Tag Archives: senility

With or Without Her


cry no more tears
stop chasing shadows
on a road rapidly aging —

I remember my grandmother cursing her dead
brother Edgar; his haunting her wasn’t unnerving,
it was inconvenient —

Uncle Edgar liked to appear to my grandmother
after the first eight minutes of Jeopardy aired,
imploring her to go with him back to the other side —

her youth unfolds
past scattered thoughts
again and again —

I can only imagine Uncle Edgar’s confusion as his
youngest sister told him to fuck off, her salutation for
her dead brother breaking through her incoherence —

my grandmother’s wild-eyed cacophony met with sighs
and nurses running for medication as she conversed with herself
in strong French influenced English —

things to touch
hide into nothing
and she feels as if
she’s in a play —

many times I listened to her story of her father’s refusal to sell
his white horse to the gypsies on Easter morning, and how that
white stallion died a day after Jesus’ resurrection —

“Nom d’un chien… un d’ours,” she liked to say as she worked
an invisible iron skillet, cooking crêpes for lumberjacks over a
long ago campfire, “I shot that bastard bear,” she insisted —

“fair thee well”
the curtain begins to fall
on what will come once more —

and the truth is I’ve been thinking of her final days at
Crestfield Manor, and how I miss the smell of her paper-thin
crêpes browning in her butter-oiled iron skillet —

but your Edgar’s tale enthralls me to no end, how cool…
a horny time traveling bipolar jumping between dimensions
forever searching for his true place —

the day past yesterday
turns out its light
and calls out her name —

I’m not one to judge the veracity of a bipolar time traveller
jumping between dimensions in search of the perfect pharmaceutical
cure for brain dysfunction and sexual maladies —

we’ll talk later when we meet-up at the Landmark, this Saturday
or maybe next Sunday? Maybe your Edgar has met my grandmother,
maybe he’ll share tales of my grandmother’s out-of-this-world crêpes…

the queen of hearts
or a maiden from the coast
with or without her
no one really knows her illusion.

© Chuck A Stetson 2013

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Forgotten Tahitian Sunflowers

down at the river
catfish bark at the moon
beavers chatter contralto
flamingos swan and fandango
while bull frogs croak
Parisian love songs
for wrinkled Alice
standing bewildered
in the weeds

Alice once tender
her buttons undone
reveal in the rose of a rose
two lives almost complete
in a borrowed point of view
forgotten Tahitian sunflowers
floating across the river
globelike glazed glitter
pieces of broken glass
light blue and the same red
with purple makes change
in between cycled moons

widow Alice in wise veil
her wild eyes weeping fire
her wrinkles easily bruised
calls out to exhausted white lilies
circulating in summer and winter
against the river’s intent
more slender than ever been
wondering so winningly
her seasons sundowning
much to the muskrats’ chagrin

Alice in the weeds
her worn lace of different sizes
waves in the night breeze
turned cold
tomorrow’s sun

© chuck a stetson 2012


Filed under poetry, Uncategorized