Category: Poetry

Also-ran Reckless

Most wade in, ankle deep and no further. 
         I went crashing 
              Past those who ventured up to their knees, freestyle
On gall’s impulsive course
        Far beyond the drowners, I gave out and rolled

On my back like a slick otter about to crack a mollusk
I searched the sky for a lodestar. 

I did not recognize heaven. All the jewels were falling
       One after the other
            Bright, final moments.

Cold and shriveled, I slithered to bitter ground 
Capitulant among prudent ankles.

Leaf Blowers

The Season’s visage wears a scowl. 

Cold smoke moves on specter toes. 

Join the lonely wind in howl,

Chant the words in Winter’s prose.

It has been a long, cold winter but the worst has passed. February brings milder temperatures to South Texas. The only sign of the old frigid man is yellow grass, some bare tree branches and pruned crape myrtles. A sense of season is easily confused. Landscapes surrounding office buildings and cul de sacs alike are planted with invasive, perennials of implacable green. The display of chocolate hearts is replaced by chocolate rabbits beside a sale for sunscreen. The new line of patio furniture relaxes in cool umbrella shade, inviting a shopper to sit and consider the sale price on the laminated tag. Everyone should own a grill at least once in their life but no one really needs a leaf blower. Did Washington and Lincoln believe in one nation under God with liberty and justice and 30% off for all? Wait! Don’t buy that, put it back on the shelf. Save your money for a weekend getaway to Port Aransas. The seashore is enticing but beware the Ides of March and the college students who storm the beach in amphibious assaults like drunken Marines. Spring loves to tease but she is just around the corner. Open a bottle of wine and listen to Carmina Burana. You may have to turn the stereo up loud to be heard above the mating call of leaf blowers.

Galveston Winter

There are some people who look forward to winter. This type of cold weather folk can’t wait for  the first report of powdery snow on their favorite slope so they can dress in thermal finery and ascend a mountain where, once at the summit, strap 2x4s to there frozen feet and hurl themselves off risking broken bones and frostbite. The roaring fire and  a tankard of IPA in the lodge are the perfect end to a thrilling day of cheating death. In my past, ski resorts were a great gig for a cover band, good money and dinner show hours. But it was always cold and, since I consider anything below 60 F freezing, I never looked forward to Vermont in January. When I lived in New York, I could tolerate winter only because inclement weather was an excuse to stay inside and I could dry my towels on the radiator. 

Photo by Josh Amparan on Pexels.com

Now that I live within spitting distance of Mexico, I can’t complain about frigid weather too much or use it as justification for being lazy. Except when it is really, really frigid. When the mercury plummets to 18 F and icy precipitation creates a clear candy shell on sidewalks and statues in the Northeast people shrug it off as another nasty day. In the South, those conditions create a sort of surreal pandemonium. You may recall one such day in 2021 when an arctic blast shut Houston down for a week and Gulf beaches were polluted with the carcasses of sea life. It was almost Biblical. 

Here is one man’s account in verse form:

Galveston Winter
Twenty pelicans sail by in jagged formation. 
The beach is lead and mist. 
Wind whips the crispy, brown fronds of tropical transplants; victims of the big freeze. 

Just like the fish that washed ashore to ferment 
On the sand stinking surströmming. 
A feast for gulls who turn up their snobbish beaks 
Preferring purloined corn chips and french fries. 

The grackles laugh. 
They are amused by everything: 
Death
	Pelicans struggling against a squall 
		Broken glass in a hopping man’s bare foot

I get the joke, too. 
Fish don’t wear sweaters
Idiots don’t wear shoes 
And palms should not wander too far North of Bogotá. 

But laughing at a pelican is just plain cruel. 

The Year of the Tiger

Photo by Richard Verbeek on Pexels.com

It is the Lunar New Year. The Chinese New Year. The Year of the Tiger. The Bengals are in the Superbowl this year. My astrological sign in the Eastern horoscope is the Sheep or Goat or Ram. The Rams are in the Super Bowl this year. Everything seems to be coming together in the universe, at least in this small sector. Who knows how things are going around Proxima Centauri. I would write and ask but it would take light years for a letter to reach them and by the time an answer arrived back it would be old news as if an old girlfriend from high school wrote me a note during second period and slipped it through the gill slits of my locker on her way to biology, written on lined notebook paper with little hearts as dots over the “i”’s. But she made a mistake and the little missive went into locker 223, the locker beside mine, assigned to a geek with a terrible teenage complexion who entertained a fantasy that he had a secret admirer for years to come until one day when he forwarded the note to its rightful owner. By then it was too late. It was too late to tell my girlfriend how much I liked her and that I would come over to her house to watch a movie on the VCR. I should not dwell on the past, however. My Chinese horoscope advises me to live in the moment. And who would argue? The signs have already picked the teams in this year’s Super Bowl.

Thursday

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Thursday dawns without inspiration or impulse. In my liminal state before coffee, I searched the dark for a sketch of the day to come. All I found was the base animal instinct to rise and begin prowling the earth for food and procreation. If I have a muse, he has taken Thursday off for personal reasons. Who can blame him, assigned to the likes of me by the force governing the universe, for needing a break? It must be frustrating: guiding my clumsy fingers along the fretboard or ivory keys, helping me choose words. Indeed, it must be exhausting. If only I could crack into my skull and reconfigure the dip switches to genius mode. I asked the neurosurgeon to do some tinkering around while he was in there removing a tumor but he couldn’t be bothered. He was too worried about saving my life. Besides, my insurance did not cover elective procedures like aptitude modification or synapse diversion. And so I am stuck with what I’ve got and a muse who takes Thursdays off.

Music by the Lost, Words by the Found

No Guitars were harmed during the recording of this song.

I spent countless hours of my youth poring over the liner notes of every record I could get my hands on. No detail, from studio location to assistant engineer, went unappreciated. Lyrics were always a welcome bonus.

As a young, wannabe musician I was particularly interested in the songwriting credits to learn who did what in the band. It was usually: Music by Guitar Player X, Words by Singer Y. But sometimes there would be a wildcard.

The theme of being lost and found again is a popular one in both secular and non-secular music. It got me to thinking what would happen if Lost and Found wrote a song together. Press play and crank it up! Lyrics are included.

Music by the Lost, Words by the Found – John Truelove copyright 2021

The saved will ring the bell
The damned will beat the drum
As this day is lost
So shall tomorrow come

Join me in a song
There are verses for the weak and the strong
We all know the sound 
Of music by the Lost
And words by the Found

Let the Angels pluck the string
Let the Demons blow the horn
As we die today
So shall we be reborn

Join me in a song
There are verses for the right and for wrong
We all know the sound
Of music by the Lost

Words and Music by John Truelove copyright 2021

Zandvoort Storm

stormy-window-holland

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nature paints a violent portrait
In a thick impasto of worried gray, bruised maroon, frigid blue
Gulls get stuck in the oil
Invisible wind punishes the sea grass
And blows sand onto the canvas
Blending with the palette’s tortured colors
Half a tube of titanium is squeezed
To frost the curling surf
Endless coils of leaden thunder break
In silence behind rain distorted glass
The stormy world melts with a Van Gogh eye