Traces
By William Dennis
Life in the E.R.“Oh, The Places You’ll Go” Dr. Seuss
Most of the day and half the long night,
I spent with my wife in the E.R.; touching and clutching, and fearing to lose the best part of my life in the E.R. It struck me there, as she was stretchered along, curled the flesh that lives nearest my heart; suddenly knowledge of what I might lose flashed and cut like a knife in the E.R. And if this be freedom, then freedom’s a terrible thing to come hard up against; the truth, I discover, is none of us has any right to his life in the E.R. Not growing, diminished, we joined all the stretchers run down through wide, right-angled halls; if death is life’s business, then business is good, maybe I should say “rife,” in the E.R. Please, doctors, agree that there’s nothing much wrong or, at least, that it’s easily healed; and, yet, what hurts most is clawed hope, not despair, in their treacherous strife in the E.R. While women live on after their change-of-life, they simply cannot have more children; Bill, that’s how you learned a real threat to your wife brings on male change-of-life in the E.R first published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
nightscape
Verse by William Dennis
Painting by Bill Wiggins |
A moon-bow makes splash-down in the valley, green hill, purple night —
the mound that grows by moon-light, where I dig night after night. Again, the nightmare bell curve, turning down just as hope springs — headlights glare to the crest, purple against green, night after night. The thought keeps returning, as chilling frost or in a blaze — someone off-stage is shining this moonlight night after night. There’s no settling on a top and bottom, twist as you will — but a yearning sense of … beyond … remains night after night. With signature illegibility he signed his work upside-down in the normal place, the same joke night after night. A world of no primary colors — green, white and purple — nothing simple, Bill — the flag that waves you, night after night. First published in The Ghazal Page, 2012 |
Going To Lie, I Wonder?A dead bird at our door;
who is going to die, I wonder? Both faces bear guilt’s print, but who is going to lie, I wonder? Our voices climb, protesting we each love the other more; throughout our lovers’ fights, it’s who’ll be last to cry, I wonder? When coldly straining out the mites in what you have to say, is it you or my dead father I defy, I wonder? At times I see your every covert flaw and shortcoming; is this clear vision, or just jaundice in my eye, I wonder? We like as well as love each other, share our goods and grief; and yet, and yet, and yet, then, for what do we vie, I wonder |
The Best Grow Better YetBooks and red wine—
when very old, the best grow better yet; young love turns sad, some sour, for it does not know better, yet. Our tale is older than this house; it’s older than tall trees; when they fall, we’ll be (forget what we forego) the better yet. Passing like a breeze through trees, our love, like us, must pass, though passing things stay fresh—our love..., our woe, ah, better yet! Erect and rigid, defying every storm, one day we’ll break; if parts love sways grow weeping as the willow— better yet. Hungers come in sorts of kinds; some steal your appetite. If we're made leaner by what love lets go, the better yet. Bill, you pretend experience in how love hurts and heals; all you do is cry, so how come you’re no better yet |
Our FreedomAllowing immigrants to be uncouth,
gave us our freedom; defending others’ liberty, is what has saved our freedom. Next, the French, and by their own—and harder—path sought freedom; all ‘round the world and here, at home, our slaves, too, craved our freedom. Through repetition, much un-truth has come to pass for true; for what we wished were true, but knew for false, we waived our freedom. Historians will find the Statue of Liberty stood, dry-shod; blasé, we watch as rising seas lap and lave our freedom. We’ve picked the ill-behaved, the misbehaved and crazed to lead us; my soul, know now with what the road to hell is paved—our freedom first published in The Ghazal Page (2017) |
What Can I Say? for Mark Koenig
1943 – 2016 What can I pray, now I’ve lost my faith, what can I pray at all?
What can I say, now I’ve lost my friend, what can I say at all? I frittered and scattered our years away, and scarcely saw you for years; how could I delay, as I did, seeing you—how could I delay at all? Your race is run, what’s un-done done, you’ve gone where none can go; my memory’s way will recall your best, there’s no other way at all. You’ve left behind both your wife and son, your daughter and me, as well; your host of friends, there’s no day for us not Memorial Day at all. Your kindly mark is left here and there, in him and her, and me; your best can’t decay, what you leave in us cannot decay at all. |
Warm Glow—Where Does It Go?The ice melts off the poles
while deserts grow—where does it go? A cocktail melts its ice in my warm glow—where does it go? The Carolina parakeet, the passenger pigeon—once swarming, now they’re legends with the dodo—where do they go? An Osage orange on the grass, no gomphotheres* to eat it; the Osage nation bent it for their bow—where do they go? An inch of fallen flakes brings sleek horse-power to a crawl; sleighs used to run the faster over snow—where did they go? Revealed by melt, the Ice Man, Oetzi’s trousers had no seat; of all those massive glaciers long ago—where did they go? Dread climate change has two solutions: the old may choose to die; the young may fall in love. Your wasted youth, Bill, where did it go? first published in The Ghazal Page (2017) *Gomphotheres: extinct animals, resembling a four-tusked cross between the hairy mammoth and a giant pig. They were the primary vector for spreading the seed of what we now call the Osage orange tree. When The Ghazal Page suggested the topic, “Chill,” the only thought which came immediately to William Dennis was the fact that global warming is taking the chill off our planet. However cool it feels to be warm in winter, he thinks the world is losing its cool and humanity is going to miss it. On a recent visit to the southern Alps, he met Oetzi and witnessed the withdrawal of glacier from many mountain-sides. |
Most Marvelous Animal in the WorldOf living creatures, she
is the most tangible in the world-- the most marvelous animal in the world. That I might let this little beast wander, wanting care, of all ideas, there’s none more laughable in the world. Would she shed grace upon my days, should I disturb her nights?—of all my thoughts, the most grammatical in the world. I fear her flushing cheek’s blood offering turns some male god’s eye, out-bidding all the arid asphodel in the world. The badly molted wings you used to glide above with, Bill, unlike your nerves-- the most unflappable in the world. first published in The Ghazal Page (2016) Biographical note to The Ghazal Page Fauna Challenge: I could never list all the species of animals with which I have shared life space—pets, pests, game and livestock; but all that came to me was lovers, to meet the Fauna Challenge. In the world, as it touches my life, the most marvelous animal is always the same one, who can be trusted to know it – though reminders are never wasted. |
You Know HumanityYou slap my butt and casually
bestow humanity; full well you grasp my flaws, so well you know humanity. Forgiveness, not so difficult to cultivate between us; just hope, that hardy weed, though, apropos humanity. The open-carry flag of fully automatic race displays each bearer’s membership in low humanity. I’d boast Confederate flags sewn on my cap, back as a boy; you made me snatch them off for love--quid pro humanity. Forgiving and ignoring: it isn’t easy, growing up; look, birds, though pretty, need not undergo humanity. Wolves kill to eat—men eat to kill, some men, some of the time; the War Museum keeps its display tableau--Humanity. I flatter me and kid myself, that monkey shines are bright; how often, in self-interest, do I forgo humanity? Polly Ticos puts a single piggy in the pool, convinced anthropogenic means big toe humanity. Alike well-dressed and smiling all together for the shot, what leaders proudly offer is golf-pro humanity. I look and long for peace at rest, once settled on some bottom— the only envy offered to skid-row humanity Those tired women knew their place, and so did those who watched, and no one broke the law with their jim crowe humanity. To cool your fire element, instead of wine, drink water; toast life in what you spill, they call the overflow humanity, Observers fresh from Mars can not believe the lightning pace of glacial change or glacial pace of slow humanity. Full as a taken squirrel’s winter store of corn and nuts, our maker never comes, and yet, Hello, humanity. I scarce know what to wish myself and you, the one I love, and whether to grow into or outgrow humanity. The problem isn’t yours to solve, so let it go, our Bill; it’s saints’ and tyrants’ task to overthrow humanity. first published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
A Lesson We All Have To Learnafter “The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday” by Alexander McCall Smith
Bees in my flowers make flowers the more--
a lesson we all have to learn; but bees other powers do make me feel sore—a lesson we all have to learn. Cold looks and cold shoulders, cold hearts and cold hands are help weak in wintery blasts; yet tongues burn and fingers, souls parch and hearts score—a lesson we all have to learn. Lips burning, looks burning, touching my heart made a heat rising straight to my head; though after the world was more cold than before—a lesson we all have to learn. It’s best to lose, your purse or post than either your heart or head, or be, I’ve learned, a foolish, fond bore—a lesson we all have to learn. Though…ever after happy …, may finish any tale, it’s rare; the good are never ones Bill feels love for—a lesson we all have to learn. first published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
I Think, I Don’t BelieveYou judge my best,
not lows to which I sink, I don’t believe; not even God forgives the things I think, I don’t believe. As I have lived no clean example, I’m not free of guilt for what my children smoke and eat and drink, I don’t believe. My tip-toe thoughts won't wake up conscience in the night to glare at what by day it gives a nod and wink, I don’t believe. Time never wings while spirit dallies, youth un-spent's not lost, no grief if heart and head pull out of sync, I don’t believe. Furrows dragged in fields of guilt, these lines, though short, seem long, not justifying such expense of ink, I don’t believe. Inducing up, deducing down, the circles of my logic rattle weighty gears, not rinky-dink, I don’t believe. For all your proof of lading, for all of Darwin’s finches' beaks, spite all, never hear the money clink, I don’t believe. first published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
Some Good Cause You’re like this cake of fragrant soap, worn out in some good cause,
and when you sting his eyes, that’s no more grief than you should cause. You make him happy; he makes you sad. You make him make you sad. Like me, you know effects, but have not understood their cause. Free as wind to blow you ill, he’s certain of your love; worst is, you know that’s nothing to the blow-back you could cause. Not even you stand witness, so cunningly you craft your masks; no eyes, no mouth—who knows what restored sight and speech would cause? No constellation; evening star, slide slyly through the clouds, without that chance of lover’s luck for which your light stood cause. |
Good At Going FirstI open the door for you.
I’m not so good at going first. I’ll also close it; you should make a try at being first. I’ve read so many books; in every one I found surprise. “Of course!” I cry, but I was never good at knowing first. Planning is an art form which I struggle yet to master. What use my calendar, if I don't grasp foreseeing first? You know I can’t resist this racing off the edge of cliffs; to get somewhere, how 'bout I make a try at slowing first? Bill's patient psycho-therapist abides just two firm rules— TWO: Keep your tissues handy; ONE: Do not skip peeing first. |
Between the LinesVerse by William Dennis
Painting "City Noise" by Michael Guinn |
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This standing lost on Lonely Street was guaranteed—between the lines
There is someone, sometimes you’ve got to plead between the lines. Old City’s drawn with lines and lines, they paint them on the street; your sleight-of-hand maps something real I read between the lines. House-poor, house-proud, pedestrian you, easy to catch out. Who’s calling with that siren sound? There’s greed between the lines. Love’s broadcast is continuous to cultivated ears; and she sows roots in open hearts, who seeds between the lines. Curved lines applied to make-up are nature on my scale; you bend your touch to meet my taste and need between the lines. The easiest trip for me to make is off my glib tongue’s tip; facile silence better suits—less tweed between the lines. Locked in likeliest lines to trip and hardest lines to see, and while I pigeon-walk, you’ve skeleton-keyed between the lines. They move the line twixt white and black, and call tough breaks the fix; they thin the space from rich to poor and feed between the lines. Old lust won’t damp a postage stamp; no HMO approves. Fond hearts, hearts’ old acquaintances, slow-speed between the lines. Diversity’s all colors now, that sound now all alike; let’s harmonize two tunes voiced brass and reed between the lines. You scarcely know I’m here, but try to see me through these lines; I’ve tried leave some mark, if just to bleed between the lines. |
Flowers Quickly FadeThough roses all are flowers, and some flowers quickly fade,
your petal-pink does not (to tweak time’s powers) quickly fade. Black twig and winter tree teach us lean endurance; first loves—bud-break to fruit—when winter glowers, quickly fade. Joys passed—your heart once lifting mine—must lighten these last years; just puddles, pleasures dropped in early showers quickly fade. Don’t worry if there’s heaven, for what help I’ve offered you; your quiet company makes cloud-built towers quickly fade. If Bill would bite his pencil crosswise with his teeth, he’d smile; one more excuse for scribbling: full hours quickly fade. |
In My MirrorGrant’s battle map of Chicamaugua folds back in my mirror:
a scratched old record plays, losing time’s track in my mirror. An angel at my shoulder offers substance to my past; and then lost hopes and empty wishes’ ranks pack in my mirror. Endearing words to equities, I’d trade by mouth or hand; now I trade wincing glances with some sad-sack in my mirror. I wish the face I showed meant all you saw was truly there, not—all you see is all there is; I see slack in my mirror. Your ironic sense of humor leaks out in strange places; my shattered self squints back around your wise-crack in my mirror. Yes, my eyelashes, too, envy paint that backs your mirror; it would settle for a sidelong glance, in fact—my mirror. |
Way OutThe Nearest Exit May be Behind You,
mixed media on canvas, by Jim Kendall |
Yes, these things happen: sometimes my way in is your way out.
Once in, I don’t like in; once out, dear thing, you won’t stay out. Although they twist till they turn blue—those crooked you-know-who-- because they’ve never shifted stance, believe what they bray out. Sidewalks, lunch-hour in the park—let’s get away from crowds, through stop lights stoop to blinking when they make our child’s play out. The two-toed sloth, the living image, tangled truth and lies; algae green and up-side down, let’s tease this melee out. The nearest exit is an entrance, to or from a heart; though planes may plummet, lives may end, our love will sashay out. Attempting to speak French to the Eifel Tower—tourists; the French do not bend backwards to grasp what one may parle out. Such contortions I go through, straining to be good, which it would take an artist…, make an artist to lay out. |
Paper RosesThe garden of my heart, in spring stirs forth as paper roses;
then scratch it on my leaning stone, “His best was paper roses.” Like any dog in any road, they’ll run me down to you; and who but fools puts water in the vase for paper roses? My heart is not the florist’s shop where lovers pick their posies; against the hemorrhage of youth’s flush, now I mass paper roses. Your fresh-cut flowers’ moist bouquets are like a child’s love-- they fade, and pressed between two pages, they cause paper roses. So, pile them up against my slab, to weather every season; the thing I’ve always used to hide faux pas is paper roses. |