Zumwalt Poems Online

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nevermore

nevermore

Missing the dead, more than, I suspect, they miss me, I somberly reflect:
the most recent, smell terribly,
                and the long departed are more like fallow soil than fellow souls;
I don’t want them to stagger and stumble like the living dead
or communicate to me while their face parts fall off;
I want to be around them like when they were at their best.

And so I go to memory,
that slippery, somewhat unscrupulous, disobedient vagabond
that tells the same stories and strays from the truth far too often —
each torturous tangle with memory takes something away
and provides nothing new —
this is no consolation for so many losses,
just needless punishment for keeping company with the only companion that cannot die
but only deteriorate,
repeatedly
leaving me with less,
never more,
than that which
actually
once
was.

— Zumwalt (2016)

Eartheia

artists_concept_of_collision_at_hd_172555Eartheia

Contented, and taking the path I think less traveled,
And you, unannounced, hit with full force, head on:
Contact unlike anything anywhere in my neighborhood;
And here we are, seemingly billions of years later,
Still intertwined and yet separated:
You out there in the distance,
Sometimes fully seen, sometimes dark, sometimes missing
but always reoccurring,
and, as I view you, I automatically, and of necessity, reflect on your view of me.

-Zumwalt (2016)

Silver Alert

                                            silver1
Silver Alert

Steel ballerina

Under golden dome

On ornate, jewelled throne

Sur le cou-de-pied pirouette

Arythmically composing frozen, forlorn silhouettes

Upon my irregular recall

Lost opportunities overshadowed by lost capabilities

Lost love obscured by lost loved onessilvimpa3

Left alone for a moment, she sees him getting into the last of the county’s ‘eighty-five Impalas.

He turns the key: ignites, grinds, reverses and is gone from the driveway with questionable hearing, eyesight and purpose.

I ride the road; I hide in the highway; I engage the interstate and soon catch the journey on display:

….. Silver Alert, Gray Chevy Impala, 3AUY86G …..

G is for gone.  I am gone.  I have always targeted gone. Gone has always targeted me.

She speaks, but so softly.  I get the idea.  Her words are hers alone — always have been: they never will be mine.

I cry inside, tears wreaking havoc on my kidneys, gall bladder, and parts of the spleen. There are other useful internal parts, but I dare not now look: the eyes and hands are positioned ten, two; the right side desperately stealing towards four.

I wait.  I wait in motion. I cannot do otherwise.  In a moment is all the truth of a bruised, bubbling, underwater universe: one of many, many of one.

She, or her likeness, somehow, is there, hanging from the mirror.

It’s just a symbol:

An item with mass,

An item of meaning,

And, now, an item of mobility.

— zumwalt (2015)

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