Smoke

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 

Reviews

[Perry]

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

[Chris Shaw]

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

[W. Barrett Munn]

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

[Ken e Bujold]

true. also good to make sure you have a good sleeping pillow handy for when your given an unscheduled night on the couch

[Betty Hermelee]

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

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks Betty. When M & I erupt, which isn't often, the result is often the bed for her, and a poem from me, which is preferable to the couch

[Betty Hermelee]

I get it Ken!! And you're very welcome!
Best, B

[Red Brick Keshner]

Hope you are well as well, the mind is a solitary creature with bridges of which poetry is the most "lucid"

[Ken e Bujold]

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

[Red Brick Keshner]

Gale force poetry is a blast!

[John the Baptist]

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.

[Ken e Bujold]

indeed they can John. M & I by times are like two wild horses, the call of the range rears itself.
been together a long time, but it's not the first rodeo for either of us, and while we are into our settling ages where things begin to slow a bit, we are both type A creatures. in this particular case the issue is really immaterial. Baggage we carry from scars inflicted long b4 we came together. when she is angry she storms, I write long cathartic poems. by the morning the storm blew over, and as i wrote the bacon was crispy, but edible.