ
pouring whiskey to the converted
so they could thrive in the cold
listening to Trotzky and Marx
as they talked to the spirits in Moroco
sitting in Casablanca drunk
with someone called Bogart
travelling the unknown highway
unaware the party never ends
dreaming
of the broken radio
and all its guts
with closed eyes
not being afraid of travelling blind
with the Boys Of Alabamma
holding on to nothing
but the bruises caried inside the suitcase
unpolished
transparent
lonely
dreaming of home
dreaming.

BROKEN GLASS

RWP#99... using the prompt... two people stting
at a table with broken glass on the floor.


BROKEN GLASS

There is more than memory
when it's lost
Edie and Jack
sitting
at Figaro Cafe on Macdougall street
staring
at Washington Square.. speechless...hopeless
hiding
thoughts never spoken
forgetting
promises never given
remembering
lost moments of yesterday
waiting
for the old dead poets
sitting
on their suicide pact
dreaming
of their sexual repression
discovering
Jesus had no religion
praying
for mysteries and non believers
smelling
their smoke and dirty feet
hating
the Yankees and their stolen bases
pretending
the past had square faces
hurting
in unknown places
singing
with sounds without noises
running
with bare feet and bleeding noses
waiting
for the desired streetcar
taking
shortcuts to empty spaces
struggling
with no memory
talking
without tongues of the church
staring
speechless and hopeless
searching
for lost tears
holding
emptiness of broken glass...Edie leaves
walking
towards lost memories and forgotten fears.