Für mein Sherrie, mein Dora

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I could not have written this Surrealistic poem to anyone but you, but you still may not like it much. Dora Maar may not have wanted to have her portrait done as a Cubist, Guernica-infused Weeping Woman, but she loved the guy, you know?

yB

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There is a chocolate fondue fountain into
which lovers could dip marshmallows, black-
berries, or lovers, understanding that
love, perfect undipped love
can be metaphysical, should be;
I will have it surreal, and love you
as I am now, as I wish to perceive you,
mindful, body-full, and full.
It’s potent and paradoxical, like
dreams of wizards or flying fish or
looking at a sunrise in our windshield and not
talking about fire.
Only with you can I see these things
with such clarity that they blind us
and fill us with understanding.

I will blaze unchocolated through your world, through
you into mine and together,
remembering a time unreal and true,
long ago and never, when
we would see fish in the clouds,
I would become your wizard forever
and we’d walk past the unvisited section
of the ancient bookstore, past
an unopened copy of
Liebe ist ein Hund von der Hölle
and remark with pure pleasure
that had he lived, Freud
could have read Bukowski.

By Ben Cassel
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Every year for our anniversary, Valentine's Day, birthday, etc., my husband and I write poems for each other. This one was written in 2011, and since it's the 8th anniversary of our first date, and he's right smack dab in the middle of performance night of his high school play, I wanted to share this poem that, to me, said, "I know you."

Welcome to Ode to Internet Troll Week

2829 Hits on our Blog!! Good job, Poets!

Macbeth

In memory of Herbert Nehrlich, the Master of Rhyme. I am not  a huge fan of rhyme, but I do think it's a good practice for purposes of rhythm and for play. I know Herbert would be thrilled that I keep attempting it.

He is such a fun diversion
raging in his mad perversion,
as  she slices with her rapier
his dimwit.

He rubs elbows with his brothers,
while he loathes a certain other, as
she laughs while not giving, well,
a shit.

He is in pursuit, yes, daily,
as she dances oh so gaily,
twirling pretty as he writhes,
as if snakebit.

She sharpens her long talons,
while he drinks, yes, in the gallons,
lying grotesquely face down
in his vomit.

It’s a never ending story,
that he hopes an ending
gory, and she giggles, yes,
of course, enjoying it.

She is quite the little master,
choreographing  his disaster,
as boys behave most badly
when they’re *smit.

Running sadly in one place,
with a grimace on his face,
the audience applauds quite
loudly at this skit.

It is not to end so soon,
the resurgence of this boon,
when Act I has only begun
being writ.


* Archaic word for another archaic word, smote (past tense of smite), also to smear....

~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~

First Amendment

Dedicated to all of Balaam's Asses
wherever they may roam...

Living near the naval base,
she gets to sit in her courtyard...
sipping her coffee each morning,
and listen to the “Star-spangled
Banner.” All these years later
it still moves her.

She is proud to be American,
as others are proud of their
countries, even with cultures
mottled with bloody histories,
imperialism, geno…

He slurs his good mornings
and disturbs her conflicted
patriotism for an instant, and
then he is gone. She is both proud
and repulsed because even idiots
have the right to garble their opinions.

He shakes his fist at the woman
“what done him wrong” – never
having recovered from his wounds,
his heart black as the bruises from his whip,
his mind as victimized as Balaam’s ass.
“Why do you hurt me? Haven’t I been
a good and faithful  [husband]? ”

Bitch, please.

The cops told her that he is insane, but
not a danger. He is only spewing his angry
incoherencies; there is no crime
being committed.

Of course there isn’t.

She finishes her coffee as the ass
goes running into the street screaming
his “truth”,

and the trumpets stop playing.

~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~ 

Standing Behind Her Jab

The pugilist repulses the fan
with his cauliflower ear,
and flattened nose from
too many blows, even
as she  poses
to have her picture
taken with the champ.
Her thick, black-rimmed
glasses and professional
attire defy the avid
spectator’s bloodlust,
and the fighter who
lies beneath her pink
camisole.

~Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~

Lily

Minimalism appeals to the
neat-freak in me.
I like my world orderly,
and my ribs not-too-spare.

So it is with awe that
I watch my old girl
work every last piece
of meat off that humble bone.
She ravages it with grace.

There is graying around
her eyes, and she is
hard of hearing these days.
I’ve read that dogs also
get dementia.

How easily she slips in
and out of sleep these
days, how slow her gait.
But I will wait until she tells
me it’s time to go,
and with no regrets
I will let her.

I will have her cremated
and her ashes scattered
at sea where I can visit
her at my favorite place,
the unpredictable sea, with
the healing waves crashing
all around me, constant as
her erratic heartbeat.

 

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Bas Relief

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Sweltering July heat,
foul moods, and the cats
are lazy.
Your presence here adds
to the discomfort.
Nothing that a good
downpour
wouldn't help.
Watermelon summers,
being barefoot at the lake,
and picnics with laughing
children are sepia
memories,
disappearing like sweat
beads
from a strong gust of wind.
The pages of this book grunt
apathetically,
and the stillness of time
is stifling.
Where is God? and
why won't you leave
me alone?
In that very moment
when I find silence,
a horse fly buzzes by,
suicidally,
and I instinctually grab
my book and
SWAT! it.
The analogy works well,
and, at last,
I smile.

Under the Bus by Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

You silly boy.

Graying at the temples
and still you mope
over the water
under that bridge.

Our friends say
you’re not yourself
these days, that
you seem small,
fragile.

In spite of your, well,
spite, I believe them.

Your words spew
out of you like a
screaming tea kettle,
insistent, and then
easily put aside.

Compassionate people
care about those who
are hurting, and I’d like
to think that I am, you
know, compassionate.

I'm remembering vividly
that one scene, after
she hurls Burke down
the stairs, turns her head
around an entire revolution
and then giggles.

Yes, with a shit eating
grin, I remember.

Warning: Caustic Cautionary Tale

Five to Life

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Prison is your
drink of choice.
Lap it up, like
a dying drunk,
cirrhotic and
stupid,
brain cells dead
as toes tagged
in morgues,
cold and blue.
Five years have
passed,
and still you
lick the festering
wound,
bacteria swirling
in your saliva,
infection
resurrected
each year,
as your heart
lies rotting
in your
hands.

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb's "The Absence of Gravity"

 

The Absence of Gravity

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Vitriol lies impotent
on the floor of the
well-calcified.

While sticks and stones
play patty whack
on the ungirded
loins of whimpering

boys.