blue skies poetry

I’ve been hanging out with poetry
fresh, rosy-cheeked images
trim, lilting phrases
high-stepping across the page

fuck the pretty words

I want a poet with the guts
to visit the industrial part of town
late winter views that will  
make no tourist brochure
grimy snow banks
rotting, leaking thin mud
chip bags snagged  against chain link
leaden skies, pothole roads

a poet pulling to the page
the common ugliness
we pretend not to notice

a partner out the door
years of wary circling
ended in vicious in-fighting
sharp words, bared teeth 
ripping chunks from each other
wolves of raw emotion dripping blood 
on the kitchen floor

or cancer, someone’s personal 9-11  
terror shattering all that’s normal 
life collapsing to rubble  
long days later  

looking for the enemy 
bunkered cell-deep
bombing the bastards
until the land lies ruined

the stench of puke
after fifty ounces of Seagram’s finest
the toughness to draw a line
against one’s own child
‘you can’t live here anymore’

bleak midlife mornings
endless horizon of tedious work
then home to a family 
you’re don’t really know
and a life empty  
as last night’s pizza carton

the piss-y truth of aging
gnarled hands spilling soup
mind tangled in neural deadfall
impatient & unfamiliar hands 
wiping your butt 
just another old heap dumped  
in a geriatric wrecking yard

spirit racked
all of us on the wheel of time
each turn ratcheting up
the pain	each turn
straining cartilage 
to the breaking		 point
each turn tearing 	flesh  		
from flesh

often as not 
daily life 
ain’t even close to pretty

still we keep dancing
bones shining
in moon-bright dark  

~ Cheryl King

As a busy consultant & educator, Cheryl King works too much, reads endlessly, wishes for more time to play with paper & paint, and is occasionally blessed by having a poem arrive in her head. She has lived in Grande Prairie, Alberta, for the past 16 years. Her work is included in Writing the Land: Alberta through its Poets.

Filed under: Cheryl King by akublik Date 23 June, 2008