Zumwalt Poems Online

Archive for the ‘Zumwalt’ Category

The habit of indirection

The habit of indirection

crouched like an audio-animatronic lion
on the destination end of a high hurdle
we find civilius misdirectus
the final evolution of a long chain of
isolated inattentivenesses

it feeds on marathon runners, steeple chasers
and pole vaulters
to fill the intervals
between its favorite meal

off the blocks
directed between lines that narrow into the distance
starts the one
that has carefully measured every step beforehand

no decisions to make on direction, distance or depth
no choices to meet, no chance;
no sudden unexpected moments of chasing the effervescent sparkle
with the distant dream so clearly in the sights

it doesn’t seem like a menace
chips and high tech paper-mâché
waiting patiently at the last of so many carefully counted hurdles
and it doesn’t much move

but civilius midirectus
was designed with one purpose
not to entertain
or even to be the king
but simply
and efficiently
with no remorse
(except where indicated by legal counsel)
to open its volumnous jaws
and direct a glimmer of personal existence
into a very dark stomach of
impersonal
but carefully audited
profit and loss statements

— Zumwalt (04/1998)

Category:

1998, H, Zumwalt

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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
de-
ter-
i-
o-
rate.

— Zumwalt (2016)

Category:

2016, N, Uncategorized, Zumwalt

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she sells sultry sunrises soulfully soaking in seaside’s sensuous sandy satin sheets

down
by the seaside
our love mimics the tide
skipping out on the evening board
you teach me how to body ride

sound
of life’s breath
as a secret’s expressed
the moon strokes
and swells the surfing waves
and seeks salted seas to direct
a final ascent
to their rock, rock, rock bottom depth

I don’t need you
I just need your love
I don’t need to have you love me
I just need you to have me love

the sand is soft
but I see the vicious stony peaks
jagged and lying in the dark

the wind is sweet
but I feel the heat of a scorching sun that has yet to rise

I just want to look in your eyes
But I can’t if they’re closed
I just want to talk on the phone
So don’t change your number

Yesterday I was wearing my Acapulco hat
and some girl who I didn’t have the nerve to talk to told me I was cute
Tonight I own the coast
and you own me

I was down
by the seaside
my love mimicked your pride
skipping out so you wouldn’t be bored
you took me for a body ride

— Zumwalt (1990)

 

 

Category:

1990, S, Zumwalt

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my dog got published

my dog got published

after many rejections,
Fido made the big time
with thoughts bound in leather
and royalties galore

food once from cans
now Fido dines in Cannes
jettsetting with Riveria rovers
and roveresses

Our cat hacks away
writing a blog that no one reads
adding a new entry every time
she gets tired of tangling yarn

The unexamined bone is not worth burying
Discover more by playing than behaving
Chase only the car that cannot be caught

Write about what you know, we tell our cat,
but cats are stubborn
and don’t take to guidance or suggestions

Fido made the big time
and the big time made Fido
to the point that Fido
is at the whistle and call
of his reputation

Fido eats well, but now waddles as he walks the walk
that all celebrated dogs must be led down

Spare the rug, spoil the carpet
You miss one hundred percent of the hydrants you never stop at
Some slippers are to be tasted and a few chewed and digested

He who barks last barks loudest
He who bites first bites longest
He who backs away, fights off fleas another day

This is our cat on the keys
typing into the electronic void
and on top of it all
living the life.

— Zumwalt (2011)

Category:

2010s, 2011, M, Modern Poetry, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

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)

Category:

2016, N, Zumwalt

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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)

Category:

2016, Astronomy, E, Zumwalt

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The Grand Panjandram

The Grand Panjandram

In dark draped light, they set the stage with positively pessimistic preposterous pronouncements:
                               open-ended, close-minded —
                                                             an onslaught of oozing, slimy, backbiting, backstabbing, bamboozling, bath-bubble babble.

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers but where the heck is the peck that Peter Piper picked?

Blame the government! Blame the moderators! Blame the other politicians!

Blame the prosperous! Blame the lazy, liberal-influenced, moral-obliterating, freeloading nameless discontents! Blame blame, but oh, so blamelessly….

Our media plays politics, shamelessly positioned cross-legged on the tracks of the central station throwing rocks at the podiums of the office seekers and office sitters who madly craft the nightly news peering over the simmering cauldron as they add tortoise ears and bat eyes to their brew.

They know nothing is knowable; the perception of reality is reality: reality is only what is perceived.

I had a little nut-tree, nothing it would bear, but nuts are scattered everywhere along with rampant fear. Predictably, my mind wanders until there is no more silliness to hear while my unsuspecting stomach growls as the choruses of the shameless masses cheer.

I know reality.

It is that thinner-than-thread string that connects one thought to another and one moment to the next.

I know consequences. These are things that happen in direct proportion to lack of diligence.

The end follows the beginning; but also sets up every new beginning. Each possibility is the result of each result.

I will set aside my expectations — of what reality should be — to go along with the ride. It will ultimately lead to the next ride and at some point there will be a chance to get off, walk away and look back at the vast, almost infinite, devastation.

— Zumwalt (2016)

Category:

2010s, 2016, G, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Zumwalt

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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)

Category:

2015, Poetry, S, Zumwalt

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she started to stop ironing

she started to stop ironing

creases and wrinkles
pouts and interpretations
a phone number from Port Said
left in a pocket

Oh, how the gin fizzes stir
and music concurs
as veils drip like honey

Ah,
how the cover
stays low
so the currency flows
like foot traffic at
the dusty bazaar

“I’ll show you Egypt” has been her most memorable reply
but I doubt her intentions and so plan another solo excursion
hoping that
once I return
that crumpled, rumpled look
will be comfortably cool at work

— Zumwalt (1998)

Category:

1998, S, Zumwalt

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Message to Ida Straus

Message to Ida Straus

Don’t ask me where —
send her this message
and do more than that:
get a reply.

What happens after the wave takes you off the deck chair
and the water floods your senses
freezing your skin, bones
filling up your lungs
topping them off for the long journey?

Where do you go?

How do you go?

What unexpected toll roads demand offerings?

Must you give?
Do you give?
And if so, what?

Are you totally passive as
you are guided (or perhaps coerced, kidnapped?) and taken far away

Or is there
far,
close,
up,
down,
across
or even left and right spin?

Does space and time collapse, dissipate, solidify
or
are they a porthole,
barrier or,
maybe along with energy,
exposed outright as some new media hoax?

Tell me Ida.
Please.

Are you in heaven?
Are you suffering for your sins or another’s?
Have you seen an afterlife, a next life — maybe two or three?

If so, is it on Earth — or in a mildly warm pool under the frozen surface
of one of those strange moons of Saturn?

Do you have two legs, seven or sixty-four?

Do you live in our universe?
Or maybe another one?
One that expanded a trillionth of one percent faster
or a billionth of one percent slower
or that has rules so different that I must allow that
getting a message to you is harder than getting one to Garcia?

Take that immediately to her
and get a reply.
Don’t ask for overtime,
guidance
or extension of in-network physician coverage.

Anything you need —
just build, figure out, make happen —
but get results

and when you come back,
all that you have learned
is the property of your employer.

And in return
you will be in line for promotion
or, depending on the whim of others, mentoring someone else.

– – Zumwalt (2011)

Copyright © 2011

Category:

2011, M, Zumwalt

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