Neil McKay's Shared Poems

In the rain we stand with the rest,
Going through the motions of
Empty ritual and forced meaning
Children, anticipating some sort of
Epiphany, sit on fathers' shoulders,
Hold mothers' hands, and watch

The mayor speaks, "I'll keep it short,"
Her standard blessing. And then the
Flipping of the switch, or plugging in of the
cord to the socket. I couldn't see.
Somehow, the making of
A connection, power to light.

We're cold and wet, we've patiently waited,
The lights are lit and, en masse, the crowd
Disperses. If you look up "anticlimactic" in
The dictionary, you will find a photo
of this event. As we head to our car, my sweetie
Gives me her review, "Too much white."
She was talking about the tree lights but
She could easily have meant the crowd.

Was there ever a poem
That wasn't about poetry?
A book that wasn't about writing?

Was there ever a joke
Not filled with rage?
A song that made sense without singing?

Was there ever a movement
That made any difference?
A war that was fought for peace?

Was there ever a hatred
Not spawned from hatred?
A killer who felt at home?

When the furnace goes out and your bedroom is cold,
It's time to write something terse.
When the washing machine has stopped washing your clothes
A poem won't make the day worse.
When the dishes are dirty and the garbage is stink
When you notice a dripping from under the sink,
When there's too much to do and too little to drink
You might as well write some free verse.

If there's work to be done in your garden of weeds,
A sestina will help you forget
If your children are hungry, they're hungry indeed
You have time for a witty couplet
When you've gone back to college for the seventeenth time,
And you're sure that an IT degree will be fine,
But you want nothing more than to make up a rhyme
A poem's what you probably need.

(Extra line that I don't want to lose: There are sonnets crawling out your finger holes)

Dig deep enough, you'll find bones,
This is a graveyard,
This is where I grew up.

There is a cat buried under the gooseberry bush,
A turtle next to the daffodils,
Gerbils and goldfish intertwined in roots of laurel.

There is a soccer player buried by the fence,
A drummer under the crawlspace,
College degrees in the fire pit.

The bodies of past lives decompose slowly,
The dirt becomes rich over time,
Ready to feed new growth.

Already weeds are reaching out for the sun,
The bones, dissolved to ash,
Spend their days giving up.

Somewhere an old man is sitting at a table,
Nodding an affirmation to his dinner companion,
Hoping that is the right response.

Somewhere an old man
Stands at the urinal
Waiting.

Somewhere on a park bench
An old man sits
Until the end of another day