“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

THE TWELVE GRAPES OF NEW YEAR’S EVE

The twelve grapes are wishes and desires

All full of seeds

But not hair.

There are brutes and animals

Who swallow them whole

Even with tails.

Today is New Year’s Eve

Even in the farmyards

Where the main hen

Has stopped laying eggs

Because Uncle Kiriko’s rooster

Has not come to see her

And has gone off on a tangent

To gather nests

Or to visit new lands

Where the hens will crow again:

-The rooster has come

He will not leave.

There is a mountain woman there who tells me:

-Sir, there is nothing like the mountains.

Beginning to comment:

The old year is going away

A disastrous year

Full of evil and hatred.

Even Nature itself

Has shown itself cruel

To the most defenseless

Leaving the savages and murderers

Rampaging in their ways

Playing at making war.

My granddaughter married a donkey

Who was self-employed in a butcher shop.

They went to the wedding mass

And the groom, without any consideration

She fucked the priest.

This coming New Year

I suspect it will be the same or worse

The only thing left safe is:

The grumbling

The scolding

The screwing of the neighbor

And fucking whether you want to or not

That is mandated by the Law of God.

One year after another

They are all the same.

They cannot be patched

Only the bag for Peace is patched.

-Daniel de Culla

2024:  HIPPOS & HURRICANES

You know that things are dicey when the year’s

bright spot’s a pygmy hippo named Moo Deng—

“bouncing pork”—the star of Thailand’s zoo,

who teethes on knees of those who try to feed her.

Incumbents lost elections round the world:

South Africa, India, U.K., and Japan.

We gained Trump’s trademark comeback– touting plans

for buying Greenland, making Canada

a State. Sounds crazy, but deporting hordes

of immigrants from factories and farms

is not a sane move, either. Nor are tariffs. 

We lost outstanding people: Jimmy Carter,

100–year-old humanitarian;

the Grateful Dead’s Phil Lesh; stars Maggie Smith,

Kris Kristofferson, and James Earl Jones;

Nikki Giovanni, black-arts poet;

TV’s fitness guru Richard Simmons.

Putin’s foe, Alexei Navalny, died

in an Arctic prison cell, while war goes on

against Ukraine, the country Putin covets.

But 2024 was rife with war—

Civil War in Sudan; in the Middle East,

Hamas attacked and Netanyahu bombed

hospitals and workers bringing food 

to starving Gaza. This war, no one wins.

Autocracies in key countries grow strong—

China, Russia, North Korea, Iran.

They sell each other weapons. Partners, now.

Our planet’s climate keeps on heating up.

The largest, longest river in the world,

the Amazon, is starting to go dry.

The hottest year on record’s ’24.

To cap it, add a hurricane or ten. 

Helene’s the Atlantic Ocean’s special gift.

Flooded Spain and US southeast coast.

Perhaps life’s better on another planet?

NASA’s Perseverance targeted Mars

in search of living microbes under ice.

And on the moon, Japan landed a SLIM *

softly, nose-down;  solar-powered success.

Research these days is robot-run, just like

in science fiction. Fiction, now, is fact.

Artificial Intelligence, called AI,

leads medical breakthroughs. That’s a happy plus.

But guardrails aren’t in place, and people fear

AI, unchecked, could trash our daily lives. 

So here we are. Now 2024

is in our rear-view mirror.  What a year!

What’s next? More of the same? Hippos and wars?

Or will Trump stir up chaos, just for fun?

* Smart Lander for Investigating Moon

Not Really

I sat under a cherry tree 

writing love songs.

Not really, but what if I did?

Your heart, my heart, our hearts 

vowed to be together.

Not really, but what if we did?

We held the moon in our hands,

picked daffodils in the rain.

Not really, but what if we did?

One magic moment we kissed

and vowed our love was true.

Not really, but what if it was?

*

Dying to Live

I am no flower.

I am not thin enough.

I am dying to live

in a photograph.

Years later, you at

my side, in a photo,

what a lovely thing,

a smile on our faces.

Such splendor and

beauty in the back-

ground. I leave this 

world this old photo 

from a happy time.

I stick out my tongue 

and puff out my chest

as a ghost. My white

hair, far from radiant.

Where have my eyes

gone? Where is my 

flesh. I hide even if no

one is looking for me.

I am all bones. My

skeleton hand shakes.

My soul is long gone

from this earth. The

finality of life leaves

a ghost facsimile,

an oxidized monster,

which time no longer

waits for.

*

Sleep Talking 

I speak for much too long

without pause in my sleep.

I speak without filter when 

we are apart in my dreams.

In my daydreaming days is

where you kiss me at last.

It is all I want on days the

streets are wet with rain.

Quivering on snowy days

like a grape on the vine, I

freeze up again and again.

I wish for another dream

where you wrap me up

in your embrace. When

are you coming my way?

I cannot wait to see you.

Is it today or tomorrow?

I am wise to know it might

be too long of a wait. I

speak whole volumes of

nonsense. I speak it in

my sleep. I speak so much.

It must be awful to sleep

near me. One can only 

imagine. When I sleep 

I will spill my guts. I must

put my hands over my mouth.

Apple Lack For

Look it up. 2 much mercenary info. Je suis yr ponce Charlie and L-l-l-l-lola. DONT sever era 4 pp 404. He? Just ice age, tall me too, smirk out the nme terra forming at the time of the mouth floes Fister

Made out the ion quest. I like Arthur Flander’s Twistered grammarx of martial law. And syntax for the lust could be mean girls to get her.

The Naruto gif play the big other wise guise. You’ll be no kith ot kentucky fried Wildean childREN SHD BE SHORT a quid of the riverlution. EleVader muzak 47 crates of yeahyeahyeah. Took aegis. ASiOLmC f light vers GHC

O Lorde, oh Jesse, o Jamms, o Kelsey, u wake up2 unsure theyre a broad. Cursed if my debt, live wire me the Mooney on a Foxtel i prepared Apologue Four earliar.

Skim a P? Nod. On. Sears train of fought derails. Screw the hinges off, i mise en scene change nothing out better yet, a yeti sighting your sauces, witch i will reuse for the motor scheme.

They say they seem you out with my mane. Its as logical as welfare but vacuum. Slobs. For dinner goes Cletis: doobie, doobie my Dorian: A Limitation. Play id on my Reptar braim. Is just noh good.

Wart am i mensa do if top not up from the happenstance? The changing collar gear, the reddy good bats all swopping and screeching overheard me in the pube, in fuel on komodo mode da vie 666 daze in she had a bud so categorically imperative it was perfect i say so. *imperial

That’s Sol, folks. Masticate my ExistenZ.  4 or 5 years later, maybe sex. Navy nights on these nervous roads in Las Voguest.  Without me, it was still the realest, all about a genderfuck, her phat but i spank therefore i am the only Dendy around here. I do all the dandistry. Stop the is real. Free pale.

Jules Verne is In2Deep. He could letterally turm in office. Kitty is a saxophone off end er. I hate to love it.

Git freaky, then place confusing traffic cones in orange places with Waz, who out skiled sever L pro lice officers laid out back. [Words]

We white maw if trickled downes syndroke w/ cornext pasture and in your dexterity, Hyde Parks it in your stops 1-4. Dunce murk me stroppy wada in yr perso in formation fot thr tweak.

But sands west, i seer the west apple lags.

My Furthermorw bornes like babble rpa. I did it to degaol the ill seeing eye. Time is only what gets a noice example of whose line is it pointillism, any weigh? We candy cane it be wee piked all nu metal that sewer rat was as fringe festival aa “they” come out of the closest. This Kettle’s yours. 82% water. Works…

Macro chips were my only Sustagen
Court type listen like device in hard form dumpers breakfast lie

N thru the telescope line snapped @asiolmc. And at TKs party 17th partly, shrewd new all abo’ me.

They lurve it soft machine fuzzed

over Fleetwood Mac big deal

Breaker escapes her eyes. You whys buy;

Crazy eye addict. I will knit be yr hell p.

Errorist Marcel laughs himself to debt. Im the mast head job of the spin master SKPing unharmed. We Total Recall John M Bennetts auctions as high distinction identities, trysts with uncanny linguistic titties.

4379. Thats not a pest code.

Thats gnat

A system, a pest code, or the systematic derangment of its pretenses.

Treasonous little zits. The statistics of play have treated me like a dag. I mean dog. They know bland loyalty.

I dork trashpo behind mark young’s back against your motifsm

I spy with my little i is a bother.

We resorted to a knight of pashin’.

I didnt wanna frisk what we had, but what if what we could get could be beta? We exotic resorted to a lost nite of Passiona.

Its a rich hunt..

Badge of Glory

Karin knew the drill.  She got in line behind all the other girls in Mrs. Lowenstein’s fourth grade class and awaited her turn to be observed, measured and judged.   At the front of the line, near the blackboard, Mary Ann approached the towel arrayed across the floor, knelt on her knees and allowed Mrs. Lowenstein to gauge the distance between the hem on her skirt and the floor with a wooden yard stick.   It was a rather primitive ritual, but this was 1964 and there was little room in the educational system for progressive thought, so-called.  “You’re good to go, Mary Ann,” commented the teacher.  “Good girl.”  Mary Ann, her cheeks red, took her seat among the other students, who were all the boys in the class.  “Next!” snapped Lowenstein.

Next up was Kay, the class tomboy, who always dressed in denim jeans.  Objections from some school board member mandated that Kay conform to the dress code, however, so she  was forced to wear a skirt over her dungarees.  This didn’t get her out of the measuring ritual, however, and down on the towel Kay went.  “Kay,” said Mrs. Lowenstein reprovingly, “you’re more than an inch too short.”  Kay’s mouth opened incredulously, then closed.  “You know the rules,” her teacher reminded her.  Kay’s mouth opened again but no words came out.  Her face perceptively darkened.  “Now, get on home and put on a decent skirt so you can fit in with the rest of the girls!” directed Lowenstein.  Kay left the classroom without a word.  Students had learned from hard experience that there was no negotiating with Mrs. Lowenstein.  Kay slammed the door as she left.  Mrs. Lowenstein’s mouth formed a hard, straight line, but she said nothing.  And so it went, till nearly every girl had been suitably appraised ahd humiliated.  There was but one girl  left.

“Karin,” said Mrs. Lowenstein with relish.  “You’re next.”  Karin could almost imagine the sadistic teacher licking her lips, salivating to bring the brunt of her authority to bear on the nine year old student.  Karin stood before her teacher.  “Well, get down on your knees,” ordered Lowenstein.  Karin could hear some of the boys giggling across the room.  Karin felt heat on her face, but complied with the directive.  Lowenstein stuck her damnable yard stick against Karin’s knee and measured.  “Aha!” she yelped gleefully.  “You’re fully an inch and a half too short, you naughty girl!”  Karin rose to her feet, shrugged.  “Get home and get a decent skirt, or maybe a dress–that’s what proper young women should wear!”  Lowenstein was ungracious in victory.

“And just how am I going to do that, Mrs. Lowenstein?” asked Karin wearily.  “Huh?  What?” spluttered the teacher.  “What do you mean?” she demanded.  “I live two miles from school; I take the bus here,” said Karin, as though explaining a simple arithmetic problem to a slow child.  “How do I get there and back?  Both my parents work.” she explained.  “Your mother…works?” asked the teacher, scandalized.  “Well, you work, don’t you?” her student asked.  “Don’t be impertinent,” snapped the teacher, frustrated at confronting the truth.

Mrs. Lowenstein thought hard for a moment before snapping her thumb and forefinger and announcing,  “I’ve got it:  go down to Miss Washburn, the Home Ec teacher and have her let the hem out of that skirt.”  Karin rolled her eyes but complied with her teacher’s wishes.  A few minutes later, Miss Washburn appeared at the door of the four grade classroom and motioned Mrs. Lowenstein to join her.  “Yes, Wanda, is there any problem with Karin?”  “I couldn’t let the hem out because there wasn’t but about a half inch left.  But I found a quick fix.”  “What is it?” the other teacher asked.  

“Well, I’ll show you.”  Signaling behind the door, Miss Washburn beckoned Karin to join them in the classroom, which she reluctantly did.  The rest of the class immediately burst out laughing uproariously.  There, appended to the hem of Karin’s skirt, was a four-inch band of gold-colored fabric, stretching all around the circumference of the skirt.  Mrs. Lowenstein frowned at first, then perked up, determined not to make a bad situation worse.  “There, that’s fine, thank you, Miss Washburn.”  She turned to the little girl.  “You see, Karin, you’re quite presentable now.  Don’t you think your father would see the improvement in your apparel?”    “I agree, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said Karin with surprising enthusiasm, her green eyes flashing.  “And I believe my father would love it.”  “Really?” asked her teacher, skeptical.  “Yes!  During World War II my father had one just like it, only in a Star of David; I’ve been pictures.  He wore it at Auschwitz!”