Poetry

     Sometime around 1987, I was reading one of my sisters books, a book of poetry written by a somewhat famous (at the time) avant-garde poet. 

I set the book down and regarded my sister across the table.

“This is crap,” I told her.

She looked up from her newspaper and took a sip of coffee.

“I like it” she said, setting her cup back on the table. “it’s interesting”

I will admit, I am not a big fan of poetry to begin with, but even still this felt forced, like someone trying to be “cool.” 

“I dunno… I like art that makes you think, not art that tells you what to think”

She shrugged “You think you could do better?”

I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote the following:

"Flitting, Flying, Floating,

About my head in circles,

Until I hit it with a flaming stick match.

Bulls-eye!

From where I sit,

I cannot see the people

Although they may,

Or may not

Be wandering aimlessly.

I throw rocks

And wonder

Who might scream?

In agony…

All the while,

The broom sweeps slowly

Endlessly

And I in my chair

Move a fraction of an inch

Closer,

To the door."

I slid the paper over to her, and she read it.

“I like it” she said, “It’s interesting”

 “It’s Crap” I said.

She then thumbtacked it to the wall over the table, where it remained for the next few years before she moved to New York

Several years later, I received a brochure announcing the grand re-opening of the Carlton Arms hotel in New York. where each room was decorated by a different artist. 

People magazine called it "a live-in museum"

The Sunday times said it was “a window in New York for artists from around the world"

My sister and brother in law had been working there and were organizing the opening Gala.

On the back of the brochure was a poem.

“Flitting, flying, floating…

Ghosts

     Yesterday I said good-by to the first home I ever knew. 

It had been,  over time, the home of my family, my grandmother, and most recently, my aunt.

But now it stood empty. 

Everything that could be removed was gone, with the exception of a few lamps which stood ready to provide illumination for who ever might need it. 

It was probably the first time that house had been empty since the 50’s.

     I stood and looked at the bare walls, and I felt only tired.

     Most all the memories had packed it in as well, tucked into ethereal suitcases and carried off by assorted ghosts.  

I had only lived there a short time, maybe three or four years as a child, but still, it was the first house I ever knew. I walked into the room that was mine as a child. I closed my eyes and tried to see it, but nothing came. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of memories about living in that house, however, those few I do have are fairly vivid. 

      The house had one of those wall furnaces, and when you peered through the louvers you could just make out the shape of what my very young mind had decided was a suit of armor. 

It fascinated me.

     One day I was peering in through the slits. 

“I see you in there” I whispered.

The suit of armor emitted a low breathy growl, and out came a blast of heat.

    At some point I had seen a television show in which the ghost of a Knight was wearing a blackened, dusty suit of armor. When it opened its visor, its face was made of fire.

     I put two and two together and decided that there must be a ghost-knight in there, held prisoner by the metal screen.

   I don’t remember being afraid really, but I do remember feeling compelled to periodically check to make sure the ghost was still trapped in there.

      Another memory is really more of a still image. In this hazy, slightly off kilter photo I am sitting in the front yard holding half of a broken record album. All about the lawn there are records, both whole and broken, jutting from the grass like tombstones, and in the blurry background is a figure (my sister? cousin? neighbor? I don't know) who is in mid fling, the record having just left their hand like a Frisbee. It’s a sort of mental Polaroid picture that has no beginning, and thankfully, no conclusion.

     Another memory is a short loop of playing with my Johnny West cowboy action figure, galloping the horse back and forth in the doorway to my room.   

And then, of course, there is the Tiki.
 My uncle on my dads side was a surfer back then, and had given my dad a three-foot tall cement Tiki. It crouched under the gnarled pine tree that took up the yard next to our playhouse, where it stood watch over us for those early years. The Tiki was magic. Quiet, patient magic, and I knew it. I could hardly play in the yard without at least once creeping over to look at the Tiki. 
But it was gone now as well. Long gone. Eventually the playhouse had rotted away, the tree was cut down, and the Tiki disappeared. Only it’s ghost remained, a sleeping egg that would hatch with a vengeance later.

Much later.

But that is another story.

    I opened my eyes and looked around. Like I said, I just felt tired.

    I left “my” room for what would probably be the last time, and walked into the hall, pausing to peer into the furnace. 

    “I see you in there” I whispered.

There was no response.

I guess he had already left as well.