poMotion poetry

I have hundreds of poems that sit dusty
I only care to share them one at a time, if at all
I’ve given up the idea of chasing down journal entries,
poetry collections, gems, chapbooks and
other such adventures for self-indulgence
I haven’t read my poetry aloud in years
It may be even more before I do so again

I have hundreds of poems about factories,
and class, war
Love and travel
Heartache, steak,
Addiction, and porn
Clues to youth
and other such cultural norms

I have hundreds of poems, waiting
Peaking out at me from filing cabinets,
Messy, unmeasured montages, memories
They seem so youthful in their response
I have gone years without looking at them
I imagine it will be many more before I do so again, if ever
They go from place to place
Stuffed in suitcases and trunks,
dinged up cardboard boxes
with old photographs and letters
Like lines across my face
They tell a tale of something I am, I use to be

I have hundreds poems about looking back on life
Rocket poetry, intrigue and fuel
All the energy put into the mundane
Poems about Victoria, and searching for self
Families I’ve met without a home
Workers in the soy fields, and in Cleveland too
Corporate clowns and activists playing a fool’s old tune
The lonely mothers with weeping eyes
Children troubled, their future cries
Imaginary fear and the cougars call
The dried out soil in the afterglow
For old Jay T, and the lack of light
Wading in the rust like it was gold
All the beatings, loss of sight
Products of some new age
Billions of animals dressed in fashion
With informed opinions, and iPhone grins
Old men in cowboy hats selling maps and sage in old metal bins

I have hundreds of poems bound up in simplicity
Grasshoppers in North Texas, river currents
Jail cells, and embarrassment
Dollar store shoes in Oklahoma
Huffing gas in Illinois
Finding myself in Colorado
Losing myself in NYC
Finding myself again in PDX
Awards, accolades, dancing with politicians and all their maids
Secondary trauma divulged at my door
Thousands of homeless and the community who expect something of me
I can’t keep track of the score
A bend in the road, I think it was Tennessee
The sunsets over the plains,
and the dots along the sea
Tornadoes, baseball, lust
Opium dreams, and cats
Small town demons
And big city trees
Greyhound bus rides and rats
A graveyard in Halifax
Death appears to be a theme
Friends who died living out unmeasured deeds
Tombstones, the Civil War kind
Some with punchy endings
Others left for rhyme

by Israel Bayer