Sometimes it seems like publishing poetry is one of the hardest things an author can try to do. Let’s face it – there are a million great poets out there. The competition is fierce.
But then, every once in a while, you hit the jackpot. I sent out four poems to Raven’s Perch literary magazine last year, and they ALL got published. (https://www.theravensperch.com/?s=thornton) . I was so excited about this. Today I’ve been sending out multiple poems to multiple genres, an annual tradition. It’s worth it – you never know when someone may decide they want ALL your poems at once, right?
And then, once you’ve published them, they become your babies again and you can repost ’em. So, here we go. (Courtesy of Raven’s Perch)
Grandfather the Mason
What did grandfather find in the freemasons?
A shaft of sunlight illuminating a manuscript,
direct line to God, hidden in the Scottish Lowlands,
the secrets of Rosslyn safe from some silly book.
Would Solomon’s temple rise in his mind?
He would have known the exact dimensions
of the secret society, the points of convergence
the wealth of allegory. He would have learned
Did this man, once the town drunk, rise to the realm
of the Knights Templar, wishing to obscure his past?
Did his wealthy Catholic family object, just as the old ones did?
And what did his Lutheran wife think
of this old knight challenging history?
Was she scornful of the challenge or grateful
for the result? Surely it freed him
He told me once he and a friend poured Sterno
through loaves of bread to strain it so they could drink
on cold nights, as they rode through the country
in an open roadster, repainting billboards.
Frustrated, traveling the empty roads of the Depression,
painting over the art of another. His depression
lasted for years, bound to the bonds of addiction
Freemasonry freed him from poverty,
distinguished him from the men of Sicily
who had come to build their own new world.
He believed in the tradition of revolution,
welcomed as an ambassador of the old and the new,
builder of his own blue temples, creator of fountains,
determined to be his own man with his own business,
in debt to no one, beholden to none, just free
He moved south. Took the legends with him,
established contact with his brothers
who came in the end, dropped petals on his grave.
Intoned, Oh woe dear brother. Grandmother scoffed
but she was comforted by their presence,
assisted by their connection to this new place.
Hard to dismiss their willing grace.
The Sound of my Soul
The fire/rescue unit calls me out of the surf.
Too dangerous, waves too high. Hurricanes pound
the coast from stern to aft, dissecting the sand,
intersecting each other with gale force winds,
and rip tides that make you gasp.
Even pelicans won’t land in this mess
But I confess, this is it, where I want to be,
in the midst of wild white foam, dangerous chemistry
Can’t go home – just one more wave
fly through the ages like fiberglass,
as if I could simultaneously touch the sky
and the grit beneath my fingers if I don’t break first
The thirst for the ride is nothing compared to the sound
of wind in my ears, waves thrashing the living daylights,
noise of surf and breeze blowing content from my brain.
If I had to die suddenly, this is how it should be,
floating out to sea on a rip current, no resistance.
I resist instructions to leave this whirling mass,
volunteer to be their practice drowning victim
but the fire/rescue guys don’t laugh.
I Won’t Miss You
I won’t miss you when you’re gone.
I’ll be way too busy. Lots of lots of things to do.
I’ll be too too busy to remember you, your soft smile, voice,
your choice. I’m busy drowning in the nearby river
Fish jump into my canoe, birds fly
across the horizon and I –
hands on their tails, eyes on glass eyes –
rarely have time to barely miss you
Everywhere I go, I am feted and fed
as if just returned from the Day of the Dead
cosseted as a fetus escaped from abortion.
I am adored. I have found the sword,
discovered the potion. Despite intention
I inspire devotion with a single word – come
But this separation has struck me dumb.
Tonight, I’ll search for a new art hangout.
For now, I’m just seeking new shoes
to float above feelings as if walking on air.
Not that this indicates I, in any way, care
as long as I don’t come down. While you’re gone.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he says in a voice so refined
you are surprised at politeness from this man
who has lately been known for his snarky humor,
his irate comments, his irrational needs,
“But I’ve forgotten who you are”
Who you are is a firefly in a jar flashing,
your face so familiar in the sudden light but extinguished
before his sad cells can really see the name
of the girl child, his first born,
the unspoken pain of lost memories
like reeds floating in darkness
on the edge of a pond where insects fly
unseen except for the edges of wings
flashing briefly in moonlight.