Rohn Federbush's Blog, page 30

Vultures in the Florida Skies1983Dreamt of Daddy imprisoned by a stroke.            Twas me encased in black unstimuli to smell the drool, unwashed, urine-scented bloke.             Antiseptics duly poured, for drains to lie
to scant visitors, who just stand around.            His/my left arm’s gone limp, mouth can’t yet smile. One eye imagines spring ferns o’er the ground.            His sentences are formed without the guile.            The words understood at random by set grins.             Memories torment the saddened guests.Instead, soup’s thrown at walls to settle bets.
            He wanted to believe he could still go home.

Today’s Found ApplauseInSong of Solomon2005Your form is like a sturdy sycamore.            You stand gazing through the window,peering out the door.            Speak of it and we’ll throw
the meaningless offenses said             someplace farther south.What is it that knits your forehead             brings down the corners of your mouth?
Come away, show your face.            Let me hear your voice, tell me.Give me a kiss, an embrace.            You, whom I love so well, tell me.
Your first glance imprisoned my heart.            I am your love’s desire.Let me set a seal upon your heart.            Come, let us retire.
On our couch we have sought and found love.We held each other fast,            numbered our days, counted breaths thereof,while the hour was young, before time passed.

My beloved is mine.

A Horse, of Course
November, 2007
A horse will work until she’s exhausted.She’ll plow through fields as disinterested            as agents page through piles of rejected            manuscripts that fame’s not anticipated.
A horse who’s led to water has wastedher time. And horses trained to multi-gaited            races can step on toes. Those supported            by literary dreams are as comforted
as horses thrilled by a win. Escortedto winners’ circles, they at least feel accepted             by readers who enjoy more than expected,            more than the clever experts suggested.
A horse plods at break-neck speeds committedto the long haul. If dead before lifted            to published ranks, at least I existed            in God’s sweet realm, already spirited.
A horses’ eyes magnify repeated            scenes, like a bull fly’s does.
                        Not mine, but my poems completed.

Thoughts after Viewing 1658’sMilkmaidNovember 12, 2009
She’s already tasting the sugary bread-pudding.Saliva is wetting her lips,             her eyes sparkle while anticipating
the accolades he’ll laud on her.His gentle nudges, crowned with a sweet smile            make all the knuckle-aching work worthwhile.
She’s heard the early moaning of the cow’s callto be relieved of the thick creamy milk.            The chilly milk-room didn’t feel damp at all.
After baking the mix of bread, eggs and milk,she’s donned her freshest, starched cap to accept             the next, well-earned moment of praise.

Seer’s Litany1994Challenged, the first ghost rose up through the porch floor             disgraced by the monument’s upkeep.The second rests peacefully with Robert lying to the right,             under a duckfly by meadow, where he lifts the lake’s land arm.The third cheers the round hills where congregations             of left over blessings slip into the day’s celebration.The fourth rocked for the last time with her undeliverable twins.             He brushed her waist-long hair before the well-tended fire.The fifth could have been kiva dust and shine             if my heart hadn’t felt the welcome. The sixth was an eagle mesa walker barring the narrow bridge             to the old and sacred quarter.The seventh was a traveling trading horde             grabbing my ankles in the warm Arizona grass.The eighth could have been a vision             through the smiling Eskimo girl’s face.The ninth group lined up with a tourist quay at Independence Hall.             But they were cold and hungry.The tenth was a man scalped on Wagner Road in sight of his house.             Who’s still trying to find his family.The twelfth and final call was taller than me,             hair uncombed, jacket unwashed, a bottle in her hand instead of a purse.             She turned to stare directly into my eyes.Why didn’t she leave sideways with her unidentified back to me?            What noise of mine elicited the response of, “How much will you help?” I answered, wordless, “None.”            And no more come.

Return1974

The night’s coolness lessened with each pungent,             hot ray of sun permeating the mist.             Wearing a flapping red shirt, face fresh kissed, the dare of offering obedient self as fit fare, to him mere sacrament,             to prove the value she gave the tryst, made her stumble on the black loam. Left an imprint of her body to mark the incident.Her nude outline pressed down, fit instrument of doom. Her gun she placed to her left ear,             then rolled over to face the sun’s claim. The future held for her and him, no fear.             Not one of his women could blame. Her trigger finger listened to their jeer,             “And who will ever know the victim’s name.”

The Reaching Dream1981
The morning was common, the kitchen warm and crowded, as they ushered his father in.
            They said he had pulled his hands.             Pulled his hands?             He held them tortured             straight out, palms down.
I warmed the tap water held his hands gently under the running stream as the blood dripped from under his nails.
            He screamed and the pain was made audible             in the waiting hopeless crowd.            They shouted directions, offered confusion             or advice, as he continued to scream.
Then from his shuddering grasp fell a chunk of wet rock candy.She came too, his mother, stricken and already screaming with a like cry and begot the same dripping yellowed see-through crystal candy.
            He was there, their son, remembering their pain,             he offered no sweetness of himself but purchased             plastic cubes with easy coin,             promised to warm and comfort but didn’t.
He was a husband I could not cure.



Married on a dead-end street, Jackson, Michigan

Marcus Aurelius1980
Hast any philosophy in the shepherd?            Will never cease to be the test of a wellborn nature.                        Touchstones, William James.  
Marcus, the Emperor, taught stoic philosophy, with reason.His flaunting wife sent lovers past his impotent hide.                         Her revenge felt righteous, no doubt.
His fight to control a nature more alive than his failed. The struggle to hold onto sanity claimed                         emotional peace, left its wisdom writ down.
But among the columns of tall marble he spied as departing gladiators tucked their togas in relieved                        waists content to dream of a death waiting in their wings.
Every one of them easily recalled her loveless embrace.

Pauline1995She must have been a beauty.
I saw you keening in the yard.
Bowing toward the house            your posture resembled                        an oriental exercise.
Later the drive was stuffed             with cars and young men                         rushing stiff-legged                                                 to the desolate.

Hopefully, she found a painless door.

King David’s Bipolar World1979Liquid and warm, languid the storms.
Summer winds, gusty fall threaten all.            Nevertheless, a wintered existence continues.
Your voice remembered like Grandma’s hint of cadence .
The line of your shoulder, your cheek bone             or your gait as you walk on, remind me.
You are there and I am more or less alone.
Delicate glass touching ether.
            Each face able to shatter the other.