Much Have I Traveled
Westward, the scar discovers its altar.
The weather unbuttons. California,
were you a healing lily, we might saunter
past your Rose Hills blockade,
welcomed by that paradoxical combo
of harp notes and orange scented ices.
But the border guards insist we pause/stop
while they examine us for improprieties.
Let the fragile sea take our protests.
At Palomar, the stars are as immaculate
as virgin sportscars. A distinguished thing
concludes the rite of proprietary disclosure.
Our wounded caravan reverses course
on the run again with contraband names.
Slugabed
Sleeping is not a metaphorical demise.
As Frost said, “I would have spelled it,
D-E-A-T-H if that’s what I meant.”
Reality and its surrogate trope cannot
by the laws of science occupy the same
space/time. Ergo sunt, I sleep, immortality
assured, as I saw away at images of logs,
or put fluffy borders around leaping sheep.
Hidden from the Reaper and his minions,
Boredom, that Archfiend, among them.
I’ve duct taped over the snooze button,
sworn off the idea of breakfast in bed.
I prefer my life to be on rewind. Dark
isn’t an adjective, it’s my living space.
After the First Modern, there is no Post
Many were employed writing
situation comedy poetry beloved
for straightforward plots
with careful beginnings and middles
in which important images were considered
leading to cathartic endings
where older relatives died.
This was sad but cheering
as significant child personas
were introduced, two kinds:
innocent questioners and victims
of social and/or parental repression,
but what made it the Golden Age
was availability – everywhere
you looked you found the same
middle of the road academic
attitudes, just different
constituencies to be appeased.
Everyone was comfortable
with this and settled in
to give awards. logroll blurbs, etc.
Bliss it was in that dawn
to be tenured and to write
that amazing poem, that one
about some unnamed young person
(though clearly the poet narrator)
watching dear granny (gnarled hands,
shining eyes) peeling potatoes
with such love, such great love,
and have it accepted by Ploughshares.
Chris Bullard is a retired judge who lives in Philadelphia, PA. In 2022, Main Street Rag published his poetry chapbook, Florida Man, and Moonstone Press published his poetry chapbook, The Rainclouds of y. His poetry has appeared recently in Jersey Devil, Stonecrop, Wrath-Bearing Tree, Waccamaw and other publications. He was nominated this year for the Pushcart Prize.