Gustafson.com
No Mo Joe
(More at Boxing Insider)
At aboutsix AM , I
picked up the paper
By the street where the drive way opens to the city. It laid
Curled up in a cheap plastic sack to keep it
Dry, against a lightFlorida
Everything was morning still, not even a bird. When I read,
Frazier is dead
Gone,down for the final count
Hit hard at the last round bell, towel thrown
In the ring by his terminal trainer
Jabbed in the face. a stiff right
left him without breath
KO”d cold for good
Liver cancer at 67 put him down
For the count on heavens door
Mat. Where joyful angels sung,
“Now we will see some real action
On Friday nights .
Prepare the pugilism palace
Replace the spot lights, shine up the bell, tap the keg
Smokin Joe is here at last”
The word spread throughout the
Universe. fight fans flood ticket master
Vivere militare est ” they shout.
We have waited for you Joe
Xenial angels greet him with new gloves
You can start training, prepare, get ready,
We have our eyes
Zeroed in on Ali”
(More at Boxing Insider)
At about
By the street where the drive way opens to the city. It laid
Curled up in a cheap plastic sack to keep it
Dry, against a light
Everything was morning still, not even a bird. When I read,
Frazier is dead
Gone,down for the final count
Hit hard at the last round bell, towel thrown
In the ring by his terminal trainer
Jabbed in the face. a stiff right
left him without breath
KO”d cold for good
Liver cancer at 67 put him down
For the count on heavens door
Mat. Where joyful angels sung,
“Now we will see some real action
On Friday nights .
Prepare the pugilism palace
Replace the spot lights, shine up the bell, tap the keg
Smokin Joe is here at last”
The word spread throughout the
Universe. fight fans flood ticket master
Vivere militare est ” they shout.
We have waited for you Joe
Xenial angels greet him with new gloves
You can start training, prepare, get ready,
We have our eyes
Zeroed in on Ali”
Window Seat November, 2011
Jim's poems are published in January 2012 edition
Poetry
Psycho-social
Wilma, on morphine, feels little pain
She is miles away from herself
Even further from her children
Who have grown into their own scars.
Their mother is an inconvenient journey
A historic marker commemorating indecisive battles
The kind that make wars winless.Wilma, nearing ninety recalls,
Cranks on phones, fountain pens,
Beer in buckets, and when all cars were black.
She has lived through many wars,
The world’s and her own
Alone, she faces an enemy once more
This time with heavy arms
Limping forward to the fight
Hospice House
In the lobby
Where people come
To die well
They wheel in,
The same way
They wheel out
Though, coming in
Faces are not covered
Going out they are
Head to toe
In a sky-blue
Velvet bag with a zipper
Rolling down the long hall
Feet first is protocol
Toward the EXIT sign
Above the door
(the irony of fire codes)
There is a whisper
Clear but faint
In the slight squeak
Of a gurney's left front wheel
“I'm glad that's over.
It wasn't so bad.
Tell my Ella I'm sorry,
Don’t be sad.
There's food in the fridge.
Don't forget to cancel my phone.
Everything looks . . .”
The body pusher pushes
A chrome square on the wall
The glass doors swing open
And that is all
Hektoen International Journal
December 2011
