Exploring the Intriguing
Category: Poetry
The sun bears down today
Not cruel but firm
Insistently
Patient
Winning our grudging recognition
Acceptance of its force
Car windows go up
Air conditioners on
Jackets come off
Buttons are undone
Joggers walk
Runners jog
Walkers smile in their malls
Children play and play
Barely noticing the stinging sweat
They wipe from their eyes
© Gayle Force Press 2011
Twenty-five years ago
I went with my dad
To an old stadium
Gone and dearly departed
If not regretfully
To see my Indiana Pacers who
I loved stridently
At home
In the new Curtis Mathes set that
How were we to know
Lasted far too long
But there in person
For the first time
Was a different kind of feeling
Since they were bad
And most of my focus
Started and stopped on a man named
World B. Free
Although I’m not sure how much of
This poem
Is true
I have no doubt
About World B. Free
It started with his hair
Though it was not exceptional
Except in its lack of exception
Stuck in a time
I may never understand
But all the rest fit too
How much he loved the game
Even when it was an awful game
And tried without ever looking
As if he were trying
Mostly though
The shooting
Like little orange only rainbows
Up and down
With no gold at the end
Only more orange
And then at its beginning
The look that might have been a smile
If he’d known no one was watching
At the end of the game
It seems that no one else noticed him
Because watching him play
Might have kept someone from skipping school
As it did me from stealing gum
Off the too short racks
Meant to taunt me
At the store
But lots of kids did that
And their parents drank too much
Cheated with a waitress
Then left home
(Not because of the children)
Even though they’d seen World B. Free
On the court downtown
When I asked later on
My dad said he used to be called Lloyd
That may well be
But he was always World B. to me
© Gayle Force Press 2002
Black cats are bad luck
As is the number thirteen
Some things can be done with ladders
While others are disallowed
Crossing fingers may frighten witches
But only if you believe
The witches are out to get you
The wood nymphs are dead
And in their place dances
The karma that we,
Our pitiful selves,
Help create
© Gayle Force Press 2009
My own not quite father
Has been the same man for three decades
Even after ‘we both shall live’
But I used to explain the mistake
When people told me how alike we looked
Since even though it might have been so
In some parallel universe, in this one,
His wasn’t the face my mother saw first
I assumed people were unobservant
My color, far darker than his or my mother’s
My shape, too like hers to imagine any of him in it
Even our names, if truly heard,
Could clearly have revealed our not hidden un-secret
Too lazy was my verdict
They failed to think of seeing
What was clearly in our faces
Now I have my own not quite son
Who will be the same
Long after ‘we both shall live’
Regarding us, no one would make the same mistake
Enabled by laziness and being a not quite son
For more than three decades
Somehow though, I’m not bothered anymore
Since fathers are more than faces
© Gayle Force Press 2008
I've been working on this poem for years but have never been able to finish it. Here are the first two stanzas.
FDO
One of my students
Is a vulgar little shit
At least that’s how my uncle,
Gary Nichols,
Would have described him
Gary was a teacher
Feeding English to the unwashed masses
Including the lowly holy
Of East Texas
So yeah, he was an expert
I suppose that I missed the train by a few minutes
It likely had already flung itself into interstate cruising speed
When I parked the Buick at the end of the row
I walked the interchange of rail and street
Hoping to feel the train’s last evidence beneath my feet
Cursing myself while staring at raised crossbars
Some passengers were sleeping I’m sure
Dreaming of the journey they were on
Misremembering the Wichita skyline
Others would have been tense and restless
Annoyed that catching a cross country train at night
Means sitting where you can, not where you want
I knew she was still awake though
Wondering when I would forgive
Her parting words, ‘For better or for worse’
© Gayle Force Press 2007
As a Circle City native, Memorial Day weekend always feels festive. I never participate but the Indy 500 permeates the environment in Indianapolis.
FDO
Race Day
Camper cities
Traffic for miles
Checkered flags wave
In all directions
Coolers full of Bud
Dirt cheap sunglasses
Tank tops
Jake the snake around
Brother Henry’s neck
Grilled brats and burgers
“Show us your tits!”
Naps on the infield
Day long engine drone
A rainbow of cotton candy
Tires over the fence
Some foreign guy wins
May is beautiful
In Indy
© Gayle Force Press 2004
Bony trees flex
Their pubescent arms skyward
In obvious prayer
As they ask for more light
More life
More time for their quickly growing branches
Presenting the beautiful colors we admire
While we point
Our failing eyes skyward
No obvious prayers
As we ask for more light
More life
More time for our quickly growing branches
© Gayle Force Press 2011
Most days I stand still
When the sky begins to rain
Letting nature dictate to me
How I should feel
What my condition should be
I’ve imagined it a shower
Somehow cleansing me
Washing away the stains
Of my dirty, daily life
Today I avoided the rain
Feeling too dirty
Much too stained
To be cleaned
Even by the rain
© Gayle Force Press 2007
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