Neil Citrin

Poetry

 

 

Reports Received

 

                                     Erratic static through the receiver,

 

                                                then at last

 

                                      a picture slips through.

 

                                      Bag-eyed newsman

 

                                      with hair askew says

 

                                      not to worry,

 

                                      the invasion’s a hoax and

 

                                                Orson had it wrong.

 

 

 

                                      Bursts of distortion

 

                                      interrupt his

 

                                                          reassurance,

 

                                                fragment his weary face

 

                                      and overwhelm it

 

                                                with galactic movement

 

                                                          on your wall screen

 

                                      as you sip your beer

 

                                      and caress old magazines

 

                                      --unheeded portents--

 

                                                and watch as

 

                                      electrons and tachyons converse,

 

 

 

                                      Gilligan pops through

 

                                      eating soap and waiting

 

                                      for Lassie to come home.

 

                                      You stare and gasp as

 

                                      fingernails rake

 

                                      one thousand blackboards

 

                                                and smoke curls from

 

                                      the walls, bend upward

 

                                      shift and swirl,

 

                                      then coalesce as

 

                                      Mickey Mouse and Batman

 

                                                in battle fatigues,

 

                                      guns pointed at you

 

                                      as they belt out

 

                                      “Singing in the Rain.”

 

 

 

Walking the Dog

 

 

                                      Children shriek protests

 

                                      over bedtime

 

                                      and I drop my book.

 

                                      My wife says walk Freddy,

 

                                      then moves away.

 

                                      I nod and stare down

 

                                      as Freddy also

 

                                      wags his tail.

 

 

 

                                      I sigh, rise and

 

                                      note his

 

                                      eager acceptance

 

                                      of the leash

 

                                      --eager and without choice--

 

                                      as we head for the field,

 

                                      personal crapping ground

 

                                      and pet cemetery.

 

 

 

                                      Freed of the collar

 

                                      Freddy plunges in

 

                                      with a yelp while I

 

                                      stand and think

 

                                      how dogs wag

 

                                      their tails and never

 

                                       tire of routine.

 

                                      Freddy’s frightened yelp

 

                                      zaps my reverie

 

                                      and I stare around,

 

                                      chilled by the emptiness.

 

                                      He doesn’t respond

 

                                      to my call but

 

                                      I sense his presence

 

                                      at last with something else

 

                                      that urges me toward

 

                                      darker recesses,

 

                                      swaying bushes with

 

                                      tinted malevolence.

 

                                      What I saw I will not say,

 

                                      no matter wife wagging.

 

                                      Ugly thoughts batter

 

                                      and I sit and wish

 

                                      for the solace of

 

                                      easy routine.

 

 

 

Edge Vision

 

 

                                      They move among us

 

                                      chained not to

 

                                      guilt or gods,

 

                                      babble phrases spouted,

 

                                      or so it appears,

 

                                      direct from that

 

                                                mainspring

 

                                      religionists call

 

                                                soul,

 

                                      but they know

 

                                      goes deeper.

 

                                      Down they plunge

 

                                                to break the ice

 

                                      or lose a measure

 

                                      of their pain.

 

                                      Most break and shatter

 

                                                but some

 

 

                             hold the path,

 

                                      strangers with strange stories

 

                                      few will remember

 

                                                and fewer forget.

 

 

 

Follow the Wave

 

 

                                      Onstage they sing

 

                                      of friends

 

                                      good and gone,

 

                                      rails and clubs and

 

                                      the bottomless fifth.

 

 

 

                                      While you scream

 

                                      and jeer.

 

 

 

                                      Instruments played

 

                                      with quiet

 

                                      frugality,

 

                                      songs timeless

 

                                      and familiar,

 

                                      over your barrage

 

                                      of missiles and

 

                                      one finger salutes.

 

                                      Slowly they pack

 

                                      and leave the stage

 

                                      for the

 

                                      next small gig.

 

 

 

                                      Home you go

 

                                      to recomb your hair

 

                                      in search of the

 

                                      next big thing.

 

 

 

Necessities

 

 

                                      Dreams wither

 

                                      without

 

                                      sustenance.

 

                                      Open heart and

 

                                      mind

 

                                      Fertilize.