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Poetry || SubmissionsFive Poems by John Andrew DurlerThe Perspective I felt the slip of time, a curve that bellied out as a woman with child slowly, yet surely ballooned until my world was on a different axis than the earth I knew. The sun was still red, but more demanding of the pale yellow sky to give it more presence among blue clouds. And the moon, most assertive as if made of green cheese as grandma told us all when we were young enough to believe. Its sharp green light pushed to the horizon leaving the atmosphere as a purple pinto I saw at a wild west merry-go-round once at carnival. The surreal beauty was dizzying, like a high from a poem or a bartender’s mug of red wine or her auburn hair held back emerald earrings swaying, matching smoldering eyes as she slips into bed. If I tilted my head it was all so different looking more like before the slip. I could live like that, head tilted, but my neck ached, although bending over, looking between my outspread legs it all looked dismal and bleak. Righting myself, the brilliance was almost blinding, so I tilted my head and slipped back home. I shut the door leaving it slightly ajar and waited hoping she didn’t have the same perspective deciding to stare at the tilted world’s taunting beauty, perhaps become blind not thinking to tilt her head and never be able to find her way home again or worse, never wanting to. Blink When someone opens the lid and light pours in you blink a blink so long when you open your eyes you see black. Out of the black a single note chimes once- yet echoes in the dark until you hear it in your heart a thousand beats later, ears no longer able to listen to so delicately fine a tone. Even a dog's ears cannot hear it, but your heart can stirred by the tonal strobe of your soul so sensitive to the sound... The Sign persuasive simply read come in. I peered through grimy windows at one barber's chair, a small counter a single bulb hanging felt my neck's stubble brushed fingers through overgrown hair, rubbed my chin's three day's growth, went in. A bell tinkled. A voice from the side as I turned in the gloom came from a short stocky man pigtails, fat and long hanging down his chest like suspenders. Do you have an appointment? I saw the barber pole outside. Sit in that chair, take something to read I'll be with you shortly. His counter was filled; books, Story's Writers and Poets magazines. I looked back before I sat, at the book he was reading Anonymous Poems By Anonymous. I leaned toward the counter to get something to read but Poets and Writers started a brawl over who was more important pushing themselves at me, sometimes violent, flipping pages in a frantic blur voices deep, resonant, some soft, appealing others gruffly arrogant until I backed away afraid of a paper cut. Unable to concentrate he shoveled them into a cardboard box as I sat and waited. They get bored laying there. When someone comes in they show off. A week in the box will put them right. He said as went back to read. An hour later he woke me up. Had I dreamed? My legs were stretched out on a box full of books and magazines that seemed to tug at the soles of my shoes. He cut and shaved me as he quoted poetry between humming The Barber of Seville. Why do you barber with a voice so good? I asked as I paid him. I played the part in a London theater when a young man, got better reviews than the rest of the cast, but no one remembered my name. Not liking the annoyance of fame, I do this. Is that why you read anonymous books? What better reason to be left alone and do what you love to do? None, I said and tipped him well. Godzip Cool air pushed out pressing heat midnight clock's Led glowed I bent aching knees, my back an S in the mirror breathing pain. I hobbled to the window to catch my neighbor's wife undressing. God appeared on her roof, eyes piercing me. I cringed, looked away, knew he was pissed felt the look, the tone. He scribbled on a singed tattered paper. I wanted to tell him she knew I watched. "She did," I said aloud. I felt him zip inside me taking inventory. Like the IRS questioning every item of my life. I said the Act of Contrition, took the Fifth Amendment, wanted to hide under the bed, but couldn't move muscle or limb. So this is the way it happens, an accounting--body frozen. Suddenly, she entered the room, undressed, stretched, did aerobics, pushups, handstands, lay spread-eagled on the bed, hung from the chandelier, dressed and left the room. I raised my eyes to her roof. God was staring through it, bowlegged. The weight of the world must be crushing. He folded the paper into an airplane, flew it trough my window and was gone. I could move. I unfolded it. It was blank. Smoking Dreams When you smoke your dreams in a hamper getting high in the dark there is only you to share them with as they burn to acrid ashes in your eyes. You peer through the mesh to see sun on the rim of the toilet seat rainbows on soapy mirrors the shining porcelain tub that promised but never delivered when you scrubbed skin raw. You bow your head and scream out to the drain pray no one hears your naked shame look up to see the hamper open, cringe at discovery but it's just a pair of smelly socks caught on the edge to give you pause not to scream or whimper but stop breathing long enough to realize you can't. You pound your temples, jump out of the hamper run to your bed, squeeze under it and sleep. You dream an angel speaks to you yet there never was an angel but that one time you tore her wings off. You couldn’t bear for someone so innocent to love you. The scent of rose petals fill the dark fading as last winter’s leaves telling the tale of unending loss. Love left a while ago. You weren't paying attention. John Andrew Durler says he is 59 and married, lived on Long Island, relocated to Florida with my wife Frances Mancuso Durler, am published in anthologies, quarterlies, took first place in Performance Poets Association's 1st Annual poetry competition, Montage Writing, Poetry and screenwriters group plus 4 honorable mentions, 1st place in Belles Lettres` poetry contest. Obtained my B. A. in American Literature late in life, had three blazing careers and walked out on the corporate and business world to eke out a living and spend time in all aspects of poetics and writing. I absolutely do not miss the fat cats, good old boys clubs, stress and ulcers. I love animals, especially birds, love people especially gentle ones, dislike bad poetry, forced rhyme, big corporations, beauracrats, and that huge mass of agencies that control our lives and restrict our freedoms. God Bless America, and damn the politicians. You can wrie to him at sanjon911@worldnet.att.net Today's Situation
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