November Rorschach Poet Conversaiton
When I was a kid, we used to play a game called Say the First Thing That Comes to Your Mind. Someone would say a word, then the next kid would say the first word thought. I find the word association and the response fascinating exercise. I once played a game with my sister where we took photos of the the world around us, then the other replied with a photo.
Late this summer I asked John Homan, poet and host of Word Play in Elkhart, Indiana to play by writing short poems. John Homan wrote the first poem, then I replied. In our play we began to establish a poetic conversation of sorts. John and I hope you enjoy our conversation.
by John Homan
I never felt the need
to skin my knees on purpose.
Pain for the sake of experience
doesn't seem worth it.
Breaking my heart,
simply to know that it's
beating is a waste of tears
conserve the water that's
glistening
Life isn't gym class,
burning my hands
on the climbing rope
just to toughen me up.
Who decided
contentment,
easty affection
and napping
were dangerous?
They need to be stopped,
but how?
One Side of the Coin
by Dan Breen
Skinned knee
smell of worms after the storm
warm mudd
between toes
ankle deep in a puddle
itching mosquito bites
then legs covered in poison ivy
flight!
launching a banana seat
from a boy made dirt
ramp and found plywood
greasy fingers attach chain
1 banana, 2 banana, 3 banana more
fireflies light the night galore!
dirty and sticky
tumble into the Twilight zone
Kokomo Amish Funeral Viewing
By John Homan
Under bright afternoon sunshine,
the mostly yellow bike survives,
a refugee from the seventies,
complete with a mostly intact
banana seat.
This relic leans against the barn,
among other farmland detritus,
mud and assorted organics.
This is the place where they meet,
the rooster and the hen,
doing what must be done,
the unseemliness that is the
origin of chicken nuggets.
It's not romance in the air,
in this place lust smells like horseshit,
seasoned by the heat of mid-July.
The carnal ambiance washes away
by the pop-up storms on the way home,
as we happily stop for Dairy Queen
by Dan Breen
Driving and drinking
coffee and
thinking
Never helped him understand
trying to grasp middle age
the secret truths
old men never told him
maybe hoping he would escape them
wishing Circe transforming him
back to his animal self
thinking of his lovers
like a trust fall where
he left them open handed
dipping his toes in old age
the waves quickly lapping his balls
looking over his shoulder
at the scratching and crowing
never absconding youth
Cowboy Prophet
by John Homan
At my grandfather's funeral I spoke to my father's friend,
the only true cowboy I knew intimately.
Two years out of Bible school, everything was so clear-and I told anyone who would listen.
He patiently listened while considering he had socks older than me.
Looking at me in the eye in that way an older man speaks truth
"Understand this, you will never know as much as you know right now."
I nodded, thanked him and proceeded to shut up.
His serious tone communicated volumes of patience.
Thirty years later the cowboy prophecy comes to pass,
as black and white coalesces into shades of gray
Colors never seen before bloom in forgotten truths
long buried in the cemetery of my mind.
Whitman said to "...loaf and invite the soul…"
but enlightenment came in coffee-fueled overtime,
finally admitting to my own weakness.
Truth dawns slower than hoped
The measure of a man more than
what's between his legs.
The sorceress is not to blame,
selfishness, that magic spell,
turns all men into swine.
by Dan Breen
He rose above
the horizon of our cool
a cut out aspiration
virile possibility
giant, tan, strong
he lived stories
we could never presume
in our cut offs
and ratty tees
spiderman clutched
in sweaty palms
rattling along in
rusty vws and pacers
A hero among the clouds
the moon his pillow
a wild heart dream
the tilt of his 10
gallon hat
his laser eyes
challenged the sun
Smells like Turmeric
by John Homan
The Marlboro Man descends
from the billboard
finding his seat with Joe Camel
at the Kool Jazz Festival
in Cincinnati, Ohio.
A bag of White Castle sliders
and Gold Star Coney dogs,
with a six-pack of Natty Ice as
Blue Dolphin Street plays on
a silver tenor sax.
Essential oils of juniper and sage
combine with notes of citrus
wafting through the air
covering less accepted substances.
Boys smelling of Patchouli,
checkered Vans on their feet,
hip-hugging polyester pants
and psychedelic disco shirts bought
from Goodwill enter the auditorium.
Proffering Oxycodone,
and a handful of Xanax,
washed down with
Kiwi-Strawberry Mogen David
hidden in a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew.
The waddling penguins in glittery green thongs,
joined by porcupines with spines protruding
through their fishnet stockings,
wait at the street corner for their ride.
A fleet of Ubers driven by
genetically modified dogs,
a combination of Shih Tzus and Great Danes
in bright orange Dodge Chargers.
Somewhere there is a smell
of chitterling tacos,
grilled head cheese sandwiches,
tres leches cake
and Vietnamese coffee.
Horror and amazement
delights and confusion,
from a coma to a fully realized panic,
Under the showerhead in the morning,
A long belch, with the definite scent of turmeric
confirms the spicy chicken curry
from last night was a mistake.
by Dan Breen
How many times
has the perfect skipping stone
washed back upon the shore?
Found by father teaching
his six-year-old
life's valued lesson.
13 skips a quick flip of the wrist.
Can we learn to call
them all to dinner
with a perfect whistle?
We wish for the perfect
crack - split of a log
the heft, the axe
thrown with precision
by muscle and bone.