November Poet Steve Henn

Inspirational Speaker

I thought I’d let some cool air in

to the classroom so I opened the door

but the kids in the hall are noisy

and we’re all gonna die.

We’re reading Scott Russell Sanders

about his alcoholic father and

going where the pain is and

we’re all gonna die.

 

We got banana splits for Teacher

Appreciation Week today.

We’re all gonna die.

 

The kids share journals about

their tight meaningful relationships

with teachers in other departments

I can’t say it makes me jealous but anyway

we’re all gonna die.

The clock is ticking to the end

of the schoolyear, the beginning of summer, refreshing,

like a breath mint, we’re all gonna die.

 

I’ve got no reason not to live

just like I’ve got no reason

to be depressed I’ve got an oriole

in my chest     the dull knife

of my heart      saws at my insides

it will portion me     into bite-sized pieces

from within        without.

Jack’s Gettin Up There

I told Jack I don’t know

if I’ll make it to 70 and

he laughed and then he didn’t.

Jack’s gotta be 80. Once

in class some kid asked him

what Viet Nam was like

and he said “a real picnic.”

He’s got a crusty exterior

but a heart bigger’n’ a wooly

mammoth’s. I fear the day

he dies. I fear it like

I fear the death of my own

mother. It would be

wonderful to let go

of the fear. It would be

so beautiful, not to be afraid.

Latte Interlude

it is raining and 50 degrees

      in June so cold but I am not depressed

in the coffeehouse reading again

                         I don’t know what else

    to do with my life

 

                                    Dave G shows up

a person infiltrating this poem

 

“What’s good” he doesn’t say

     in so many words I tell him I am trying

 

to make books happen in unlikely places

                                                wishing for a local friend

 

                        who writes – of course this summer is full

of notebooks –

 

            God Bless this merry coffee house tho

                                    it gives me somewhere to go

           

                        God Bless Tim who owns and runs it

God Bless Indiana ambivalent tho I am about her

 

                        Land of my Birth, may Grace

                                                somehow change you

Awareness Level: Eleven

There’s a tunnel at

the end of hope. All

my chances at love

slurp down

that way in fits

and starts like

the dregs of a blended

mocha. I’m starting

to go off on dudes

but mostly on my

self. Dear God,

Dear Jesus, Whoever,

I’m starting to wonder

If I can take 20, 30 more

years of this. Lord, don’t

give me what I want.

Just yesterday I dreamt

I really met a woman

of intrigue so now

I’d like her to materialize.

Beam er down, Scotty.

Make her lonely and

a writer, like me.

Make her someone

I can swap poems with,

writing all night

together. “Try this…”

she’ll say, reading my

poem, and I’ll read hers

and say “This is great!”

and I’ll really mean it.

Okay

 

I’m learning to be okay.

It’s a quiet marvel.

Sit and breathe. Eat some

almonds. Read a book.

 

I don’t mind as much

when the world moves

slow. I sit with stillness.

 

I despair like anyone.

Mostly due to loneliness. I love

 

poets and writers but a person

in a book is not a person

you can talk to. I am learning

to pray, which is also not

 

a person, quite, not one

directly talking to you.

But One you can talk to.

Then wait. Listen.

 

Dear God, I say,

like I’m writing a letter.

How are You? Bless

everyone. Please help

me. Us. Help us too.

Once We’ve Got It

We Don’t Want It

How did I get this old

and still have no one

to hang out with?

 

Pray for deliverance. Pray

for a companion. Pray

my kids still find me useful

in fifteen years. Remember

when another trip to the play park

was another peerless burden? As if

all our friends were discovering

the meaning of life in their stupid 20s.

 

I have no one to see because

I have nowhere to go. Oh, whoa.

Where do we go, where do we go,

now, where do we go? I fear losing

all sense of humor. Brittle and witty,

mind in a tizzy. I need a bracing

mouthwash. Show me the internet’s

unquenchable information regarding

the addictiveness of cheese.

Comparable to heroin, Buzzkill.com

says. Quick, then. Somebody

order a pizza. If that won’t fix

us, we’ll figure out what will.

Steve Henn wrote Indiana Noble Sad Man of the Year (Wolfson Press, 2017) and two previous collections from NYQ Books. A chapbook, Guilty Prayer, is due out Spring 2021 from Main Street Rag Publishing. Find out more at therealstevehenn.com.

Preorder Guilty Prayer chapbook now:

https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/guilty-prayer-steve-henn/

Read more Steve Henn and buy his books at

https://www.therealstevehenn.com/books