Noted Sober on a Drunken Napkin

something I never told you 
because telling you 
at that moment 
would have broken 
something precious 

you always were her 
wren 
always were her 

every heroine 
in every story 
every poem 
I wrote 
you 

Advertisements

From April’s Fool

this day did not pass unnoticed,   just as
that day so many years ago did not
pass unremarked.        all out of apologies,
I look back on the magic and madness
and disremember the deep black blues,
red ink and looming shadows of doom   —
though those were inventions, too, of tragic
self prophecy   —   so this day I am moved
to make no more amends,   nor beg mercy
nor forgiveness;    let my poem now be
thanksgiving for the love,   passion,   patience
and perseverance you blessed me with those
many years,   and the family you were,
the understanding and fond affections   .  .  .

Waking to Monday

farther and awayer she seemed within
the dream, running away teasingly, gone
too far and not realizing she had
lost what she had chased for running. sad truth
too often realized, and I jar awake
stretching out toward her fleeing figure . . .

sometimes the wolf refrains from the chase, love,
and in any case, no wolf am I. life
overcame, overwhelmed, us. we failed each
other. so it goes. desertion for desertion.
nothing fair about it, love, but there it is.
and what defines us is not how we fall,
but rather how we rise again from ashes
to rejoin our heavenly star-bound brothers.

David M Pitchford
26 Dec 2011

Long Ago August

hey, remember that night in a long ago
august? I was working as a bar-back
down at chantilly’s and you came in
making eyes at me the whole night, watching
as I bustled around slinging cases
of beer, bottles of liquor, bags of ice.
you were so hot in abbreviated
red dress, stockings and garters just hinted
and spiked heels made for a pick up. some guy
offering drinks and curious why your eyes
seemed to never roam far from this sweaty
jerk errand boy . . . and I tossing smiles
your way all night in that knowing manner—
envy a tide we surfed home to passion . . .

David M Pitchford
18 Nov 2011

Twenty Years

her high school reunion,     all that past stuff
catching up to her  slams her to her knees—
she’s drunk on cheap wine,     and her second husband
with her wraps her in his arms,          but there’s no
comfort in the world for a little girl lost
in memory and desperation.          she
likes to put on her brave face against the world
and can usually manage through hell and high
water . . . but the losses in life, not just friends
but the possibilities as much as
realities drive grief like spikes through her
heart,  her life,  and she’s swept up in maelstroms
of emotion.          her life is good these days,
but there’s always that threat of it going wrong . . .

David M Pitchford
16 Nov 2011

Burning Time

cut the thread,     my ghost advises,      be kind
to one deserving kindness, and all deserve
kindness.          shut up, ghost,     I softly say.     what
strength have I for closing doors of metaphor,
or deconstruct again bridges I’ve burned
but replaced with ferries  .  .  .  just walk away,
she whispers.     walk away?     such a simple
concept, yes, but simple and easy not

equate.          putting my mind to other tings,
I write of eagles and fish skipping across
river waters, reprieved from the eagle’s
talons—for the moment.     upon the sunset
my ode in wisps of smoke, old letters, old
poems burning in the autumn twilight . . .

David M Pitchford
11/11/11

Doctor, am I a Stalker?

you see, doctor, I couldn’t help myself,
I was moved by something deep within, yet
this force seemed . . . not of me . . . alien
somehow and yet not. like a stray command
from a program running in the background:
you know, doc, like your virus protection
on your laptop. just like that. it took over
and forced me to drive to my ex-wife’s house.

I see. is this normal for you? do you often
find yourself spellbound by compulsions? obsessive?

no, doc, that’s why I had to talk to you:
consciously, I just want to leave her be,
let her move on, turn the page, all that jazz;
but I can’t help myself going back there.

David M Pitchford
9 Oct 2011