Free-form Friday!

Today’s poem is inspired by Irish-American novelist and playwright, J.P. Donleavy, who said, “When I die I want to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in Dublin.”

I’m always exploring new, less-traditional ways of telling stories.

I was tempted to break my rule and title this thing, “Untitled,” but I am strong of will, and lazy of type.

–  .  –  .  –

On a Tuesday at 4:03, you wake from a short nap.

An odd thought is thought.

You speak whatever comes out, to me a stranger.

Something breaks free. Something stayed, rusted, locked away, bone dug up, unburied.

A stranger should not ask, “Who has gotten into you?”

Or say, That this is so unlike you”.

“I know,” you answer. “Not sure what I was thinking, if anything.”

You ask forgiveness, with a promise to repeat.

.  .  .

Yesterday at the market gave a clue of coming changes.

You tasted the sweetest pear without asking.

“Some day let’s eat soup by the pool in rain,” you say.

“Or we could chose a better day,” I correct.

In secret, I like this newness of you. I’m growing. Have grown. In secret.

Tired of the previously known, mostly tired of lack of new me.

.  .  .

But in that moment, 4:03 on a Tuesday, comes a promise.

New me.

Something breaks free.

As if uncaged, eyes roll and nearly close.

I float in the backyard pool, bloating up and down.

Pump jets direct flow, stirs of real and man-made.

Human chlorine soup.

Bird feeders empty.

insects insecting.

Riding waves of good riddance.

.  .  .

Oh the places I will go.

Under doorways.

Down undeserted halls.

Through windows locked.

Above gravity’s reproach.

New me. Best left already. Rest already gone.

Oh the places.

.  .  .

Drug and wrung dry, corpsely made-up in a box.

As if a box contains me.

They speak of natural-looking remains.

Natural like glasses on closed eyes.

Natural like hearing things said about you when not in the room.

At the service I float.

Watch you watching, hand outstretched.

Pass through air molecules, dust particles, decomposing with others.

All of us huddled, composing lives, suspended in a stormy world.

Beating hearts returning to dirt, ashes, dust since our times began.

You toss a handful of dirt, take a rose.

I take rise, over street, city, state, countries, worlds, physics.

As if we understand.

.  .  .

From this day forward, decide.

Let your forecast be for 100% new rain.

Look up and believe promises.

On this day seasoned with life.

The day yours changed.

That day a new will stranger come.

Look up and see promise.

.  .  .

Returning home.

Pouring cats and dogs when you arrive.

Still mourning dressed black.

Drained and wet.

On this surprising day, you swear you see a me-shaped cloud.

.  .  .

“Hey stranger,” you say. “Let’s eat soup by the pool.”

“Must you still call me that,” the old stranger says.

“What’s yesterday’s forecast?”

“100%. Just like today and tomorrow.”

Something broken, freed.

You speak whatever comes out.

Some call it laughter.

Or forgiveness with promise to repeat.

.  .  .

So it’s settled then. 4:03 on a Tuesday. Set your clocks by it.

Hot soup.

Dating by the pool in rain.

Just you, the stranger, the sweetest pear, and me.


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