Poetry

My Misplaced Life

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart  (July, 2024)

Writer’s Note:
This poem was written in response to the single word “Memories” –  the prompt for a 2024 international poetry competition that limited entries to no more than 30 lines.
_____________________________________________

Like thunder clapping across dark summer skies,
my muddled recollections of a seventy-year span
roll by angrily and ominously, behind closed doors.
On this blackest of nights, in this desolate cottage,
my emotions flare, my pulse races, and the sharp
blade of regret cuts deeply, ripping me to my core.

Once a cheap-suited underling, weary and fragile,
unwittingly and passively robotic, I’d wait for the
office clock to shriek, “Go home – now.” Yes, home,
to bare walls and sterile bed, where I sat and stared
and tried to revisit, to remember, my misplaced life.

My remembrances are devoid of shape and sound
and scent. Faces blur, and voices echo unevenly,
collapsing tone and tenor. Muted, murky visions
distort once-clear images, as chaos conquers all.

Flashbacks of fire still mock my scarred spirit,
so I revisit stale, maudlin songs of love and loss
to blunt their brutality and muffle their cruelty.
Does that coy, green-eyed Jersey girl reminisce
tonight, recalling Spring flowers in old Vermont,
or stolen kisses in the shadows of Boston bars?

Alas, I capture the frames, but not so their pictures.
These letters have yellowed, their words have faded.
Curse the folly of such idle musings. Will any remnants
remain when this night ends? I think not. Those who
rode life’s rails with me are gone, and won’t be back.

Enough, old man! Cease this bitter blather, this anguish.
Welcome morning’s light with deep breaths and quiet heart,
your dreams alive, your flame hot, your mind’s eye focused.
Despair is bearable. Defeat is not. So clap, thunder. Clap on!

#

Let Us Fill HourGlasses With Love

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart   (June, 2023)

Writer’s Note:  The late Leonard Cohen added many,  many unheralded verses to his cherished “Hallelujah” on his way to completing the classic piece, though only a few are usually heard. “Many, many” is likely wishful thinking in this case, but it is my intention to add verses to this open-ended poem over time, because . . . why not?
So we raise our glasses high, where love is in the air, and we fill them, the way we always dreamed we would, as a chorus of high-spirited voices endorse the moment – ”  Hear! Hear!”

♦

Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn
met years ago in the park
at the end of the road,
near the old sawmill
where their dads
hacked logs
on third
shift.
♥
Each
of them
fast taken
with the other.
As sunset drew nigh,
he held her hand in his;
she gently tousled his hair.
Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn.

∞

The widow Stone and Patrick Strong
danced a waltz at an Elks lodge
in Fort Wayne, Indiana,
on a Saturday night
last November,
nose to nose,
eyes shut,
awed.
♥
Love
grew fast
in their hearts;
breathing as one,
proclaiming their bond,
perceiving their closeness,
with lifted souls and high hopes.
The widow Stone and Patrick Strong.

∞

Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone,
longtime lovers, lifetime friends,
condo-cohabitated in Wells,
“Maine’s Friendliest Town.”
They hiked and biked,
laughed and cried,
fished, swam,
talked.
♥
Kissed
at dawn,
and at dusk,
and in between;
cool, calm, spirited,
both secure, feeling free,
living the dream, their destiny.
Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone.

 

∞

Till the Flames Burn No More

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2023)


When the Wrath raged at night,
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I disengaged from the fight,
too weary to break its spell.
My endless, painful, plight
wore on without farewell.
That spiteful source of fright
drummed dirges as I fell.

Vicious, vile, it stabbed my soul
with a searing, piercing spear.
It cut me down to half my whole,
it broke my will, it fed my fear.
I struggled to disrupt its goal,
to interfere, to persevere.
But I failed to seize control,
to make the terror disappear.

“Focus, Wayne, the Wrath’s surreal.
Your distress keeps it alive.
You’re the one who spins the wheel.
It needs you to survive.
You won’t get well, you can’t heal,
peace will never arrive,
if you don’t end this long ordeal.
Resist. Reflect. Revive.”

Whose voice was that? Can it be?
The words rang strong and true.
“Breathe. Be calm. You hold the key.
I did my best to strengthen you.”
She read my soul, she set me free,
cleared my mind, framed my view.
Her spirit opens this path for me,
lights my way, guides me through.

Though fury fans the blaze,
and trauma strains my core,
though chaos cuts both ways
through its unrelenting roar,
I’ll conquer this murky maze,
and begin to settle the score.
Then I’ll stare down the days,
till the flames burn no more.

When the Wrath rages tonight
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I’ll be ready for the fight,
and quickly crush its spell.
My dire, perpetual plight
will wane in fast farewell.
That intrusive parasite
will toll its own death knell.

#

 

Introspection:

Each night, every night, all night .  .  . long, mean, cruel .  .  . it surrounds him .  .  . then daybreak comes, the shadows fade, some faster than others, but all, and soon, at last .  .  . daylight hours bring sleep, relief, time to plan, prepare, persevere, before the next round descends as the sun dutifully drops, and the treacherous trek begins anew, as the weary, wary wayfarer resists throwing his hand, mindful that another dawn will come, just in time, to save him, as the circle cycles unbroken, but for now, as darkness knocks, the violent, visual loop plays fast and hard and the gut-wrenching sound echoes off bare, bedroom walls, and he sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and defiantly turns up the volume in his headphones, and hums along to “Let It Be.” 

–

The Aftermath – “Morning Mind, Mourning Mind” –  (Clean it up, or let it be.)

No Caterwauling Aloud !

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2023)

Writer’s Note:  This poem was written as an entry in an international publication’s 2023 annual poetry competition. All entries had to respond to a unique, one-word, all caps, exclamatory prompt : “LOUD!” 

                                                          (Hmm, where should I go with this?)

⇓

Fiona Fay, our flaky, finicky, family feline,
goes gaga in the presence of a cute canine,
preening herself till she’s groomed real fine.

Her snivels and whines, common, well-known,
are low in volume, and nonthreatening in tone.
They arrive with a grunt, and leave with a groan.

But now and then, she’ll just holler and hiss,
squalling and bawling, like something’s amiss.|
We nuzzle her neck, and her blues turn to bliss.

That tri-colored, calico, mouser of ours,
paws for hours, sleeps when it showers,
plays on the lawn, pees on the flowers.

The amber-eyed creature is near and dear
to the five human beings who are living here.
Queen Cat makes the rules, and we adhere.

She listens to birds from the window sills,
then merrily mimics their chirps and trills,
their vibrant chants, and their piercing shrills.

As she chimed high notes in a morning salute,
she was hounded in our yard by a surly ol’ brute,
who nipped at her tail while in dogged pursuit.

Believe me when I say, in the here and now,
that the wail we heard, someway, somehow,
rang out like a squeal from a mating sow.

Riled by the mongrel’s growl and grumble,
our caterwauling gal was raring to rumble,
and make that critter stumble and tumble.

Fiona Fay circled like a lioness proud,
thundering strong like an angry cloud,
at the mutt that bit her butt, then bowed,
all ‘cuz the Queen had meowed too LOUD!

#

 

 

Long Night on Willow Road

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

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Wayne Michael DeHart   (April, 2022)

December 21, 1960

The blizzard arrived with a vengeance, hours ahead of time,
leaving the girl, who begged off the family supply run, alone.

The weathered, three-bedroom house of her youth,
which stood alone, like the girl, at the deadest of ends,
on the darkest of December nights, offered warmth.

Inside, lights flickering, she watched, and heard,  the
relentless storm lay vengeance on the wooded countryside.
Her mother, her father, her sisters two, her brothers three;
each of them, all of them, together in tow, were – somewhere.

Gritty she was, more resilient than most of fifteen years.
She wandered through both the boys’ and girls’ bedrooms.
Each had bunk beds, and a raised mattress for the eldest.
She touched each pillow with closed eyes while pretending
that her younger siblings were asking her to read to them.

She embraced the moment, then moved on to her parents’ retreat.
The welcoming, large four-poster with the burgundy bedspread
warmed her spirit and she bounced herself across it, once each
direction, as she always did when they were absent in the dark.
She caressed both pillows, giving each a hug before leaving.
At 84 Willow Road, at 7:39 PM, she settled into a kitchen chair.

Outside, fierce northeast winds rushed through the evergreens.
A swarm of snowflakes swirled furiously above the porch light.
Her family was way past due, and the young girl – well, she knew.
She made a peanut butter sandwich and opened a book of poems,
to page 56, where Frost told of woods on another snowy evening.

The phone had long since surrendered its dial tone to the fury.
Then came a knock on the door, and her name being called, loudly.
She froze, dreading the inevitable “Miss, there’s been an accident.”
Unlike the poet, they’d have no more miles to go before they slept.

But, the knock was her beloved uncle Ron’s; her family was safely
hunkered down for the night at his house in town. He had braved
the storm to “fetch her” in his Ford pickup while her Dad rested.

They gathered up the eight pillows. She grabbed the book of poems
and turned out the lights, then locked the door, at 84 Willow Road.

#

A Bit Bizarre

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart  (September, 2021)

Though few were inclined to agree, the brash braggart boasted he’d be
a man in command; leading the band, living his life so high and so grand.
A weed devotee, at eighteen he was free, to chill and get stoned by the sea.
He tanned, and rolled reefers by hand, as he manly-manned a lifeguard stand.
Five years into a toking spree, he was busted, mistrusted, at age twenty-three.
Canned, banned, he split the sand of the strand to seek and seed fertile land.
Due west from Myrtle Beach he did flee, past the lea, to Big Tree, near Elloree,
to try his hand (poorly planned) at planting and growing his very own brand.                                  

 

This jobless jackal named Jake, a snippety snake, a claim he did stake
on an expanse so divine – eight acres of pine, or perhaps it was nine.
He hoped for fresh water – a pond or a lake – befitting a Walden remake,
but away from the brine, his stars didn’t align, and his moon didn’t shine.
Told he could neither borrow nor make the big bucks that would take,
said, “okay, fine, if but one acre be mine, dinky and dry I cannot decline.”
A fake, a flake, a walking mistake, hallelujah, the dreamer was finally awake.
He dragged his own line, hell-bent to define, to design, a brand he’d refine.        

 

Sharing here what I hear, he and John Deere, they launched into high gear, 
felling trees left and right, till sunlight took flight, giving ground to the night.
He pledged to persevere, and in just one-sixth of a year, he was able to clear 
a feasible, functional farming site, the prize for his fight, a freewheeler’s delight.  
Jake toasted himself with beer and a cheer, and Ms. Mary Jane abuzz in his ear.
“A joint venture bright, airtight,” mused the mock, mythical, modern-day knight.
Then from his rear did appear a doe-eyed dear, a damsel top-tier, à la Guinevere,
attired purely in white, to excite on sight, so slim and slight, a spellbinding sprite.

His eyes were aglow, this swaggering schmuck/schmo, as he hungrily hollered hello
to the enchanting young maid who coyly displayed genteel jewelry of genuine jade.
He could not know what quid pro quo this vivacious vamp/vixen would deem apropos,
but the guy never frayed, stayed stoic, stayed staid, smugly sure he couldn’t be played.
She sipped Bordeaux, he slurped Merlot; when they gave it a go, she snatched his dough.
He strayed and got meekly Miss-laid. Dismayed, disarrayed, the fated flier felt his fire fade.
The faux Thoreau became a kept beau, a weak bro, a punchless putz in her puppet show.
Unforgiving, unafraid, on a crusade, “Jen” disparaged his doobie till he sadly “oy vey!”-ed.    

 

But wait – what was his quo, and what was her quid? Jake didn’t know, but Jen sure did.
From whence had she come, with her cute little bum, bearing a pear as sweet as a plum?
Well, think back to your time as a kid, when your ego was battered, and twice so your id.
Remember the boy who called you dumb, and tangled your hair with goo, glue and gum?
Milady didn’t forget, so heaven forbid, what havoc she’d wreak, way out here off the grid.
By nine Jake had become a nastily numb, callously caustic, cruelly crude, sick sack of scum.
Transfigured, the now lovely, lithe lassie let loose her lid, and into her quid, his quo she slid. 
She gave the crumb “some,” then watched him succumb to her cunning game of zero sum. 

 

The chump learned the tables had turned. His bread was gone but her butter got churned.
That acre he bought, financed without thought, was part and parcel of her father’s woodlot.
Jake hadn’t worried and wasn’t concerned, that his payments were twofold what he earned.
A “man in command” he proved to be not, because lessons unheeded are lessons untaught.
Once he discerned his buns had been burned, his botched bid for a brand stood adjourned.
She had cached all his cash, leaving him naught, then Daddy foreclosed on poor Jake’s plot.
He sat sadly spurned, his life overturned. The dope never returned for that which he yearned.
Jen at last got the revenge she sought, wielding her wiles, while lampooning his lance a lot ! 

UPDATE: 

Almost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   forgot:
Jenny hooked up hot, to trot, with King Artie “Wart”, a royal big shot.
They tied a knoble knuptial knot, in a most congenial spot,
where by her own hand, she bred her own brand – “Jen’s Jerky” pot,
before happily-ever-aftering . . . there . . . in . . . Cam-e-lot.

A bit bizarre, sure – but Richard Harris himself says “IT’S TRUE !!!!!”  . . .

Eager beaver Jake flexing for the camera in the act of “felling trees left and right” …

And a quick word from our sponsor:                                                                                                                                          

The Bumper-to-Bumper Blues

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

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Wayne Michael DeHart  (March, 1997)

Out of the office, into my car;
four miles from home, not very far.
At the turn of the key, the engine’s alive;
the clock lights up, it reads 5:05.
Into reverse, backing out of my space;
workday is done, getting out of this place.
Then into drive, and I’m on my way;
music is playing, it’s the 1st of May.
Now that it’s over,  I can finally relax;
I made it through, without getting the axe.
The sun is shining, and the sky is blue;
payday’s tomorrow, too good to be true.

Out of the parking lot, onto the street;
can’t wait to get there, can’t wait to eat.
Maybe a chili dog, and a bottle of brew;
a bag of chips, and a doughnut or two.
Not really healthy, but it is what I like;
and I’ll burn it off, with a ride on my bike.
(Soon to be home, in my own little heaven;
three miles to go, clock sits at 5:07.)
Maybe I’ll read, or write a long letter;
watch some TV, that might be better.
Perhaps solitaire, or lift a few weights;
or call up some ladies, and plead for some dates.

Work was a hassle, but now I’m released;
my nerves are relaxed, my panic has ceased.
Soon I’ll arrive, at my castle for one;
the suit will come off, the tie be undone.
(Car’s running smooth , oil pressure’s fine;
two miles to go, clock reads 5:09.)
On my way home, feeling elated;
glad that’s not me, with that tire deflated.
Poor guy is sweating, and looking so down;
I’ve been in his shoes, and I know that frown.
But today is today, and I’m sailing along;
the wind’s at my back, and nothing is wrong.

So good to be free, from the boss and his stare;
from the inbox that’s full, from the outbox that’s bare.
From the fax that screams, from the phone that shrieks;
from the desk that wobbles, from the chair that squeaks.
I’ll find another job, I vowed that today;
a perfect position, with much higher pay.
(My tires are hummin’, my engine’s a-revvin’;
just one mile to go, clock beams 5:11.)
Then reality strikes, and I daydream no more;
a new job’s unlikely, no change is in store.
So each time I leave, each time I arrive;
I remind myself, “well, it IS a short drive!”

Hey, why all those brake lights, appearing ahead;
so many, so quickly, so bright and so red?
They dazzle my eyes, they blind me so fast;
my senses are numb, my mind is aghast.
An accident maybe, or a stalled truck;
darn this route home, my life and my luck.
I almost made it, without a hitch or a glitch;
but now I’m stuck, and starting to twitch.
I’ll have to stay calm, blood pressure’s too high;
a mind trip to Europe, eyes closed I’ll just fly.
And I’ll pretend I’m in Paris or Rome;
curses to gridlock, when I’m so close to home.

#

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ired, I Said.

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

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Wayne Michael DeHart   (May, 1997)

Fired he said, you’re fired he said,
so drop what you’re doing and clean out your desk
and be gone by noon without disturbing the others
with shallow goodbyes and stuff like that
because you’re f ired , he said.

Six years of coming in early and leaving late
and skipping lunch and busting my butt for him.
Six years of showing up when I was sick
and missing vacations and covering up for him.

Tired he said,  I’m tired he said,
of your wrinkled shirts and shabby suits
and shoddy shoes that don’t present
the proper image to our clients but no more
because I’m t ired , he said.

Six years of working at home at night
and neglecting my wife and kids for him.
Six years of waiting for a “reserved for” space
in the company parking lot for him.

Required he said,  it’s required he said,
that you turn in your name-tag along with your keys
and fill out some forms and aren’t those company pens
I see in your pocket so best hand them over
because it’s requ ired, he said.

Six years of concessions and wounded pride
and loss of self-esteem for him.
Six years of cheap motels and burger joints
to lower expense accounts for him.

Retired he said, Black’s retired he said,
without warning at mid-morning
to move to Scranton or some such place
and now the reports won’t get finished
because Black’s ret ired, he said.

Six years of torture in this terrible place
had greatly increased my disgust for him.
Six years of suffering in submissive silence
had nurtured a nagging contempt for him.

Expired he said, White’s expired he said,
dropped down to the floor at ten forty-four
clutching his chest and gasping for breath
without giving notice so we’re short one more
because White’s exp ired, he said.

Six years of timid yes-sirs and no-sirs
to display the proper respect for him.
Six years of flattering his unsightly spouse
so she’d always be in a good mood for him.

Re-hired he said, you’ve been re-hired he said,
it’s been a morning of stress, strife and tension
with Black and White issues that need my attention
so be forever indebted to me for saving your pension
and work even harder,  so you’re re-h ired, he said.

(How the tables had turned! I wanted to smirk.
Too often scorned, now I’d deal with this jerk.
Whatever the cost, it was my time and place.
But … valor was lost, when he snarled in my face.)

Inspired I said,  I’m inspired I said,
by your faith in me, with this coveted chance
to re-establish my worth, to continue my career.
You’re a man I trust and revere, respect and hold dear,
and I’m so incredibly insp…

ired, I said.

 

 

146818

The Fire in Jimmy Louis

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment


Wayne Michael DeHart   (June, 1997)

He endures the emptiness of love lost, of dreams forsaken.
His canvas mourns in brooding browns and ashen grays.
Most say his drive and direction were lost
when she exploded out of his life,
shattering his heart, draining his soul.

The one most likely to succeed, they said.
Ambitious and certain with vision and goals.
But youthful daring and reckless confidence
were too soon manifested in acts of courage in conflict
that brought a hail of hot metal rain to nerve and bone.

Dazed and defeated from the dual punches to his gut,
( the loud rolling thunder of her retreat, and
the lightning-quick loss of his mobility and dignity ),
his memory of her white-hot kisses had faded to black.

But the mortar’s flame and flash and fury had not.

Now, this day, he vows to cast off the shroud that darkens his world,
that shelters his apathy, and shields his despair – and incite the embers
of the flickering,  lonely flame she left embedded deep within.

He will awaken his canvas with glorious greens and glistening golds,
then lay down his brush and wheel himself
into the night
into her sight
into her light
into her life
into her.

Together, they will
find . . .
feel . . .
fuel . . .
the fire in Jimmy Louis.

#

His canvas evolved from this:

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to this.

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Footnote: Next of Kin

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 4 Comments

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Wayne Michael DeHart  (February, 1997) 

His heart expired at sunset with no one at his side.
The hospital bed was slowly stripped of its linen by
the amiable nurse’s aide ¹ who had blessed him with
winks and nods and smiles, each capturing his gaze.

Nary a flower nor a card had adorned his muted room.
The young girl wondered how this endearing gent
could be forsaken by those whose paths he crossed,
left in silence to struggle alone through his final days.

The doctors had prepared him for the coming of his Night.
The hard news did not surprise him, and he shrugged it off
with a simple nod, amid drifting thoughts about working his
life away, only to to be  prematurely, permanently “retired.”

Days passed. He watched the door through hopeful eyes.
Maybe an old friend, or a neighbor, or someone from work,
would stop by, talk baseball and music, and wish him well,
and remind him that he had been respected and admired.

As time ticked down, no one came to sit down by his bed.
His had been a mostly solitary life of unattended needs;
he filled endless hours of solitude and sadness with idle
speculation and sleepless dreams under unshared covers.

He once loved a Jersey woman who promised him forever.
Then she left quietly in the night of their eighty-third day,
and he soon realized he would never again find such warmth
in the barren eyes and hollow touch of fleeting, casual lovers.

In his fifty-first year, a vicious cancer ravaged his insides.
His restless mind became cluttered in his twilight hours
with the what-ifs and should-haves, the inevitable regrets
of a beaten-down guy who knows he will soon be dead.

He was certain that his passing would hardly be noted.
But while the rest of the staff took the flatline in stride,
the nurse’s aide, a Philly girl, sat down where no one had,
in the never pulled-up chair, right next to the empty bed.

She bid him Good Night and wished him stars in his sky.
Eyes closed, she felt his presence, and paused for a breath,
fondly remembering his face, calmly embracing his grace –
before rising, then looking back, with a last wink and a smile.

¹ She somehow knew that in passing, he found what he had missed.
  Because the girl who touched the spirit of the man
  without a wife was, unknown to both,
  his only child. 

#