Thomas M. McDade's Poems
I stop at the Ashcan room
Always first, Henri, Luks
Glackens, Shinn, Sloan
Bellows some say
Barely belongs
Repeat that for Hopper
That the museum itself
Doubts since he’s
In another place
It’s Bob Henri’s
Her Sunday Shawl
That grabs me
Like a mind reading
Guard who looks
Like he's figured
Me out: 32 X 28 1/8
Easy grab perhaps
The catalogue says
Her name is Sarah
She’s a child
(The bulky garment
Babies her face)
With impish eyes
And I marvel at their
Pale blue whites
And rouge plus lipstick
Are those eyebrows
Plucked and is it
Sunday off to church
Or Friday night and
Other plans and I can
Hear her reacting to Henri
Explaining himself
And his style
Ashcan, indeed!
A Professor Dies
A Thermos of tea
At the ready and always
A notable cast to assist
In making lecture points
He liked the pep talk Ignatius
Gave to Jesuit recruits
Unsure of their worthiness
“Act as if you are, and
Eventually you will be”
Tom Paine’s Common Sense
Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex
He’d been in Army Intelligence
Quit in protest of the Vietnam War
He’d jumped the fence at Ark-Sa-Ben
He marched with Martin Luther King
He admired The University
Of Chicago, the Great Books Project
And Saul Bellow, Adler and McKeon
He believed the moral of the Meno
Dialogue was that virtue was luck
And the best way to die
Was doing what you love
Take Country Music star
Spade Cooley whose heart burst
Backstage after a standing ovation
Cooley was a murderer on furlough
For a Sheriffs’ Association Benefit
Acting like a free man
Face or Faces
I liked
Eleanor R.'s
Practice:
Toting
Favorite
Photos in five
& dime frames
With her when
Travelling
I imagine another
Soul picking up
That habit and
Occasionally
Leaving one
Behind in
A hotel room
Say someone
Old with no kin
Taking a chance
On a housekeeper
Keeping the face
Or faces for
A souvenir and
Squinting to
Unscramble
Writing on
A corner
Even tossed
In trash still
Hope in
Sharp eyes
Of bulldozer
Drivers at
A landfill
Barroom Art
Wonderful
Walking up
To the third floor
To be greeted
By Van Gogh’s
Night Café
Been visiting
Forever and
Always awed
By its fest
Of color
But sometimes
The midnight
Drinking truth,
The clutter
Of Empty
Bottles
And glasses
Slumped men
A pool table
With felt
A wreck
And as the
Menacing
Lamps
Blaze me
Back to
Risky times
Rescue is
Focusing on
The three
Balls one
A rosy red
Matching
The walls
Two white
Like the
Blossoms
Bursting
On the bar
In a fat vase
Artist and Mutt
At Raphael's tomb
I imagine him toasty inside
Snug in a square of one of his
Tapestries that live in the Sistine
At an outdoor café
A man plays with a dog
His wife tucks the mutt
Under her Tartan cape
Muffled barking
The artist's Madonna
And Child prix fixe
Gangs of Spry Songs
I’m listening to some
Queen & Pogues &
Cowboy Junkies &
Maggot Brain on my MP3 player
While sitting in McDonald’s.
A friend wants that last tune
Blasted at his wake.
The clerk charges me full coffee price
And damned if I don’t feel crazy young.
I almost buy oatmeal cookies.
As my concert is finishing, a fellow leaving
Says loud enough to get into my ears
To no one in particular
That he’s getting a hip transplant very soon.
A white-haired birthday celebrant whose cake
Is being cut and distributed by his daughter
To family and friends shouts out
He’s due for a new shoulder.
She offers me a piece of the chocolate treat
That I gladly accept but my cup is empty.
Limping to the counter I purchase another,
Request the senior tariff as there are
Gangs of spry songs on my gizmo
To refute the geriatric slide,
Besides, the sweet gift is tot sized.
His Friends Below
A sailor flipped his lid,
skinny fellow, wild eyes beady.
He swore left hand raised
that he was evil and
the Father, Son and Holy
Ghost were the other
villains plaguing him.
To right this situation,
he must kill a friend
but he has none so he must
wander relentlessly
the decks and passageways.
He disposes of his enemies by
writing their names on paper
airplanes that he launches
over the side into the sea.
After chewing out the Captain
about the refueling set for first
light, a helicopter he claimed
was made of newspaper
that eagles would shit on
and destroy arrived.
While he was being
harnessed for the lift
heavenward
he forgave
both himself
and the Holy Trinity.
A spotlight showcased
all the kisses he threw
as if confetti
to his friends below.
Perhaps a Drunk One
I hold back a chuckle
When the assistant pro tells me
Just one bag allowed a caddy
Spreading out the wealth, you see.
Yeah the ten bucks for doubles
A gold ingot for sure.
I win a skimpy
Canvas bag I carry
For a woman who has me
Convinced I’m invisible and
That condition allows privy
To her bragging to her pal
Who pulls around her set
Of clubs on a handy little cart.
About how she transformed
her hubby — owned just one
sports jacket and two pairs
of slacks when they met.
Now thanks to her he has
A splendid wardrobe.
I picture her in a men’s shop
Buying him silk skivvies.
She yaps on about a phone call
To the Pentagon to make sure
Her son would be draft exempt
After his Peace Corps tour.
Don’t get me wrong, anti-war
Myself although I start
To gauge the weight
Of her bag and clubs
Against the memory
Of my plugged boot camp M-1.
But instead, I recall my dogs
Planted on a shore duty desk
While perusing the latest
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
Full of autumn fashions
No sailor I knew would ever
Use the word splendid on.
I chuckle and she glares
Up from her putt.
The Fair, The Inn, The Cottage
A small girl removes her blouse. Mom says if Granny were here all of hell would break loose.
Please, no bareback allowed, more English style saddles than western. Show horses hate earplugs, they try like Granny fires to shake them out.
Alpacas and llamas at the petting zoo love to spit at each other not people. How much you got to bet? They do hum to their young not you. Very large bunnies wear sweaters of grey like chilly old men but no tobacco-like carrot stains.
The innkeeper had a pony when she was a child name of Nancy. On a table, three Elvis dolls, squeeze a hand or foot no "Love Me Tender," murmur or hum. Skin lotion too for guest use. He's on the label. The pump spurts the like long-necked bearers of wool.
Kerouac saw Fantasia 15 plus times says a coverless magazine. A bluebird box should not exceed 3 feet from the ground. Diagram and fine print instructions school the bird lover how
to build a reliable predator guard.
A couple of cows named Jesse and Arlene munch out back. There's an electric fence no wonder such a bounty of flowers. Is the Crabtree and Evelyn rosewater shower gel named after Brit singers? jokes Mom.
At the Rose Cottage Historical Site down the street that’s pink as a petting zoo tongue, there’s a one-lane cellar bowling alley by Zeus where U.S. Grant rolled a string or two but he was not welcome to stay the night due to his hard drinking style.. Shirt probably so whisky stained
Granny would likely have said:
Take the damned thing off.
I don’t care who the devil you are.
Comments