Early last month there was a prompt at dVerse poets that talked of boxes and to write something of such. The idea has been sitting with me, what box might I have that holds thoughts, things, ideas, history?
Now I am envious of all my new found friends at the dVerse site that can word as they do and do so well and I know that there is a muscle that needs to be re-worked, exercised, a poetry muscle, but it’s been a while for such. So stretching is in order, grab the back of my sneaks with a lean on whatever is there for that lean, wipe the bottom of those sneaks with a hand just to make sure they’re fresh then go for a run.
Anyway, to boxes …
Cigar Box
Cigar box
that told me I was adult
enough
granted one
smelling of old men and oft smelled stories
drifting
high curls in kingly fathom
street side tavern sidewalks
confident legs holding court
in hard backed simple chairs
crossed in plumes legs of sitting smoke at hand’s burning hip
that hung like clouds wishing rain
heavy full only of droplets of truth
but
torrents of what could fill a day with wonder
for the dumb enough grapes to take smartly a grape’s need
“well, ya know” says grape
“he’s a bluster of nonsense but brings rain and wine stories with my assist”
.
It held small child-like things
.
The Saint Christopher medal found with coins
along a child’s suburban hikes
that medallion that the good Saint kept
maybe
himself before he was patron
before Christ’s burden
with iconic emblems
a superstitious sort I’m sure for superstitions that would come
for us
for trips as a test
to protect his own self
in own travels
a coin thrown on the latest nightstand
under a burning lamp safely found
again
or for been company in the morning
.
It kept my secrets, stolen cigarettes, a lighter’s 70’s smiley face
belying
short unsmiling wind to come
a bit of cloth, a coat of arms, from a school sweater smelling of defiance
a picture of young girls it held
on a sitting stone wall in an old English town
smoking also stolen cigarettes
damning the future as long as mother didn’t know
a mom’s youth arrogance leaving something behind to dry and air
before come home fresh
so mother didn’t know
.
And the coins I so loved, misshapen, bent aged ones
run over by trains
some
that rhythmically roll clackety lull clack me back to furtive sleep
even perfect coins being quite boring but perfect still
that had years you could mark
in hands and passed pockets of time and bets maybe with a flip
life or death?
Oh the drama
you could
imagine of who had been here
before you
in your pocket’s history
you kept at right hand right there
in a cigar box
if only to find them
In lucid dreams to come
in stark sharp crisp grey yellow contrast relief
like hurricane eye
colors
never casually dreamt in such hard lines
but found in otherworldly lucidly explored stories of ends of
time
worlds
dynasties, presidencies, normalcies, monasticies (if such a word alone exists)
tell me the date, just tell me the date
tell me where I am
in this timeless
could be found there in that cigar box
if only
.
Saint Christopher had already found his way
immortalized
his nightstands to safe you along
next to yours
your way with a coin as your only token
of safety
please just show me date in this mad world of
clear crystal nightmare dreams
of my own walking searching making
willing
.
Travel is never done my good man
the saint might say
just place in a corner of that cigar box
a yearless coin
medallion found in child’s walkabouts and skips and jumps
for safe travel tales still be told
smelling of old man smoke plume and oft told stories
floating drifting
soon enough
hanging like clouds
bringing rain for the grapes
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