Archive for November, 2018

LOVE DOESN’T DIE by LYNNE SAVITT

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot

 

i cannot remember not loving
you had other lives before me
after me did too but us always
histories shared our lost baby
yr decades in prison my kids
became yours & layers of love
kept us going we cemented
memories like bricks never lost
foundation yr wives my husbands
our lovers still there was us yearning
almost four years since yr stroke
& intimacy has crumbled like house
in hurricane i hear yr voice every
day before yesterday yr chair broke
& grumpy as a toddler with no sleep
you bitched abt it limoncello cake
i sent for yr 71st birthday sits in yr
refrigerator aide wasn’t there when
it arrived & you struggled to get it
in the past we could laugh abt this
can’t get any better me hundreds of
miles away i struggle with family
health limping through the days
calling you at night sometimes
waiting until i know you are asleep
i leave message ‘i love you’ i do yr
pain yr bad foot & left hand that won’t
work the slur in yr speech you are
going to teach a class & meet some
one i hope comfort i can’t give you
find in face arms of caring woman
husband, grandkids, dogs keep me
moving away & LIVING afraid to
say i’m happy i wish for you moments
of joy to savor like we did each other
for decades but now my darling i don’t
want to hear abt bathroom accidents
or endless tv shows or the yankees
list of medications plethora of side
effects me too my love didn’t die
it just got tired

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Two Poems by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot

THE PROFIT

‘I don’t care what you
write anymore, no, I
don’t mean that, but
everybody is making
a profit out of you,
don’t you see it?
tell me, whose the mug?
they publish you, right?
they send you 5 or 10
copies of the book
and you give these away,
right?
but the publisher, they
sell their copies, right?
but that doesn’t bother
you does it?
‘Right’ I said
‘Right’ she said.

 

____________

 

THE OLD FRIEND

She never knew of love,
the way she imagined it
would be;
it wasn’t being beaten
senseless by a speed-
freak or laying on the
streets unconscious as
the wino’s pissed and
masturbated over you
or of losing children
to hospitals and prisons
or knocking on the door
of an old friend; fragile
and vulnerable and of
how, that night, he
cared for you, looked
after and comforted
you and you offered
yourself to him but he
played it away and
rolled another joint
and when he handed
you the smoke, you felt
something as your fingers
touched, he felt it too but
neither said a word,
looked silently at one
another and relaxed into
a smile and then he
moved away, put on a
Miles Davis
disc and uncorked
another bottle,
both of them dare
not let go of what
and how they felt and
later she left by taxi;
next time he saw her,
several weeks later,
she was being
cremated.

Memory Gardens by Ben Rasnic

Posted in Ben Rasnic with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot

 

In 1978 my father bought me
a ‘75 Chevy Nova
when my Pontiac Lemans
succumbed to poor craftsmanship
and consequently exiled
to the local junkyard.
The first night, we checked
this icon out in my parents’ unpaved
driveway, smoking Salems,
drinking beer and listening
to Virginia Tech football
on the radio.
This moment reappeared
tonight while, alone,
checking out my new loaner,
a 2015 Nissan Frontier
parked in my freshly
paved driveway;
not oblivious to the fact
that no one listens
to football games
on the radio nor
buys Chevy Novas
anymore.