Smoke

Smoke

A Poem by Ken e Bujold

It was late in the day, a hot sticky 
confection of contentions. 
I said something, an off-handed 
observation of no importance, almost
banal, but not quite. Enough 
to raise the spectre of old aches 
nearer to life than we made believe. 

You blistered the paint &
sent me sprawling for cover 
of a book, another room 
I’d been keeping for such occasions --
a bloated colossus of scheming 
unhinged courtiers padding through misery-- 
to ride out the storm we both knew would follow us
through the living spaces of the evening
to bed and beyond. 

Though the uncertainty of maybe, 
crept light under the crack of a bedroom door, 
spooled it’s fifty-fifty proposition -- 
I wasn’t ready or willing 
to bite my tongue just yet. 
Thoughts still roamed the murderous halls --
if Rome hadn’t been built in a day
the seven hills could be razed in less time 
than it took to swallow Alaric’s honeyed concoction. 

Your accusation: that I keep my self bottled up, 
buttoned against the tides well-
adjusted men straddle in stride --
is not a fresh charge. I’ve been convicted 
of it more times than Carter’s unending supply 
of liver pills. Still, 
I’ll argue the complaint has its holes.
   
Genuine anger, I can accept. Hurl a glass, 
shatter the wall, shred me 
into a million strips of linen -- butt
your cigarette out on my eyelids 
for Christ’s sake. At least that’s real.
But this, this little Bo-Peep of a pout, 
onion tears, make-believe ending 
is not the laying out of an indictment:
it’s an act of sabotage, camouflage 
to not having any real bellyache 
of a grievance -- a need to see me grovel. 

Which I will, 
in time. The lash of a stiff birch being preferable 
to the unbending bough of the oak --

we’ll clear the air & 
the smoke will settle over the burnt bacon 
of a new morning.  

Ken e Bujold 

© 2022 Ken e Bujold


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Reviews

Well done, Ken. Provocation is often the catalyst of excellent writing, a bursting pod of noxious seeds, motile under moonlight. In the morning, a garden of contemptuous weeds

Posted 1 Month Ago


You said something ….I smiled remembering my parents who said never go to bed on a disagreement. Clear the air, otherwise it festers. A bit like an angry boil. Better lance it. Great build up here Ken. Well poemed.

Chris

Posted 1 Month Ago


Sometimes it is better to poke the bear than try to tiptoe around it. Or just feed it burnt bacon in the morning,

And now we know why Coyote Poetry drinks whiskey.

Well done, Ken

Winston

Posted 2 Months Ago


Ken e Bujold

2 Months Ago

true. also good to make sure you have a good sleeping pillow handy for when your given an unschedule.. read more
I guess it;s better to explode than to mope around; that could make one go crazy..... I like the way you developed this poem....first you say something "off-handed" which then leads to dig deeper....."The murderous halls" begin to make it real....then the fire 50-50; it smoulders all night until morn when it may flare again or not, depends on the bacon....I personally hate going to bed smouldering....my brain won't let me sleep.
Well done Ken
Best, B

Posted 2 Months Ago


Ken e Bujold

2 Months Ago

thanks Betty. When M & I erupt, which isn't often, the result is often the bed for her, and a poem f.. read more
Betty Hermelee

2 Months Ago

I get it Ken!! And you're very welcome!
Best, B
Hope you are well as well, the mind is a solitary creature with bridges of which poetry is the most "lucid"

Posted 2 Months Ago


Ken e Bujold

2 Months Ago

a night on the couch. a poem. all in all I count it as a passing gale
Red Brick Keshner

2 Months Ago

Gale force poetry is a blast!
Without knowing the specifics, I must wonder what she was really mad about. Sometimes deeply buried land mines can be triggered by the slightest pressure.

Posted 2 Months Ago


Ken e Bujold

2 Months Ago

indeed they can John. M & I by times are like two wild horses, the call of the range rears itself. <.. read more

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Added on November 27, 2022
Last Updated on November 27, 2022

Author

Ken e Bujold
Ken e Bujold

Somewhere in Ontario, Canada



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Writers write, it's what we do. Fish swim, woodpeckers peck... writers scribble (inside and outside the lines). more..

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Mayday Mayday

A Poem by Ken e Bujold