Different Slants

Seeing the World from a New Angle

The River of Dead who have Flowed Through my Life..by Robert M. Katzman

Filed under: Life & Death,Philosophy,Poetry & Prose — Bob at 11:09 am on Saturday, July 30, 2011

Saturday July 30, 2011

 

Inevitably

They die

 

Mothers

Fathers

Aunts

Uncles

 

And

Most  

Leave

Evidence

Of their Lives

Behind

Them  

 

Bits and Pieces

for the

Kids

To sort through

 

Might be

Ten Kids

But usually

Just

One

Accepts

The Pain

 

The Others?

They Move On

It doesn’t take

a

Village

to

Disassemble Mom

 

Somehow

The One that Cared the Most

is

Cursed with the Cleanup

 

Deep Sentiment

for

Nearly a Century

 of a

  Life

Evaporates…along with the Guilt

 

 Damn!

 

Forgot to Buy Mom

A

Mother’s Day Card!

 

OK

 

I’ll Just Call Her

She’ll like That

 

But whoever

“forgot”

To buy the card

will

Also

be 

Unavailable to See

 

The

Taped and Tattered

Shoebox 

Filled

to

Overflowing

with

Seventy Years

Of

Mother’s Day

Anniversary

Christmas

And

Birthday Cards

 

Mothers Remember

They always know

 

You can

Lie

to

Yourself

 

But when

She Dies

The Acidic Sting

of your

Neglect

will live on

Within You

 

As her treasures

Become

Redistributed

Donated

And

Trashed

 

Like

Some

Eternal  

Small Town

Yard Sale

 

Where

the same

Snapshots

of an

Existence

Endlessly

Circulate

on

some

Existential

Track

 

Long After

the

Original

Owner

Is

Gone

 

Aged Parents:

Want to be Happy

In your

Afterlife?

 

Lower your Expectations

Now

 

Give it all away

Now

 

Spare the One

who

Truly

Loved You

Don’t Bury them

With

Emotional Tonnage

 

Go Lightly

When

You Leave

 

Learn to Let Go

 

The Minister

May Say:

Dust to Dust

 

But I think

God

was

actually

 making

a

Subtle

Suggestion

 

Not

Stating

a

Fact

 

Take the Hint

 

Life is Heavy

 

Let Go

 

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

 

4 Comments »

Comment by Don Larson

July 30, 2011 @ 12:05 pm

Hi Bob,

A very beautiful poem. Thank you.

I’m linking to it on my Facebook Wall.

Don

Comment by charlie newman

July 31, 2011 @ 9:56 pm

You rock, Bob.
Aces!

Comment by David Griesemer

August 5, 2011 @ 2:07 pm

As always, the vocabulary and cadence are spot-on. Your signature text-sculpting – tripling the number of lines – triples the accents, a device common in American spirituals. Our eye plunges down the page like Yosemite Falls, rewarding us for the effort.

As for the content, this piece is a self-guided audience-finder. The ones “…who Cared the Most,” “…who Truly Loved,” are also the ones who read poetry.

Comment by Bob

August 5, 2011 @ 2:22 pm

David, I am fascinated about what you see that I don’t. I write with a rhythm in my mind that carries the emotion forward. The structure is unconscious, except I deliberately want to slow down the speed of the reader from racing through the words pell mell.
The spaces are pauses to breathe, both mentally and actually, and to give the reader/audience a chance to contemplate what came before. The message, the story I’m compelled to write, is everything. All else is subordinate to telling the tale the way I want to tell it.

Bob

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