The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Fairhope, AL, US
If you have comments or suggestions for Shawn Field, you can contact this author at:
SlyDaevil@aol.com (Shawn Field)
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...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities
not with a yoke
saddle or reins to harness your strength
to simply watch
for a moment to share
when you absentmindedly brush against me
while the thought of captivating,
of merely being known to you,
heightens me &
works these muscles
stretches the back
flexes these quads . . .
knowing you're a thoroughbred workhorse,
not with a prance but a sway
a self-structured swing of attitude,
with tawny limbs & adorning steel.
Mr. Richards wore amber shades & made his way
long before I realized men could move gracefully
with one eye.
Mr. Richards the ex-Navy Seal who went to Vietnam,
went to the jungles as a skillfull spook,
marched full-force into daemons -
the likes of which I shall not see in this lifetime.
And witnessed atrocities that should've never seen
two human eyes.
Certainly not the substance of a flame-swallowing soul.
Mr. Richards came home, an elder to his kinsmen &
arrived with the knowledge of Chieftans, battle scars, ghosts
hidden under his skin.
The man carried stormy weather in those joints
Mr. Richards came-a-knockin' with miniature
Babie Ruth's and something of a different smile
with such invitation . . . & dated my mother.
Mr. Richards done became bested and jus' threadbare
enough to be cold and simply took an ingrained
patriotic stance, rooted his heels, on the inside.
Mr. Richards came to know the awesome of silence,
the breath of a moment.
He saw the squeeze of buckshot evolve from sweating
nights, to the contracting muscle in his thumb
to the pale pressure in one fingernail.
He heard the report. The pain was synchronized,
but evolved . . . higher reasoning . . .
what a damn mess!
Mr. Richards laid upon the carpet . . . open on the
thick pearl shag . . . opened across the wall.
Six hours of ghosts leakin' out and their stench
Surreal red in the eyes of his parents!
Mr. Richards' obituary picture shown black/white and
inviting in woolen dress blues, a cocked dixie cup,
genuine Triumph on his face.
Mr. Richards treading water in my memory even now:
black camouflage eyes resting above the ripples.
But last night was the first time I caught him hanging
around, breathing heavy.
" Yes Sir. I had almost forgotten You . . .
Hey Hunter! come down from your wooded mountain
lay down your muskets & game, bathe &
make peace at the table with -
Hey Pirate! come out from those components
wash the electricity from your hands,
the silence from your lips &
make peace at the table among -
Hey Cook! come from behind your grilling short-orders
shake the grease from your hair,
wash the staleness from your youth &
make peace at the table between -
Hey Poet! come down from the sky, out of yourself
wash the cowardice from your soul,
the wine from your brain &
make peace at the table around -
Or you the Mechanic under the rack & pinion of
Or you the Speed Boater racing sleepless thru the nights
Or you the Revolutionary Youth realizing slowly
Or you the Writer, single & triumphant
Hey Cardboard-latent genius! come from Paradise
wash the beach from your feet, the salt from your eyes
& make peace at this table to -
And later, in the wake of his sunset,
I wondered who could tell a man's thoughts
when the day has been chosen.
Who will remember the succulent red tulip on
the window sill: forlored & left dry by the
Who will remember the pure oxygen he inhaled
like a drug for 15 days straight, and how it
encrusted his nose with blood by the 10th?
Who will remember how the door to his bedroom
fluttered in the cross breeze, which flew
heavy thru the house,
hours before his last open eye?
And to the layman . . . will the description of
his decline be recalled on medical charts
as dwindling numbers?
Aye! when that hour commences,
as a man's life is compressed within that space,
where will the character of his worth
even when that disappears - who'll remember when
it was borne?
I am here for the final page of Bill Lowrimore.
But - he as a secret connoiseur of gold fabric,
baklava, white wine & foot baths during the summer
As a shanachie of the maritime ways and roams,
As an olden tobacco god with saturated asbestos lungs,
As a staunch suporter of straw hats, broken bull dogs,
Willie Nelson and black coffee -
My pleasure to have known & shared for 8 months.
She was lean & hungry
in the strewn-thin sense
of none-too-cautious youth
flaunted on her vibrant clothes
slit of naked navel, unpierced
kissed and soiled by the unappreciative,
long bottle-gold hair
and hollow shoulders that couldn't possibly
shrug high enough to litter the ground
with their stock of burden,
Yearning beneath her pink scarf
and polished white exterior
beyond a choice of mozarella or swiss.
She cocked back in an undecisive hunch
ready for the choice to appear
effortless, not a personal campaign warring
underneath . . .
do men want a return to the haunts
of such a tepid stage?
These are the women of my forties
who will soon conceive kids & curves
birthday parties & range-reason divorces
find heart and young attention
tans and the philosophy of other
-Ings, -Tions, -Isms, -Ships, -Ies
and the occasional
Some-, Every-, Any- .