My Ten Count
My ten count sometimes lasted
two days, as I sweated defeat
through my underwear,
and heard counting in the voices
of co-workers, bus drivers, strangers
in love with the victory of silence.
The courage easier years ago
to fake, using a half empty bottle
of whisky to prop myself up,
until the hangover the next day
knocked me down like a left hook
turning my soul into glass.
Another Reluctant Spring
Your death comes back to life
to haunt me at 2 PM,
when the snow melts
just like it does every year,
and I want to say this is faith,
proving god believes in us,
but it leaves me feeling more alone,
more certain in my own uncertainty,
as my memory tries its damnedest
to unremember the cancer
stealing your voice away,
until it came back today
as ghostly footsteps
trapped
in the attic of my mind.
The Struggle Against Silence
Bach’s music is heavy with sadness,
like someone who has to believe in god
in order for the world to make sense,
while Beethoven is the thunder
from angels bowling away
another summer night,
and Bukowski the static stained radio,
relishing classical composers at 1 AM,
until the last wine bottle emptied.
Sane as an Egg
chewed with an open mouth in the morning,
while in the garbage can,
the broken shell sits;
any sound it had made lost
to the same silence we let say goodnight to us
or mumble the alarm clock’s noise
after hitting snooze for the third or fourth time.
Yesterday’s deja vu easily forgotten,
until the shower sings the same song
and the coffee left to cool too long again,
making a desire for madness, that our ancestors
perfected by letting it stay unspoken,
the best satisfaction we can have.
Any Corpse Could be a Genius
A dead name might find life
on a tombstone,
like a street people remember
because there was a brothel
or a house famous enough
to have ghosts,
if they’re lucky.
Of course, there’s grey hair
first, sore backs
that mean nothing, doctors
lecturing about blood pressure,
and empty bottles
filled without anyone noticing
pieces of a soul.
A Morning Person Lazarus
The sunlight at 7:34 AM is
potent as the first glass of whisky,
except it’s been six months
since my last drink,
and the ice in my freezer
more frozen than ever,
but no one seems to care
about how I don’t squint
at the morning sun now;
a cloudy confirmation
that life has meaning beyond
a hangover hanging from another,
or that god might be
one more set of eyes
who believed my smile never died.
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.
Find more of his work on Bold Monkey Review here:
https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2024/05/featuring-richard-ledue.html
