Egghead Knows Best
An old friend and I once
played a game of Trivial Pursuit with my brother’s friends.
At one point,
a kid asked my dad for an egg
to stiffen up his Mohawk hair style.
My friend then asked him
if he always played his records backwards.
The kid replied that it wasn’t necessary
because all today’s demons instead listen to CD’s.
Today it seems I’ve swum in fire
floating from the ignition point of flames
neither scorched nor scalded.
I glide from perdition out of the blaze
carrying no tears, but only buckets
clutched firmly, pails filled with
water meant to relieve the red-hot
broiling pain of those still consumed
by what was once that
conflagration’s ceaseless consequence.
The world is not yet diminished.
The beautiful lady-
with the sun in her hair,
the stars in her eyes,
and the enchantment of the moon
in her soul,
full of gratitude for time given.
She will become another
At second glance,
will she still be Dutch?
Or perhaps when she turns the corner,
How inspiring that those with the biggest hearts
create the smallest distance
between each of us
and they keep the most luminous stars
in their eyes.
Tell the children,
so that in latter years,
they may watch for her.
Michael’s at the locked door staring in the window beyond the glass,
waiting for the owner’s key to turn and bring him a smile of pages
as he recalls the old bookstores of his youthful days.
The glare of fluorescents reflecting off the lily whiteness of paper,
the touch of supple leather and the smell of binding glue,
the weight of multiple tomes upon his arms,
muscular in their day.
The once muscular arms of Michael.
Michael’s on the mountain’s high top watching flexible branches sway.
Shadows play around him reminding of times around the campfires
with friends telling genial and generous stories,
wearing vests for warmth as midnight draws near and upon still burning coals lie
the vestiges of burned hot dogs and dripping marshmallows.
The smell of coffee grounds and pine in his nose,
pine tree scent in his nose,.
The once juvenile nose of Michael.
Michael’s holding his guitar and strumming up and down the fretboard.
Waiting for his fingers to imitate the ease of moving the strings.
Remembering the first-rate songs of his yesterdays.
familiar chords constructing glorious harmonies massaging the ears.
Musical satisfaction by means of limber digits,
nature’s physical gift once sent to his hands.
beauty produced by him,
from the once bending fingers of Michael.
Instead of Asian jungles
you chose Bohemia,
so he went in your place.
You staggered through your new land,
adopted soil clinging
to the bottom of your shoes,
while he returned from his new land
without feet and a heartbeat.
“Thank God it wasn’t me,” you cried.
No loud thunderous “You’re welcome,”
and you will sit outside Heaven’s gate,