Balloonitarians

      (With Backstory)

Balloonitarian Groups believe when death comes to visit a loved one, the string attached to the balloon of life also containing the soul is released, then slowly there's an ascent delivering them higher into the forever sky, drifting wherever the gentle breeze carries souls,  all  sins are forgiven as they diffuse from the balloon along with the noble gas escaping into the boundless atmosphere, leisurely, lazily moving downward, finally coming to rest somewhere on the surface of the Mystic Ocean, bobbing back and forth to the gentle rhythm of waves, where soon a seal or possibly a sea tortoise, will swallow the polymer remains of the balloon whole, causing it to choke to death.

 

                ***

Backstory to this poem.


I was attending a Grief Support group dealing with my severe grief over my daughter McKenzie's death in a car accident caused by a careless driver. The Therapist group leader announced that next Saturday we will be attending a multi-group event to release balloons into the sky in memory of our loved ones that had passed.

I told the group leader I wouldn't be attending the event. She attempted to change my mind telling me it was time to face my grief and this event is designed to release that grief. I explained my reason by telling her this story;


Years ago when my daughter McKenzie was at the age of just nine. We were enjoying a carnival in Tucson with the entire family. McKenzie began crying for no apparent reason. When I asked why she was shedding all those tears.

She pointed to the sky where I noticed a red helium balloon sailing into the blue Arizona sky. 

In a sincere voice she said: 


"Look at the balloon flying away.

Now a Seal or Sea Tortoise is going to die."


I explained my reason to not attend the event by telling the Group Leader the story. I'm not sure she understood.  I never returned to the group.

No New News At New Year

Just a stone's throw away from our porch
We hear the din coming from the corner 
Convenience store—created by the usual clique 
Of third-world louts, termagants and nosey hags
In short, the ne'er-do-well has-beens of internal 
Backwater affairs, here in this fishing village
On this our tiny tropical island called Siquijor,
"Isla del Fuego" by the Spanish Conquistadors
Of epochs past—

They all used to be celebrated for the skills 
That had somehow kept the evolutionary lifeline
Alive of a hardy brown race—still thriving in the fringes
Of urban progress. Somehow we get the feeling
That the collective trip down the abyss of perdition
Might have been caused by the grim realization
That fortune and luck now too have digital passcodes
They can only whine in silence as they guzzle down
Even the dregs of the coconut toddy now souring
With the uneventful setting and rising of the sun

When the store owner tried to shush them 
As a signal for the daily oral newsbreak
In particular the one about a young girl's 
Mysterious pregnancy—they all threw a hissy fit
As they clapped back at the rather late delivery—

"Shame on you, Gorya! Go upgrade
your ears", shouted one of the nosey termagants 
Who was there for the free booze—to the delight 
Of the audience that was now getting rowdy
Especially the hags, termagants, tired wives 
Of the men slowly dying with quiet rage—

Here comes the murmurration of ricebirds 
Hovering above a chaos of thorny thickets
I know I want no more of this sedentary rebellion
But I remember telling myself the same last year

Name

What’s in a name? Well that’s simple

enough. Didn’t need Shakespeare for

this one. Think about a name, your

name for a moment. It’s a string of

letters lined up, linked, letters you

recognize on the page in front of you.

They make a sound you know very well

heard it called in school, out in the field

in church, in court. You responded most

of the time, laying claim to it. They say

hey, John, or Frank or Freddy, and you

snap to or groan a response depending

on who was saying your name. It’s yours

and you have woven your life into it, things

you did and still do, places you’ve been, even

the people around you who say your name

whisper it, or shout it or just say it when

they pass you on the street. It was born with

you, in you, you became it, it became you

and now it’s aging with you, got this old

along the way, got tired, and now just waits

for the last time to hear itself called. We’ll

always know what’s in our name – it’s easy.



                 Mid-Afternoon

I’m the older gentleman in the picture

don’t like the word “elderly,” so I am

the older gentleman walking his older

dog, mid-afternoon. It’s mid-afternoon

when older men and dogs have time

for such things. It’s mid-afternoon and

the kids are just getting out of school,

some excited and playful and some are

strangely subdued. The scene includes

the older man and dog and the children.

The afternoon casts shadows and a few

suggestions for the scene. I’m sure that

Hallmark has this on a card, a sentimental

almost scary rendering, an illustrator’s

best effort with the ingredients. The verse

on the inside would make use of contrasts

age and actions, perhaps something about

how, for some it’s the afternoon of a day

while it’s the afternoon of life for some others.


                  Got Game

There comes a point in the game with

both teams bungling, fumbling, acting

as if they forgot how to play, a point in

the game when you start thinking about

your childhood dreams and plans about

playing, thought it out, there you were

catching the pass over your shoulder then

running, zig-zagging, you could hear

the stands, the cheering, the commentators

analyzing your moves, but, of course, you

never tried out, grade school, junior high

high school. You watched from the stands

went to a college that didn’t even have

a team. Plans and dreams disappear like that.

You went on with your life, a watcher, a fan

until one Sunday, today you watched two

teams bungle, fumble, seem to forget how

to play, and there you are again, your

childhood self, that other self that got left

behind, catch a pass over your shoulder and

run, zig-zag, while they all cheered you on

this time.

icicles hang
from the clothesline
housebound

# # # 

only a scarf
where the snowman stood
incessant rain

# # # 

twilight
school janitor reties
the snowman's scarf

# # #

Ukraine under siege
shelves of toy soldiers
collecting dust

# # #

Corey D. Cook's sixth chapbook, Junk Drawer, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in *82 Review, Akitsu Quarterly, Black Poppy Review, Duck Head Journal, Freshwater Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, Naugatuck River Review, Nixes Mate Review, and South Florida Poetry Review. Corey lives in East Thetford, Vermont.