Sitting With the Dead

 

—Poetry by John Yamrus, Pennsylvania

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

i was 13

on a
Halloween night,

and me
and my friends
were out stealing pumpkins

off
porches

in a
great big night
of smash and run and
nobody ever chased us except

this
one old man
who ran us down the block,
around the corner and into a field,

where we
lay in the weeds,

laughing,

while he stood
on the sidewalk and yelled:

“i know
you’re out there.

i can hear you!

one day, you’re gonna regret this!”

and
damn it,

the old guy was right.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Connor

was
fat and old,

(he
was 45
at the time)

and he
swung a pick
with as much violence
as i’ve ever seen in my life.

he
wore
a baseball cap,

wiped
his face
with a rag,

and
blew his
nose with his finger.

it
was
1962.

two years later,
he was
dead.

 

 

 

she

taught
poetry for a living
in a little mid-west college,
doing open mics twice a month
and dreaming that her poems would
cure the world of whatever was wrong with it

and
maybe even
chase the ghosts
from her door and
the stink from her bed.

 

 

 

 

Nelly Big Bang

loved poetry.

loved
Charley Parker.

loved
funny hats,

old
mirrors

and dogs.

Nelly Big Bang

loved
standing in
the sun as it shone

through
the window,
shining, bright
and gold on the floor
of the asylum where he died.

 

 

 

 

in 1940

when
the artist
Leonora Carrington

fled
the invading
German army,

she
carried
a suitcase

that
bore a
brass plate

reading
a single word:

“Revelation”.

 

 

 

 

TJ

thought
he was tough,

and
he was,
and he was also
a good six inches taller than me,

but i caught him
off-guard when i lunged at him

on the
bus stop after school.

we were maybe 17,
and he’d already been scouted by the Mets,

so that should
tell you how big he was,

but,
like i said,
i caught him off-guard
and smothered him in punches

and pushed him
up against the side of the bus

and kept on punching
until he said he had enough.

and i stood back,
with sweat and tears and
dirt and snot running down my face,

and i
walked onto the bus
feeling a good six feet taller

than i actually was.

when i
got to my seat
and looked out the window

the creepy
son of a bitch
was still on the ground,
with his blonde hair covered in dirt

and a
great big
surprised look on his face.

he never made it to the Mets

and i
never won
another fight again.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

even

before
the hour sounds,

we
are already

sitting
with the dead.


—John Yamrus

______________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen to John Yamrus, and our thanks to him for his unique poetry! And thanks to Joe Nolan for the photos he found for us, as well.

Tonight, Emanuel Sigauke and Aeisha Jones will read at Sacramento’s Library of MusicLandria for Sacramento Poetry Alliance; Laura Martin and Bill Gainer read at Poetry Night Series in Davis; and Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s in Sacramento will have features and open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.

And note that two more events have popped up for me to post for this Saturday: Authors Day at the MACC in Rancho Cordova, CA, and the return of Watershed in Berkeley. See UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS for details.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!