Geoffrey Stays at the Lonesome Pine Motel

 Geoffrey Stays at the Lonesome Pine Motel

 

Geoffrey stays at the Lonesome Pine Motel

on Route 18,

a few miles west of nowhere.

He spent a night here

an unknown time ago.

 

He stays at the Lonesome Pine Motel

to read the newspapers from 1942

he knows are buried

underneath the faded wallpaper.

Copies of the Waco Press,

Albuquerque News, and

The Manchester Guardian.

 

He finds comfort

reading the 48 point headlines,

the predictable predictions,

generic horoscopes,

and the advice to worn-out lovers

from someone even more

in need of affection.

But what he is really looking for,

even on the back pages,

Is any news confirming his birth.

 

But,

as before,

he finds nothing,

and busies himself

unwrapping

a fast-food burrito.

Geoffrey Sees A Red-Haired Woman

 Geoffrey Sees A Red-Haired Woman

Geoffrey was somewhere west of Spokane,

hitch-hiking,

almost asleep,

when a Pontiac Firebird,

traveling in the opposite direction,

caught his attention.

The woman behind the wheel

had long, reddish-brown hair,

and a fair complexion.

She reminded him of someone

someone he once knew.

She was wearing a billowing red scarf,

but there was no way he could

tell her of Isadora Duncan.

And perhaps,

just perhaps,

he had been mistaken.

The Days After Christmas

 The Days After Christmas

As the tintinnabulation of frosty sleigh bells grows fainter, and the warm, feral odor of sweating reindeer diminishes in the new year breeze, an emptiness and sense of loss not easily assuaged seeps into the day. Gone is the joyful, robust chatter and laughter of family and friends gathered around a table straining under the weight of too much food and drink . . . because it’s only once a year.

There are poignant pauses as each ornament is removed from the tree, or from the other places they have decorated and brought a certain comfort to the season. Such a bitter sweetness to all of this prevails. Memories flutter into consciousness as each object is wrapped yet again for its eleven month nap. Memories, some poignant and difficult to manage, stretch back into the blur of fog generated by the distance that surrounds and separates us from almost everything, and everyone not now. Poorly focused snapshots of times almost forgotten tease us into tears.

And then, I think of the coming year; of family and friends, of unlimited possibilities, and realize: life is good.

Another Geoffrey poem

 Geoffrey's Eyes Spring Open

 

Geoffrey's eyes spring open,

like February crocus

in late March.

 

He suddenly realizes

the woman he has been holding hands with

for five months,

is

mad.

 

Her recent behavior

has driven his own,

eccentricities,

into the shallows.

 

Still,

now the light has changed,

and traffic is moving

once again,

isn’t this something

demanding a translator?

 

Geoffrey is still

hopelessly in love.

 

What does madness

have to do with anything,

anyway,

he asks,

providing you have

a pocket of white stones.

 

Geoffrey Poems 3

 Geoffrey Asks the Sun for Guidance.

Geoffrey Poems #3

Geoffrey rises from his bed of tamarack branches,

stumbles to the cold-flowing creek,

and kneels.

The pebbled edge is frozen,

covered with ice

the thickness of

the Buddha’s eyelid.

He scoops his hands into the water

and splashes the cold silver

against his face.

Awake.

Geoffrey builds a song,

filled with the energy

of dawn

while building a small fire,

to brew his tea.

He will drink the first cup

hunkered down,

close to the soil,

and ask the sun for guidance.

Later

he will ask the same thing

of the moon.

Never

expecting

an answer.

Geoffrey poems 2

 Geoffrey Cradles a Baked Potato

Geoffrey cradles a Wendy's baked potato in his hands

and, for some reason, thinks of England.

He remembers the bus rides

from Stourport-on-Severn to Birmingham,

with his father to visit the museum,

only to find it closed.

He remembers walking by the huge German bomb

still stuck,

fins up,

unexploded,

in the cracked concrete sidewalk,

protected now by a metal fence.

He remembers his naive disappointment

that the bomb hadn't exploded,

or,

that the museum had still not been repaired

and opened to the public.

But,

at nine years old

his disapointment was easily assuaged

by a bag of hot brazier-baked potatoes,

and a paper wrapped pinch of salt

to dip them in.

Geoffrey will eat his Wendy’s baked potato

as he stares aimlessly out the window at reflections

of his past, present and perhaps his future.

He is nine years old, or ninety.

He hopes the museum will be closed

the next time he comes,

bomb or not.

He likes the spuds, but,

he hopes the bomb will be gone.

Geoffrey Poems, 1b

 

Geoffrey Leaves Home without his American Express Card

Auf Wiedersehen, and Au revoir. — Goodbye.

He rolls the mower into the tool shed, then,

goes upstairs to pack.

With his face pressed

against cold pains of glass

he watches the westering sun turn dark,

listens to the rhythmic beating of a universe,

not his.

He will eat dinner at the linen-covered table,

hold his fork respectably in the European fashion;

talk of home.

Later,

he takes a pair of scissors,

cuts his credit card in half.

He will take only what cash is in his wallet.

Like Everyone Else

 Like everyone else

I’m growing old.

Dying.

 

Guess I’ll just have to work

a little faster

to finish whatever it was

I was doing,

or thought

I was doing,

or thought I

wanted to do,

or meant to do,

or whatever it was I thought

I wanted to do

or meant to do

before it really is,

too late.

Too late

to do anything

except bring

the opening line

of this poem

to fruition.

The Geoffrey Poems 1a

 Geoffrey Leaves Home without his American Express Card 

Geoffrey comes home from the war

         only to find he must leave.

He looks at his home town through foreign eyes,

         and everything seems wrong.

Even the trees, all evergreen.

His mother is too thin, and the soup too thick.

His father is too white, and the bread too soft.

His brother smells like football

         and hamburgers from Hungry Harv's.

The family dog has become a caricature;

         its bark frozen in a comic-strip balloon above its head.

The post office smells like the government,

         and after four long years he doesn't need it.

The old men he sees on the street

         salute him with toothless grins

            and half an arm..

Those that can flutter their claw-like hands

         like heavenly prayer flags.

Geoffrey knows he does not belong here anymore,

         he will never again, fit in.

 

He mows his mother's artificial grass for the last time,

         noticing how dandelions have captured

                   much of the lawn since his last visit.

Geoffrey always liked the dandelions,

         but his mother didn't.

He watches a wren composing a nest in the lilac bush

         and enjoys the creep of sweat tickling his spine.

 

"Lemonade" his mother calls from the porch,

         and Geoffrey thinks perhaps he should stay

            for a few more days.

He drinks slowly, savoring the tartness in his mouth,

         and dreams.

He's reminded of Linn,

         and how they would pass candy "sweetarts"

            between their lips,

                   savoring their flowering passion.

 

Geoffrey wipes his brow, smiles, goes inside.

He notices the porch needs painting.

The living room is dark, cool, and familiar.

He looks at the couch

    where he learned

        the ins and outs of female anatomy.

He thinks of lifting the phone from its cradle

         and calling his high school sweetheart,

                   her husband should be at work at Meeker's Mill.

In his mind Linn is still in high school.

He is still in highschool.

 

But Geoffrey speaks a different language now,

finds he has nothing to say except,

 

Arrivederci.