Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
I demand. I insist. However, my expectation is reasonable. The trillium shall bloom each spring and delight me with delicate, white trinities. They oblige, my devoted subjects.
I made Dad nervous as, I’m fairly certain, he smoked twice as much when I was around. He inhaled sharply, deeply, a generous contribution to his emphysema.
Even my wife once (charitably, only once) used the phrase, “walking on eggshells.” I’ll always harbor this even if she forgot expressing it. I’m sure, I hope, I must have relented.
Apparently, my expectations were far too high. I demanded. I insisted. I do recall my pleas, though not my intensity as such, as a nervous little boy, any child’s anxiety over uncertainty.
Now, at this age, all my sharp edges filed smooth, obviously, markedly wiser (one would expect), I’ve cultivated diplomacy, learned to compromise, entertained the value of silence.
And yet I remain lonely. Apparently, simply walking into a room, I continue to require far too much. I suppose I do expect some essential things to function still (without perfection).
I’d enjoy a few simple courtesies: please and thank you, how-do-you-do, pardon me. From old friends (and either of my sisters), a call, a letter, a lunch, just a bit of honesty will do. I vow to forgo the anticipation of integrity.
I expect (or rather hope, as anyone does) to be loved, at least valued. On occasion. As time permits. At your convenience.
Penance
Dolorosamente, I remain a penitent.
I crave absolution as I failed to reconcile an old sin,
deadly Superbia, its pages faded, brittle at the edges,
lost in a monastery crypt. The summer after dropping
out of art school, I sat on the sofa opposite Charlie,
the geology professor – the girl from painting class,
Mary Alice’s father, in their little suburban living room,
listening to their dear friend play an Impromptu,
a Franz Schubertiade. My only task was delight,
but I was a thoughtless young bumpkin, oblivious
to most etiquette, a yapping, blundering puppy,
blathering on, duro bruscamente, while her fingers
glided like water pouring over keys.
Through moderato, allegro vivace, andantino,
sharp scowls shut me up, a smack on my muzzle;
however, embarrassment didn’t take until years later.
There remain too many events for which I feel regret
(one or two may be labeled loathsome). For this particular
transgression, I thumbed my rosary with due obsession,
recited the Act of Contrition, elaborated in the confessional,
there’s no one left to recall or care a whit for insignificant
atonement (and who’d forgive me four decades ago).
Now, nearly every day, I listen attentively to Schubert,
this beauty my penance, my Dolcezza.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
Dwa lemury na drzewie… Rozumiemy, rozumiemy. Podłoże psychosomatyczne, czyli zespół wyjątkowo niespokojnych paznokci.
A swoją drogą, czy ma pan jeszcze widzenia? Gdzie pan właściwie był, jak pana wśród nas przez tydzień nie było?
Jak to gdzie? Odebrał sobie życie i po powrocie pije, stał się oszczędny i unika filetów z atlantyckiego dorsza. A jednak smażenie!
Proszę podawać trzy tabletki na dobę. (Dwa lemury na drzewie…) I ma nagle negatywny stosunek do służby wojskowej.
W takim razie cztery. Trzy po posiłkach, a czwartą jak znowu zacznie sikać po żywopłotach. Jeśli już raz odebrał sobie życie, nie pozwólmy mu teraz żyć.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Beatnik Cowboy and Disturb the Universe Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
