Category Archives: Poetry

W E Patterson's avatar

lost travelers all

. Poetry, Uncategorized . , . 2 Comments

“how did I get here?”

such words of desperation

are spoken so often

softly

in the first half-light of day

or harshly,

in the aftermath,

of a knockdown fight

sometimes spoken whimsically

but other times

uttered with grave reverence

to the dire consequences

and the inevitable

unpleasant results

5 words which are:

murmured by the infirm

mumbled by the forgotten

shouted by the incarcerated

slurred by the inebriated

cried tearfully by the lost

whispered by the humbled

you know…

those who:

were momentarily, and

with very little ceremony

given over to reckless

pursuits, in the dark of night

5 words spoken usually

as the color of the new day

pours across the rose colored sheets

of the Waycroft Motel

or lightens the sky above

the White Sands Motor Lodge

or heats the cheek-side desert sand

of the El Paso train yard

or tumbles into the alley behind

the Side Pocket Saloon

or causes the bars

of the Clark County Detention Center

to cast long parallel shadows

down Cell block B

or whitewashes the corridors

of Jackson Memorial

where it

brings the hope of new day

to the victim of

last night’s bike crash on I -95

“how did I get here?”

sobs the girl at the Paducah Greyhound station

Kleenex tissue in her right hand

ticket to Albert Lea in her left

W E Patterson's avatar

ode to the mundane, or 47th day of unemployment

. Poetry, Uncategorized . , . 7 Comments

how wonderful the mundane

is true bliss tedium uninterrupted?

a place where there is…

no office to attend

no bank to offend

no Coffee Club to fund

no inane

water cooler banter to deflect

and certainly…

no evil Apple laptop computer

glaring at you

in whitewashed contempt

daring you to inundate

the Corporate Elite

with an intrusive

tho’ artfully crafted

Electronic Mail epistle

that defines our corporate role

as global environmental stewards

as ecological shepherds:

defenders of the rainforest

and the Great Redwoods

and the Canyonlands

and the endangered Panthers

and the damned owls…

You think of that early in the morning

on the forty seventh day

of your unemployed citizen

status

as you walk outside

in the Florida Everglades heat

an hour before sunup

you think of it still

as you feed the cats their mix

of Purina and powdered milk

out by the edge of the garage

behind the Subaru

before you totter to the end of the drive

in your abysmal brown bathrobe

the day’s outgoing mail in hand

all set

to feed the next Visa payment

into the hungry box

to stave off delinquency

to save the judgments

and phone calls from

the heavy-handed collectors

for another day

“thieving bastards” you say out loud

to the lady who walks her Chihuahua

by your place every morning

at six AM

she glares at you —

then rushes past

and you go on to retrieve

the Pennysaver

from a puddle in the street

W E Patterson's avatar

Lisa paints

. Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing . , . 6 Comments

Lisa paints

like I want to write

passionately

colorfully

in imaginative detail

with soul bearing confidence

with bittersweet honesty

and when she stands

before the canvas

with Haydn playing

in the background

it is then you know

that there’s no turning back

she takes no prisoners

or so I think, as I watch her

on this particular day

when it is raining outside

and we are stuck

in that tiny apartment in Miami

the one we rented out of desperation

after the foreclosure

and she’s wearing the smock

that I bought for her at Target

for Christmas

the powder blue one

with the four big pockets

for her artist stuff

but it is smattered now

with misplaced paint:

Titanium White

Burt Rose

Radiant Violet

Tree Sap Green

Bee sting Yellow

“don’t move” she says coldly

as she adjusts the blinds

I’m drinking bourbon in the nude

tired and tortured in an ugly little room

in a miserable part of town

Prussian Green

Cobalt Tourquoise

Winsor Emerald

Vandyke Brown

she snaps on a light

I soak in its radiance

I’m grateful for the heat

the minutes crawl by

while

Lisa paints.

W E Patterson's avatar

Working night security

. Poetry, Uncategorized . , . 2 Comments

the foot soldiers of the packing plant

march with heads bowed

destined for the graveyard shift

and I watch them file by

through the west gate

of the plant in South St. Paul

as I sit accompanied by my badge

and other accouterments of my position

dressed in my finely pressed

ShurFire Security uniform

wearing my best black patent leather

Red Wing steel toed shoes

and I watch them carefully

all of them

the reluctant executioners

some carrying vegetarian fare

in coal black lunch pails

as they crush out

half smoked cigarettes

in the sand buckets that stand

outside of the guard shack

directly beneath the sign that reads

ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING BEYOND THIS POINT

and in some cases they aggressively

but seldom carelessly

punch time cards into

the unforgiving grey metal clock

11:58PM … clackity clack it goes one time

11:59PM … clackity clack it  goes another

a girl in a denim jacket

blue jeans and knee high gum-rubber boots

pushes her black horned rim glasses

higher on her nose and looks straight ahead

looking frail and out of place

in the pale green light

doomed time card in hand

12:01AM … clackity clack

she’s docked in what could have been

a simple twist of fate

brought on perhaps by

a crying baby – unsavory husband

overheated car

an unforgiving day

“Hey,” yells the foreman

“you playin’ with yourself out there?”

tardy girl shuffles in like

she didn’t hear it

W E Patterson's avatar

White curtains

. Poetry . , , , . 4 Comments

I remember white curtains —

they hang without motion

in the open window

of The Hotel Caribe

as the heat roils up from the concrete

3 floors below

and I think of you —

naked and motionless

and the freedom

that comes from a day

of complete abandon, spent

…you…

AWOL from the MIA gift shop

…and me…

a half dozen hours

before my bar shift begins

at the Fontainebleau

it’s late summer

in Little Haiti

and the housekeeper

is shouting at us

in English (somewhat)

as she bangs on our door

with a mop handle

like she always does

and she says that it’s 1 o’clock

in the AFTERNOON

and we have to leave this place

RIGHT NOW

or she will call lapolis

and I remember how you

laugh at  her

like always

and you say –

30 minutes more

granmoun fanm

and we hear the mop wagon

amid curses

rattle off to the elevator

and we reengage

and  reassess

and point

your lavender painted toes

skyward

and in the end

I press my face

into the pillows that are slightly

scented with a detergent

that remind me

vaguely

of the Rodeway Inn

on the east side of Denver.

W E Patterson's avatar

Hate the sin

. Poetry, Writing . , , , , , . 3 Comments

Once I rented a room

in a house in St. Paul

from a lady

named Madge

who used to bang on the radiator

with her shoe

when I came home drunk

late at night, after playing cards

with guys from the Pioneer Press

I’d turn up my radio

tuned to the country station

and play Ferlin Husky

at full volume

at 4:30 AM

bang, bang comes the shoe

“Keep it down Cowboy” she shouts

next day she’d squeeze

fresh grapefruit juice

and put it in front of me

with black coffee

and a fried egg

and toast with orange marmalade jam

and she’d ask if I’d met any nice girls last night

and I’d say no, just

card drunks

daytime reporters

nightime gamblers

a fallen preacher

and an old curmudgeon

named Stew

who hasn’t held a job in twenty years

who hasn’t changed his shirt in three weeks

and is easily angered

and becomes profane when provoked

and was recently arrested in Albert Lea

on charges of one hundred sixteen

parking violations

but who’s on a hot poker run

Madge says you hate the sin

but love the sinner

she wishes me well on my new job

selling vacuum cleaners door to door.

W E Patterson's avatar

10 items or less

. Poetry . , , , , . 5 Comments

so one day

when you don’t expect it

you’re at Publix supermarket

looking for hand sanitizer

wooden stick matches

and

cocktail napkins

and you’re picking up

bloody mary mix

nine bottles of Fairbanks port

the Examiner

and

five rolls of paper towels

you find yourself

in the express check out line

in front of the rudest woman in the world

who says to you

that your items have exceeded

the ten limit maximum

and she expects you to take your

shit off of the conveyor

and

move to another line

and you say –“ too late”

and you try to defuse the situation by saying

your’re a cash customer and you wave

a one hundred dollar bill

in the air

but the manager comes over

and says you have to take

your shit off of the conveyor

and you don’t argue because

of your respect for authority

lady nods approvingly

watches you load up your cart

and move away

and you feel a little like

John Dillinger – lawbreaker

as you slink off

planning for next time.

W E Patterson's avatar

Bottomless pot

. Poetry . , , , , . 5 Comments

it happens when you’re driving

before dawn

on I-95 – north of Miami

on a morning in late summer

when the night heat

lingers

like an old drunk

who won’t leave the bar

at closing time

and you think that

if you were on an all night bender

maybe things wouldn’t look so bad

but when you’re blasting south

a full cup of black coffee

from your local coffee mill

perfectly balanced

in the cup holder

of your  ’99 Subaru

and you hear

that the Palmetto Expressway is closed

(overturned cement truck)

and the construction

that was supposed to be

finished LAST YEAR,

is still

backing shit up

to West Palm Beach

…well then…

your job shuffling papers

at Corporate

does not seem so appealing

and you begin to think

that maybe you should have

gone to law school or

gotten a degree in Pharmacology

like your Uncle Willis

who came back from ‘Nam

back in sixty eight

and went to UCLA

and then married

a drop-dead-gorgeous

chiropractor

from a wealthy Chicago family

and raised three beautiful

children in Toluca Lake

and retired early

to a gated community

in Cabo San Lucas

where he now raises purebred

Chihuahuas with his third wife

Evelyn and hasn’t a goddamned

regret in the world.

The lucky bastard.

So you drain the last drop from

your 16 oz brain rocket

courtesy of the BottomlezzPot

and you think to yourself

…that…

if there were justice in the world

you could take back

the past ten years

of your life.

W E Patterson's avatar

Nine ball

. Poetry . , , , , , . 11 Comments

I’m blasting Mozart’s

Symphony 41

on the Philco stereo

at close to 3am

in the basement

of the old house

up at Mt. Pocono

causing whitecaps

to appear upon

the troubled waters

of Lake Writersblock

I’m hoping for a poem

or story of great meaning

one of substance and worth

…filled with poignant words…

to spring from the well-worn

felt of the old billiard table

upon which I shoot

a game of 9 ball

with the immortal, but imaginary

Di Mozartini himself

the legendary billiards connoisseur

it’s your shot, I say

to dear old Gottlieb

as the Jupiter Symphony

fills the dimly lit cellar

with inspiration

and in its honor

I pour another cup

of boysenberry wine

to chase the cold from

the darkest hour

of a winters night

as rhapsody reverberates

off of the oil burner tank

shakes windows in their casements

rattles the box wrenches

in their hangers

above the workbench

and descends upon

disassembled lawn mower parts

on the cellar floor

I steel myself for

the final round of play

…then…

…Wolfgang Amadeus…shoots…

his shot goes awry — I say:

“a bit off our game tonight – aren’t we, old pal?”

I chuckle and chalk my cue

I approach the table

and study my shot

take my time – I see the run

but the Great One knows

I have him on the ropes.

I draw the lightly talc’d

red maplewood shaft through

the crook of my left forefinger

to the point of release, and

it’s geometry from here on

a lightly pressed shot off

of the cushion

and we’re done – finito

I say goodnight to the dark shadows

that lurk behind the oil burner.

W E Patterson's avatar

Connor Priest

. Poetry . , , , , . 1 Comment

Long shadows of late autumn follow Connor Priest,

He walks each day along the path by the orchard,

On leave again – this time from rehab,

He trudges by my house each day at four, and he looks,

Neither right nor left, and pays no attention – usually,

To the covey of quail that flush up out of the thick dead grass,

That grows by the fence row along the path by the highway,

He’s too young for this walk – he walks like he must,

Bareheaded, he wears a light blue windbreaker,

In front of cold South Dakota wind,

He keeps his right forearm tucked into the pocket,

It’s his phantom hand (I’d later find out) – the one he’d lost,

In a faceless blast on the other side of the planet,

His left hand, the one that’s left, is exposed and bare,

Left hand holds a smoke and it looks cold and alone.

I call out to him – from the porch where I go to write,

In the afternoon when the sun is out – I have green tea, and a pipe,

So I ask if he would like to come over – to warm himself,

He waves with his good smoking hand and shakes his head,

One day, I ask again and Connor Priest crosses the blacktop highway,

That separates the orchard and the path from my writing porch,

We smoke and talk as the sky mellows with color over the trees,

He shows me the stump and he tells me about the bomb,

He saw the white flash but didn’t feel anything, nor hear anything,

He tells me he is deaf in one ear, and then he asks me what I write about,

Foolish things I tell him. We smoke until it is late and he has to go back,

A fingernail moon pushes up over Yankton. Connor Priest disappears,

Into early evening shadows that force themselves upon the old apple trees,

On the other side of the blacktop highway.

————————————————————————————-

Ed’s Note:  This poem has appeared in several places since I wrote it back in 2008, so I apologize if you have already read it. I run it here, on Veteran’s Day, in honor of the men and women who have served our country in the U.S. Armed Forces. For the record, Connor Priest is a real person. The name, Connor Priest, like the names of all actual people in everything that I write, is fictitious.