Nice and Tidy
Minutes crawling by like ants,
who probably believe the bottom of your foot
is the devil and your kid's cookie crumbs
god, but eventually the floors will be barren,
well swept and clean enough
to fool the world
into thinking you never made a mess,
or maybe barely even existed.
The Writer's Dream
The truest gamble is getting out of bed
each morning, taking part in the slow death race
we call rush hour, only to find the finish line
is always changing,
until defeat arrives like fresh sheets
on a hospital bed,
but there are ways to win,
like refusing the surrender a Saturday night
to silence and allowing a dead singer
life again in between whisky coloured wagers
that are the safest bets
or chasing the writer's dream,
while others sleepwalk through Netflix,
sensible bed times, keeping track of fibre
in their diets, worrying about blue chip stocks,
succeeding at a job that will kick them
to retirement like they're a half deflated football
doomed to to a thrift store afterlife.
Art Among CGI Explosions
Hundreds of millions of dollars baptize
another Hollywood movie,
while I shortchange myself by being
on hold for an hour,
comparing tenants insurance
to save a couple of hundred of dollars,
and the hold music started to remind of death
breathing hard on the end of an unlisted number,
so I hung up.
My failure small next to a brilliant director,
who was important enough to sell out,
to talk of art among CGI explosions
as I lie in bed, blue as a grey sky,
knowing my own story
wouldn't even warrant practical effects.
Neither Sacred Nor Sacrilegious
Had a good night yesterday,
wrote three poems,
however, tonight I had an invasion of bugs,
tiny ones all over my kitchen floor.
They were small as worries
we forget years later,
yet as I squashed them,
I felt defeated
because I had surrendered my inspiration
to creatures who probably believe crumbs
god's favour and my hands heavenly wrath,
only to leave me in my own purgatory
searching for words, neither sacred nor sacrilegious,
but the closest I'll ever get to salvation.
Not Much of a Memory
Over twenty years ago,
we went to this party up the road
from my friend's house,
which was down the road from a cemetery,
and I drank enough beer
to safely say I don't remember being there,
but I never forgot the walk back at 5 AM.
My friend and I coated in dawn's light
like we were two drunk angels,
only to know for sure now
that I have no idea what we talked about
or why went at all.
The Beauty of It All
Crows atop of telephone lines
watch like angels who chose to leave heaven
and my fingers hide in pockets,
as if they were earthworms
waiting for the preacher's voice.
The twilight sky a rose always
just out of touch.
The beauty of it all a spiritual experience
akin to a heart attack kicking you
out of your body, only to hear your doctor
complain about his golf swing
before you meet dead relatives
who liven up brain death enough
to give you another twenty or thirty years,
wondering why dying felt so good
or if your doctor ever figured out his long game.
Richard LeDue lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, 'Sometimes, It Isn't Much' was released by Alien Buddha Books in February 2024.
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