People
Gap Filler
Instead of being the most
I was supposed to be,
I stood in your gaps, filled up the empty places
you left everywhere behind you with your inattentiveness.
Instead of being all I could be,
I propped up the false thinking
that the two of us made a team. We barely made one.
Funny, I don’t remember growing up thinking
"I want to be a gap filler, just part of someone else’s being."
But that is what I volunteered to become.
I should be so mad at you and especially at me,
but no time for that; I am going to get on with living--
the kind where no caulking gun is required.
Now if I see a crack I am going to step over and keep walking.
--Sandra Dodd
Midnight Rendezvous
Or, Cougar Blues
A dimly lit bar, and you’ve had too many beers.
Drunken lust blurs your focus;
alcohol has tightened my pores--
the pallor of winter now mistaken for youth’s translucence.
Ambient light reflects off my hair and
I become blondish, ample waist in shadow.
My melons aren’t ripe peaches
but low-hanging fruit within your grasp.
You’re a young pup
and think I’m just a bit more aged than you,
but I’m a bitch more sage than you--
even after two gins I gauge better than you--
you’re just a page or two
and I’m a book no one’s checked out of the library for a few years.
If you saw me sleeping in tomorrow’s daylight
you would run, fearing me a vampire,
thinking more so after you hear me laugh.
You shouldn’t have stayed up past your bedtime.
I am tempted to stage this scene, but dawn approaches
and my crypt awaits.
So, I write a script for you and
my kiss remains a fantasy of bliss for you—
a wanting lost in the fog of a midnight rendezvous.
--Anne Rettenberg
Titanic
You were the chattering one,
your patter entertained us.
For a long time I was charmed.
And didn’t notice you rarely said “how are you?”
When I tried to tell you anyway, you ran and hid,
lest my truthtelling was contagious,
and you would suddenly start spilling your secrets .
You let me know I was your ugly duckling friend.
But behind your dismissiveness
I saw what you were--
a scared hurt thing whose shiny shell and bright eyes
hid a dark sliminess
and another pair of eyes crouched in fear.
Years later when we met again
it was the same as always, except
I’d grown up, swanlike, and
you’d built yourself a fortress of fat.
You wanted us to play our old roles
and I went along.
But the more I tolerated you,
the less you tolerated yourself.
You became gigantic, titanic flesh lumbering through life.
You set sail to flee me and all your old friends.
But then you struck an iceberg
and as you started to sink
I thought about reaching out to you,
but it was too late, and you were too heavy.
--Anne Rettenberg
Juneteenth
A trickle of water
bisects a field of wildflowers
and you might not see it
until you step in it.
The butterflies dry
their dew damp wings
in the first light
that reaches this canyon.
It is just me
and my dad for the day
and the babble
of water over rocks.
He slaves at his work
forty-eight weeks a year
so he may enjoy this freedom
for three weeks.
The puritan within him
has trouble with my
living not five miles
from this trailhead,
not fighting for every penny,
for every tax break,
not a single hour of overtime
worked during the year.
The white rumps of mule deer
disappear into the aspen grove
at the heave of his lowlander breath.
He stops on a rock to retie his shoes—
a delaying tactic
to prevent an admission of age.
His fingers unscrew the canteen top
and some of the water
trickles down his chin,
spots his khaki pants.
Out of orneriness
and youthful memories,
he matches me step for step
on this mountain
and never mentions
how many painkillers
he takes before supper.
--Kenneth Gurney
Every Cat Has Nine Lives (excerpts)
1
Countless times
put to bed early
without supper.
Either me or the
potatoes were too thick.
2
Everybody took baths
on Saturday night.
My hair tied up in
clean cotton rags.
All curls at church
to match the frilly dress.
4
Yes I do recall having
soap shoved in my mouth.
Had to eat some of it too.
But why was I punished?
Have clean forgotten.
8
On the day of my initiation
a hero was presented to me.
As if I were a heroine
born to consume
meatballs, sausages,
massive delicacies.
I will leave soon, wide awake.
But it took years to
swallow my fear whole.
--Joan McNerney
PACKING
It's the only house they've ever owned
and now the sun shines on packed boxes on the porch.
The parlor has been emptied of furniture.
The bed is gone. The sheets are folded.
Fancy plates are wrapped in sections
of the Providence Journal.
The cheap stuff's jammed in without padding.
He never took the opportunity
to toss the clothes he never wears.
And the books from his childhood,
once promised to his future heirs,
are only a gift to his memories.
The more practical one, she thought
“Why carry what you don't need?”
She chucked dresses that no longer fit.
She hadn’t shed the pounds, so
she jettisoned the reminders of her failure.
Soon everything will be stashed in the back
of the big yellow moving van.
The house will be as it was
the moment they first crossed its threshold.
The sun will take one last look around
then rise higher in the sky,
shine its light more indifferently
on the neighborhood.
In the house’s rooms, there'll be shadows, cold spots.
--John Grey
Don’t Let the Facts Get in the Way of a Good Story
(An Homage to Ogden Nash)
People who indulge in tittle-tattle and rumour
put me in a bad humour.
Without wishing to be unduly formal
I can state that as a rule reality is pretty normal,
which, I suppose, explains the fun to be had
by people who reckon they can add
two and two, but almost invariably make it more
than what it should be, viz., i.e., or to wit, four.
Call me cynical,
but too many people's approach to the truth is far from clinical,
so it no longer gives me any surprise to
know the conjectures that the most commonplace remark can give rise to.
A snatch of overheard conversation
in all likelihood has a very mundane explanation,
on account of (as I said before) reality
for most of us being of a mind-numbing banality.
The interest, however, that rumour-mongers can find
in the further imaginative reaches of the mind
is considerably higher,
but then they have the effrontery to attempt to justify their outrageous speculations by claiming that there's no smoke without fire.
--Paul Hansford
About the Poets:
Sandra Dodd resides in Oregon. She started writing poetry spontaneously when a poem just came to her one day. She believes poetry is a vehicle for self actualization, self discovery, and pure entertainment. From the pen you cannot hide yourself.
Anne Rettenberg is Editor of Eat a Peach: A Poetry Journal. She is a psychotherapist in New York City. She recently authored an ebook , “Finding the Woman You Want: A Therapist’s Advice for Men Looking for a Permanent Relationship,” which is available via Amazon.
Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He edits the NM poetry anthology Adobe Walls. In 2010 his poem "Picture of the Christ and the Magdalene" was nominated for a Push Cart Prize. For a publication list and available books visit http://www.kpgurney.me/Poet/Welcome.html
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. Four of her books have been published by small literary presses.
John Grey lives in Providence, Rhode Island. He has been published in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal.
Paul Hansford is a retired teacher of wide experience. He has been published in various magazines and papers, including the U.K. Daily Mail and Times Educational Supplement, and won a few prizes in Gloucestershire-based poetry competitions. His work has been selected three times to be read at the Cheltenham Festival of Literature. He has self-published two collections of poetry and prose and a third is in the pipeline. His membership of U3A (University of the 3rd Age), particularly its Poetry Workshop, has been the stimulus for much of his writing recently.