Remarkable Movements

Remarkable Movement

By jim bourey

Oh for the day of unremarkable bowels

when they required only a few moments

attention, a peaceful interlude without

growls or gurgles, with no sudden rushes

of fluids and solids, or worse, yea, that

issuing forth of life’s red essence bringing

alarm as it stains porcelain bowl and its

tarry contents. Now quickly to the medics

full of concern and queries.  Then on to

probing and needles jabbed into veins.

Further yet to brick-faced, white-halled

buildings with rooms full of frightening

machines passing over my body with

hums and whirls and technicians saying

be still or else.  And yet more needles

and potions and questions and vague

answers until body and mind are weak

and weary. The journey continues

incessant, with foul bowels now

nearly as important as sweet poetry.

Crutches

“Getting in bed, I cuddled next to her good leg.”

Mason Williams 1969

Imperfection is such a burden

and it weighs me down more

with each passing year.  There

is no easing of bodily flaws, no

sudden sharpening of mental

acuity.  No, it all flows away,

                 away until every damn

                    part is bent or stooped

                        or atrophied or unresponsive…

A bum leg was just a curiosity

back when perfection was closer,

when puzzles could be solved

when all the parts had their part

memorized and on good days

life was a symphony of sorts

                 sorted out and possible

                    pleasurable, hopeful

                       full and fulsome and fun…

And tucked away in a closet

is a box of photos, wrinkled

and faded (a simile) showing

a girl with crutches, leg straight

out and cast encased, smiling

slyly while I clutch her arm, grinning

                    a grin both shy

                       and proud, comfortable

                          and very much in love…

Snowstorm's A' Comin'

Here comes the forecast snow.

Looks like it’ll be a real big blow.

All the weather girls and boys

are making lots of scary noise.

Every channel has the story.

NOAA’s in its warning glory

Our governor has a real good plan

the snow plow driver’s name is Stan.

Look at all the grocery stores.

People knocking down the doors

milk and meat and loaves of bread

a block of cheddar cheese to shred.

Don’t forget the Quaker oatmeal.

This dang place is sure surreal.

Every Wilma, Joe and Jane

is rushing to the quick check lane.

Gas stations all are really busy

drug store clerks are getting dizzy.

Panic’s rising shoulder high

gotta find some stuff to buy.

Shovels, gloves, flour and salt

some liquor made with good old malt.

Supplies are now set in place

no more need to rush and race.

With a little bit of Frenchman’s luck

plows will all get soundly stuck.

Then when Wednesday rolls around

we’ll still be sweetly hunkered down

with no particular place to go

just looking out at all the snow.

Maybe stay beneath the covers

acting like two young lovers.

Winter Remnant

This morning the wind got under my coat.

A cold wind, a late winter remnant.

Spring is not distant now and it’s a sure

thing that coats, hats and scarves will

soon be in the dark of the closet.

From tall reeds a blue heron lifted

its ungainly wings becoming an angel

in flight, following a narrow stream

deftly tipping, dodging branches making

a smooth passage through the shushing

wind, this late winter remnant.

Near the end of the trail the parking

lot was crowded as I finished my walk.

Men, women and several small children

headed for the playground, too many

for this work day.  But they tried

to enjoy our cool sunshine in spite

of the harsh wind, a late winter remnant.

Night Sounds

Silence. And yet a sound slips

softly into the night.  Then there is

another joining in.  A night song now.

One more voice, that high call, a howl

and another in response.  Still more

as I listen closely to the darkness.

It is a struggle to put names to

all those sounds.  Some are simple;

crickets, frogs, coyote lovers making

their mating plans, that wild cat I saw

last week, old Joe’s dog up on the hill.

But some sounds are not so easily

named.  What is that shushing or

the noise that seems like an old

man coughing or the sigh that

doesn’t come from the pines?

In the night I listen for comfort

with fear I listen to the night.

Buying Wood

Old wood cutter Charlie and I

Sat on a couple of tree stumps
Swapping pulls from a bottle
Of homemade brandy
That went down
Easier for him than
It did for me

The late fall evening was

Warm with a macaroon
Moon hanging just
Above the river’s
Ridge and we were
Settling on a price
For cords of wood

But Charlie had bigger

Things on his mind
And the brandy fired
Up his talking
Even more than
It warmed my throat
And empty stomach

I’m all done raging

At reality, he said,
Me and the missus
Are gonna sell off
The wood lots
And that old hillside
Orchard near the river

Cutting firewood is for

Younger folks with
Stronger bodies than
Mine and hers
And that rv is going
And the boat and motor
Even the hunting camp
Up by Canaan hill
With the eighty acres

It will all be gone

By spring time
Before our Carrie’s wedding
She’ll get married but
Me and Jane will be doing
Some honeymooning
Driving across
The country in
Our good pick-up truck
With the camper on
The back seeing all those
Places we missed as we
Raised the family

I told Charlie that he

Had a good plan
I sure hoped it worked
Out for them
But how much for six
Damn cords dumped near
My wood pile

Full dark had come when

He finally said

Fifty bucks a cord

And you know I’ve
Got some fuckin’ lung
Disease that will
Kill me in a
Year or so

I said that I was sorry

About that but I wasn’t
Paying any more than
Forty seven
And we
Shared the last
Of the bottle
And laughed like hell

Final Choice

A poem about writing and that other thing.

Final Choice

As poets ponder
In their midnights dreary
Turning over lines
Comparing theirs to those
Of old timers and new ones too
They are faced with an age
Old decision regarding
A choice of metaphors

Dusk or dawn

Endless dark night
Or bright new day

For that most common

Of commonalities
Which we won’t mention
Until I make my choice

(A choice I shouldn’t delay

Considering my age
And advancing state of decay)

Before I set sail on those

Mythic five rivers
Before I meet the boatman
Who will carry my
Soul to oblivion or glory
A mythology or reality
(A reality requiring a large
Leap of will power)
Must be settled upon

Else how will I write

My final poem
My death poem

Oh no

I mentioned the word
And no choice yet made

Guess I’ll just go on

And live out this day
Ignoring metaphors
Until another drear
Midnight comes along
When ponderous pondering
Begs for a final song