“I Will Wait For You”

Poem by Doug Holder, inspired by a painting by Gieseke Penizzotto Denise

sunflowers

gold petals

a bit of

haberdashery

for a bluebird

of happiness

whose heart

and no doubt,

feathers

flutter

to be swept off

by her angel-winged

lover.

Doug Holder…

Board of Directors of the New England Poetry Club

Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene   http://dougholder.blogspot.com

Ibbetson Street Press  http://www.ibbetsonpress.com

Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer  http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com

Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com

Doug Holder’s Columns in The Somerville Times https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0

Doug Holder’s collection at the Internet Archive   https://archive.org/details/@dougholder

Lao Tzu’s Admonishment

Lao Tzu admonishes

Tsk tsk tsk

Buddha wags

A finger at me

Yet I am delirious

In my trishna

Avidya! a damned fool

Samsara the relentless

Loop is inevitable

An incessant carousel

From my first breath

Delicious! I devoured

The myriad creatures

Spellbound by maya

Suffering is our nature

To cling to reign over

Our humdrum days

To make sense of

Our futile obsessions

The persistent chaos

Swirling about us

Regrettably a few

Noble Truths will

Remain (blissfully)

Beyond my grasp

You see there is love

Quite a conundrum

And I want I desire

My beloved her

Lips hips breasts

Her easy laughter

Though the embrace

Is tragically temporary

Therefore screw you

Lao Tzu and then

I eventually apprehend

As Buddha smiles.

Lazy Sage

A lazy sage

Chuang Tzu simply

Acquiesced what’s obvious

All is chaos – broken

Then Siddhartha tossed

Suffering into the mix

(Gee thanks a bunch!)

Despite this wisdom

The sagacious formula

I learned helplessness

I was an inevitability

The nervous little dog

In the shock box

Will Dad bring home

Milk eggs hamburger

This time – next time

Auto health life

(Drive carefully!)

Will Mom be hauled

Home by the cops

Or locked up – how crazy

This time – next time

Will she disappear

With my little sister

Will she launch jelly

Jars at our heads

After seeking predictability

Reasonable assumptions

I now recognize mayhem

Now much too wary

Too vigilant to love

Suspicious of optimism

Heart races stomach churns

In obsessions and compulsions

And now the old augur

I also surmise

There’s only futility in

Solving our predicament.

Silence

I will happily remain silent, lips sutured, sealing ancient,

festered wounds (though hapless impulses tug at stitches),

my tongue a giddy atrophy, old car in its garage. I’ll not

wag or lash it anytime soon.

I know this silence, a wide horizon, an ocean, a silence

nearly as deep as magma sputtering beneath

the Laurentian Abyss. Awed by sublime, I only teeter

at its precipice, a wanderer in a Romantic’s painting.

I search my shelves for adequate locutions, attic, cellar,

spare room, to fit rather than buy a new articulation.

But my attempts remain clumsy, lumbering obstacles

so long as obsession hinders my intent (My mind

a fence row, nettles, burs and briar strangled in barbed wire.

There. There now.)

Does silence abide the absurd or pass unencumbered,

whistling through my ribs, wind through an abandoned

house? As the Buddha, a monk, I shall loosen my grip

on petty clamor, what’s futile, samatha, tranquility,

my singular desire.

This silence is (and I shall listen without interruption)

a breeze whispering through pines just outside

my window; the lulling murmur of phoebes hopping

and pecking across the yard;

the trillium pushing noisily though mayapples and loam;

with the morning sun, apple blossoms opening one by one.

I shall regard each arrival, each pink bud,

each white explosion.

This silence is (Though much too sentimental, I’ll try again.)

that warm afternoon, lolling in bed, when there’s nothing else,

when I apprehend, galvanic skin to skin, lip to breast,

I love my lover, when words are ludicrous.

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 drawingstitled Drawing Nirvana.

English Major

Back then they’d step out of their story

Their novel, their play, their poem and

Speak to us, deal with us. We knew them

And they knew us, where we were, where

We were going. We were quick to quote

Them when it fit. We’d nod when we saw

Their relevance playing out in front of us.

Being an English major in the 60s gave us

The material we needed to deal with the 60s

And the world it was making for us. We were

A crowd in a world of crowds. We had years

Of wisdom playing out in what we read and

What we heard in our classes. Shakespeare

And Milton, Becket and Ginsburg, Heller

And West – our lists were impressive and

Seemed endless. What else did we need to

Face what was coming at us? Years of it and

A life bolstered by it. What could go wrong

With this? Everything that could go wrong

Of course, went wrong. And all of it seems

Flimsy now – and turned out to be just that.

Where did all the 60s English major go and

Where did all that wisdom sneak off to?

                   Dreams

They show up in my dreams

People from my past, pass by.

Some silent, others saying

Things I remember them saying

Back then, safely in the past.

Some go by, seem familiar, but

I can’t recall their names. They

Are background figures, passing

By in my dreams like they did in

My past. Dreams do that these

Days, present places and spaces

Filled with characters that made

My past what it was, part ceremony

Part show, part story. They came in

In real time and now get their cameo

Appearances in my dreams. There’s

No explaining when and why they are

There in that dream on that night. I

Try to connect them to my present

But they fit uncomfortably, even if

I stretch things, connect some piece

Of my present to my dreamed past.

No they’re separate now, out of control

Playing my life out in these stray bits

Of my time.

                Joker

Been telling the same joke

living that same joke

For a long time now

Minutes of it and years of it.

Been laughing at my joke,

Even after I heard that one

About only a fool laughs

At his own joke or jokes

And I’d be foolish enough

To laugh aloud, join in

The general laughter

All around me.

Been a street clown

A circus clown

A stand-up comic

Part Laurel, part Hardy

One of the three stooges.

I’ve chuckled and guffawed

Been chuckled at and guffawed at

Been the butt of many jokes

And played the punch line

For all of it.

I have no father! 

Even though I was a man, he smiled,

The most sincere person in the world.

Although I was stubborn, he thought of me,

You are my one and only father.

Sometimes I hurt you,

I put it down to manhood and youth.

Even then, the person who looked at my heart,

You are my one piece, my world, dad.

Sometimes we didn’t sleep because of the chaos.

You were tired, but we did not stay silent.

Anyway, a man who can’t stop loving

My father is a hero in my personal world.

You are my greatest happiness in the world,

I walk in your shadow, wealth is my throne.

You are the reason I click the steps chart,

My respect is endless, my country is my father!

FREAKY BODIES

Mood of the moment

seductive in dullness

eternal eros:

changing constantly inside

now says she hates my scent

taunting the old pain

in the brothel of bed

kitchen or shower

she fears the freaky bodies

snaky arousal and peak

through sucking hisses

thuds and soft screams repeated

in sync dripping down

until next round of silence

with  back to each other

ABRUPT NOTES

Intentionally layered

internally fragmented

queer antics:

she builds up her own

sexual toolkit to prove

how coward man is

she sees a rapist

in each man detests

the male smell but trusts

one night stand

with deep thrust

long erections

and climax control

for blood to soak smoothly

she sits shrouded

in her see-through pink gown

on the terrace

inviting autumn winds

for longer stopover

just to accuse the artist

of invading her body

she curses a young bull

for obstructing her way

in the street shouts at hawkers

and, yet another

at eighty re-imagines

fading memories

with snaky radiance

to break a new dawn

my friend says

the dynamics change:

there’s a before

and an after

to feel life

I say yes, but I’m tired

of walking and writing

what I watch

I’m no tout to comfort

or restore the faith

of a dwindling flock in heat

culling is convenient

TANKA

Unquenched thirst

more and more indulgence:

momentary pleasure

she says it’s enough now

rein the horse and seek the missed

***

Half-drunk women

on one side of the road

pimps on the other

ready to seize  first-timers

to the tin box by street lamps

***

Standing on a cloud

look through an open doorway:

desires awakened

before I could step inside

the door closed, I missed my chance

***

At the swimming pool

he asks if he could borrow

her underwear just

to feel her from inside

with fidgeting currents

***

Unquenched thirst

more and more indulgence:

momentary pleasure

she says it’s enough now

rein the horse and seek the missed

***

God has become

a habit in helplessness:

faith a deception

when unable to enjoy

love, life and wonders of world

***

Shiva and Shakti

our freedom in union:

twin flame of love

rolling in grains of sand

transcending together

***

Future legacy

and dynamics of peace:

I seek solace in

Camus’s absurd, my silence

and indifferent universe

Ram Krishna Singh, also known as R.K. Singh,  has published poems, articles and book reviews in various magazines and journals over the years and taught English for Science and Technology, Indian Writing in English, and Criticism at IIT-ISM, Dhanbad for nearly four decades. His published poetry collections include Against the Waves: Selected Poems (2021),  白濁: SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST (English/Japanese, 2022),   Poems and Micropoems (2023), and Knocking Vistas And Other Poems (2024). More at https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/R.K._Singh

Mother’s love 

A young man dreamed of becoming very rich. He devoted his life only to work and earn money. But on this way, thinking that his mother could not help him, he ran away from home. His mother always looked forward to his return. Years passed. The young man became rich, became a famous businessman. But during this time, he never heard from his mother. One day he received a letter. 

“My son, I miss you so much. It would be nice if you could come and check on me.”

But the guy didn’t come because he had a lot of work. A few years later, he receives news of his mother’s death. The young man returned home and found his mother’s small chest. Inside the box was a letter addressed to him. 

“My child, I have tried my best to create a good life for you. If you are happy, I am happy. Just remember one thing: the greatest wealth in the world is mother’s love.” mother’s value.

IBRAT: Appreciating mother’s love, appreciating the greatest wealth in our life, is one of the highest human qualities. Taking care of parents is the duty of every child.