Poetry

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Goodbye My Love, Goodbye

‘Tis near the season for Halloween so why not post something a little chilling?

Working on the second book of short stories, I completed one about a young man, his high school sweetheart, and their less-than-desirable relationship. The story is actually humorous and ends well. However, in some dark corner of my mind, I wondered:  what if it hadn’t ended well? What if the man couldn’t handle the fact his one true love was unfaithful?  What might he do? That’s when this poem came to me.

FoggyCemeteryGoodbyMyLoveGoodbye

“Goodbye My Love, Goodbye” by Jack R. Cotner  Copyright 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Retreating inward from the pain,

I smell the sweetness of her hair

As we move along the path. I strain

Uphill, dragging muddied weight to where

Headstones squat like sacred peaks between

Mowed grass where walked mourning crones.

Stoic statues weathered, weeping, still serene,

Guarding lengthy rows of buried bones.

We halt. Crows pass, loud caws abating.

A portal beyond the pale awaits, silent.

The gaping hole lies open, waiting, waiting

For my dearest here quiet, broken, spent.

Farewell, sweet beauty, unfaithful miss.

I weep. Red lipstick on blue, icy lips

Beckons. Entranced, I take one final kiss

Before tossing splendor into the dark abyss.

Goodbye my love, goodbye

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The Writing Is On The Wall

Poetry is a powerful medium especially when combined with music. Add visuals and it becomes exponentially more powerful, enveloping an array of human senses and emotions. Place all that in historical context, combine with current affairs, and it can become timeless.

In 1965 I became part of the United States military. The war in Vietnam was raging and people were dying by the thousands. Destruction, devastation, and despair abounded. I lost an uncle, a number of friends and high school classmates to that despicable endeavor. At home the race riots, peace demonstrations, and a less-than-honorable group of elected officials and military leaders laid bare the most vile elements of human nature.

The previous year, 1964, a nineteen-year-old songwriter named P. F. Sloan was inspired to compose and record a song as relevant today as it was then. That song is “Eve Of Destruction.” It has been covered by many artists, including Bob Dylan and The Turtles, but my favorite version was performed by Barry McGuire. I’ve included links to two video versions in this post—one covers current events, the second the Vietnam War Era.

One final thing. This post deviates in two ways from my normal presentations. First, it departs from my long-standing rule of not discussing politics; and two, you are welcome to comment as always but I may or may not respond and I may or may not allow your comments for this particular post. With those caveats, click here for Barry McGuire in the 2016 video version of “Eve Of Destruction.”

eveofdestruction-trump

2016

For historical context, click here to play the 1965 version.

 

eveofdestruction-barry

Barry McGuire 1965

 

 

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Lovers Volcanic: A Poem

 

Ménage `A Trois Italia

Fiery lover Vesuvius

courted Pompeii and Herculaneum,

Sisters two

Laid out in sunny Italia

Centuries in warm embrace

Vesuvius and his consorts

Herculaneum and Pompeii,

Sisters two

Frolicked in bright Italia

Until the fiery passion of his love

erupted, ending in hot embrace of

Herculaneum and Pompeii,

Sisters two

Surrendered in heated Italia

Mighty Vesuvius covered them in

His passionate spew and

they repose there still

in sunlit Italia

Vesuvius and the Sisters two.

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I Cannot Write Today

I awoke with enthusiasm, anxious for the previous two weeks of solid, constructive writing days to continue. They didn’t.

“Just write something, anything…” is the advice proclaimed to break out of what is referred to as writer’s block. I struggled to comply with said guidance, but soon realized I had jumbled words no one would want to read, a meandering story no one could follow, and characters flatter than…well, you get the idea.

In frustration, and with an eye on a hot cup of coffee and a long nap in my recliner, I typed the final line of a torturous page of useless prose:  I cannot write today.

That’s when this poem came to me, a quick bit of composition, but writing all the same. Irony, too, I suppose. Some may argue it merely confirms “I cannot write today” but I present it anyway.

“I Cannot Write Today” 

I cannot write today.

Procrastination’s forces have their way;

Deferment,

Postponement, and

Delay.

I cannot write today.

Creative abilities once held sway;

Influence,

Mastery, and

Command.

I cannot write today.

Progress corralled, kept at bay;

Captured,

Held, and

Caged.

I cannot write today.

It is with sadness, therefore, I must say:

I’m adjourning until another day.

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Three Of Me

I was pounding out another chapter for my book 2 Celtic mystery wip when this popped into my head. Didn’t get the chapter finished but at least I have another entry for my poetry book wip. And before you ask:  No, this is not autobiographical.

 

Three Of Me  

There was a Beginning Me,

Small, plump

With the aroma of baby freshness

And mother’s soothing lullabies;

An opening refrain to appease young cries.

 

Then came the Middle Me,

Muscled, tested

Experienced in worldly awareness.

Sixties songs covered bleak war laments;

A chorus against fresh lives so brutally spent.

 

Here sits the Ending Me,

Frail, pale

Weary with life’s abject unfairness.

Reminisced tune a humming, teary-eyed;

Closing exhortations before the final goodbye.

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Goodbye My Love, Goodbye

I recently wrote a short story about a young man, his high school sweetheart, and their less-than-desirable marriages (they tied the knot twice with each other before it all fell apart for good). The story, despite its description, is actually humorous and ends well. However, in some dark corner of my mind, I wondered: what if it hadn’t ended well? What if the man couldn’t handle the fact his one true love was unfaithful? That’s when this poem came to me.

Goodbye My Love, Goodbye

Retreating inward from the pain,

I smell the sweetness of her hair

As we move along the path. I strain

Uphill, dragging muddied weight to where

Headstones squat like sacred peaks between

Mowed grass where walked mourning crones.

Stoic statues weathered, weeping, still serene,

Guarding lengthy rows of buried bones.

 

We halt. Crows pass, loud caws abating.

A portal beyond the pale awaits, silent.

The gaping hole lies open, waiting, waiting

For my dearest here quiet, broken, spent.

Farewell, sweet beauty, unfaithful miss.

I weep. Red lipstick on blue, icy lips

Beckons. Entranced, I take one final kiss

Before tossing splendor into the dark abyss.

Goodbye my love, goodbye.

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Quirkiness Traveled, A Poem

 

planeflyingaroundglobe

One of my many ongoing projects is compiling and sorting my poetry for publication. I came across this one recently in an old three-ring binder that also contained my homework from a writing course at McMurry University in Texas. Written (scribbled in pencil on faded, lined notebook paper, actually) in 1984, it is a rather tongue-in-cheek, simple doodle and not meant for anything but a smile, really. Prior to posting it on this blog, I made two changes. The original presentation was all text alignment left with no breaks between verses so I tweaked it a bit for visual interest to give it movement as you move from destination to destination as if actually traveling. Secondly, I changed the old city name of Bombay to the current Mumbai and altered the verse slightly to accommodate the name change. Without a great deal of editing and rewrite, this work will not (in all probability) make the final cut for inclusion in the poetry book so I thought I’d put it here in its current state. Why not? As someone before me so famously said, what’s life without a little whimsy?

 

Quirkiness Traveled

Does whimsy bounce at Wimbledon?

Shall we have that spot of tea?

No mad hatters haunting me.

What cold gremlins occupy the Kremlin?

Swig a shot of vodka down.

Laughter comes before a frown.

Do bells ring in old Belfast?

Can we hear them chime?

Their silence isn’t worth a dime.

How many rows to get to Cairo?

Paddle the blue Nile River.

Mummies make me shiver.

Do toucans fly high above Tucumcari?

Is there often pouring rain?

Praying for it’s all in vain.

How many girls named Lulu in Honolulu?

Grass skirts sway and wiggle.

Shaved ice makes me giggle.

How many tokes abound in Tokyo?

Crowded city’s sushi bars,

Anime and compact cars.

Is there good vanilla out in Manila?

John the Baptist, patron saint

Frequents bordellos do you think?

How many bays shimmer in Beijing?

Not many ‘round with poodles

Feasting on delicious noodles.

Is there mumbling in Mumbai?

Saffron colored serving stalls;

Hear the vendor’s barking calls.

Can we marry in Marrakesh?

Yes, certainly among the red halls

Just inside the ancient Ochre Walls.

How united is United Airlines?

Wonder if I will be fed?

Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed

And end my quirky travel.

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Do not speak ill of the dead

In a new work in progress (WIP), a character of some many years—feisty and notorious for speaking his mind—becomes disenchanted, disappointed, and bitter.

He is asked to write a eulogy on the passing of a longtime friend. The friend was an active, loved church member, associate, and—unbeknownst to the small community where they retired to escape their less-than-virtuous lives—an arch criminal.

The result is a shocking, less-than-glowing list of evil deeds to be revealed at the funeral. He is urged to rewrite the scathing expose. He refuses, believing honesty more important than conventional good manners.

The following poem recorded in his personal diary captures his new belief.

 

Do not speak ill of the dead!

That having said, I shall

flap my lips, wag candid tongue,

hoist the verbiage black and read,

speak truth about the dead.

Outline all the right and wrong,

unblemished reputation splattered.

Far better now to say instead,

it’s only truth that matters, go ahead.

If it’s not lies, speak unpleasantness,

illuminated veracity,

impolite accuracy.

Thus having said, I shall

speak ill of the dead.

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Upcoming National Poetry Month

I am pleased to announce that one of my poems, Do The Dead Call? from my novel, Mystery Of The Death Hearth, has been included in a special series organized by the University of Arkansas Press in celebration of National Poetry Month in April.

The selected poems will be read on KUAF Public Radio, part of the National Public Radio (NPR) digital network.

I’ll post the schedule for the reading when it’s released.

Learn more about KUAF radio, Fayetteville, Arkansas at http://kuaf.com/.

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Poem And Plot

Succumbing to temptation, a small group of conspirators scheme to procure a sacred Celtic site by eliminating all obstacles—including the Celtic stewards. This is one of several twisting plot lines in The Corpsemakers, the WIP manuscript for the second book in the Runevision Mystery series.

Just as in the first book, The Mystery Of The Death Hearth, each chapter is preceded by a poem or short narrative setting the mood and tone. Here’s one:

Oh, Greed, so obvious your smile;

Want and Desire so blatant.

Reveal your Lust for material gain,

Of Profit and minted coin.

Omitting Oaths you have foresworn

As the pucker of your Aspirations

Lead you into Darker stations.