—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Anonymous Visuals
BEARDED ME
there is bearded me
and skeptic me
and nonchalant me
usually, these all
come out in winter
like a bear
warmer climates
bring reflective me
and shaven me
and in-between me
autumn brings solemn
academic me
reading me
bookish chin-rubbing me
THE ONCE GREAT MAMMOTH
He used to be
mighty and feared, keeping
all in order. Now he sits
on a flower-covered sofa
in a distant aunt’s basement.
There is nothing on television,
yet he finds himself looking.
He has not shaved in weeks.
________________
A STUDY OF THE TANTRUM
of course, now we record
them using the variegated
lenses we carry on our person
but I remember a time
when a being could thrash
and shout and the only
evidence was the casual
eyewitness or security cam
I even recall a time when,
to my ultimate Chagrin, I myself
engaged in a small tantrum
and thankfully there was no one
to hold it up like hieroglyphs
on our digital cave wall.
SLICKER
you told us about the crimson
slicker, a tear in your eye
how I wanted to jump back in time, scream to them,
get her the red coat
she wants so much, don’t
you know this is the one
person who means so much
to me.
FULL HEIGHT
She used to sit in the corner
rocking in her old-style chair,
an antique they brought in so
she could play her domestic role,
pretending to know how to knit
the results were knotted
chunks of twigs and twine
they, in turn, pretended they might
one day attempt to wear
while she cradled herself
back and forth, the family thought,
My, how tiny
but then she began to flail
her arms one day and burst
the chair into splinters
and revealed her true height.
The Scream, 1893, by Edvard Munch
GIRL WITH A MUNCH FACE
She is the screamer who I imagine
standing at the open mouth of a bridge,
figure trying to leave the rest of the world
and all she knows behind her, the sign post
of familiarity dimming in the distance
I imagine the smell of family life
and common voices fading quickly
She is the elongated face and I wish I could
offer a rescue, not because she needs it
but because I need to rescue someone; simply
put, it is my sensitivity, the desire to hold up
a leaking world that is probably more
in a position to help me instead.
____________________
BALLAD OF THE FISH
he swam upstream
slapping his body against
fate
they called him Sammy
soon he wondered
what dry land felt like
and put on some sandals
flash forward
Sammy is married and has
two children (modest amount
for a fish)
he hides his gills in public
but they all know there’s
something about him—
you could say something fishy,
but that would be too obvious
Rita, his wife, especially
suspects his secret every time
they go the river
or to the ocean
or to the sink
she lives in fear that
what she suspects is true
and then also lives in fear
that Sammy will discover
her secret
she is a sharp-beaked
predator at war with herself.
INFUSION
In the dream I am on the table
Like a bug
Being studied
A knife hits my bone
I see important objects
On the floor spread out
I wake up remembering
Faces in the waiting room.
(first pub. at Egg Poetry, 2012)
_____________________
FOR OLIVER
This is for Oliver who told
us the story of a checkered
floor and woke us up,
for Oliver whose hat went
missing and was mistaken
for someone’s mother,
for Oliver who told us
stories about loss, grief,
and the mind.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GUACAMOLE HAIKU
—JD DeHart
verdant and cooling
yet raging with spicy charge
metaphors for you
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to JD DeHart for today’s fine poetry—all the way from Tennessee!
Celebrate poetry!
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