Downtown Men

by Peter Franklin

They knew more than I, these old ones sitting seemingly
idle on the benches.  Downtown icons…
human slow motion statues.
I didn’t know that when I was younger, for I had a feeling that I knew it all.
And that which I didn’t know, I didn’t know I didn’t know…therefore it was not important to know.

“I remember when” used to make me wince and look for a way out.
Oft repeated stories, tales, memories
were lost on my youthful ears.
I was in too much of a hurry to slow down and listen.  I was too concerned about what was ahead of my next step, and had no interest
in what was behind me.
I moved fast.  They moved slowly.  There was no similarity.
Or so I thought.

The old ones had names that seemed funny to me.
Red.  Skip.  Cleo.  Kenny.  Bud.
Names from another era.
Not mine, therefore, not important.

They had seen wars and hunger.
They had seen slavery and freedom.
They had seen peace and prosperity.
They had seen storms wash away their town, and like tenacious starfish clinging to an exposed reef, they waited until the waters had calmed,
and then patiently rebuilt.

They’re gone now.  The benches are quiet.
No more waves and hellos.
No more nods of acknowledgement.
No more tales of when “things were different.”

The seagulls pretend not to notice, but I know they do.  They would never come this close…out of a certain gull-like reverence.
But that reverence has now gone downtown, too.

Oh, father…Were you sitting on this bench with me now.
I should have asked more questions when I had the chance.

The Meeting

by Peter Franklin

Larry’s phone rings
Three times, and he
Answers it twice. The Usual
Suspects
Arrive late, mumbling excuses that
We’ve all heard before.
Mindy keeps asking questions,
And I’ve broken a nail.
Why do we need to meet
When a simple email will do?
Time is dripping down the walls,
Egg yolk in slow, tired
Rivulets onto the floor.
Puddling.
Congealing.
But that is not what time is supposed to do!
Fly!
Fly away!
Soar up into the heavens,
Wrap your seconds and minutes around
The stars…make me believe in grander things.
Let me dream!
Don’t tie me down to droning
Earthly pursuits…because my feet
Now feel heavy, and my mind is oozing
Into gravy nothingness.
I can’t even look at you now,
All out of focus.

Sunrise

by Peter Franklin

It’s a beautiful sunrise

I said to her on this fine day

Of solstice,

And to the horizon stretching in front

Of me.

Blush pink-hued clouds

Nodded their approval…

Indeed.

Indeed.

She told me in her early morning way

That there really are no

Not-so-beautiful sunrises.

Aren’t they all spectacular…each one

Expressively different, signaling

Yet another new beginning.

Fresh.

Auspicious…

Sweeping away the clinging gloom of night.

I really had never thought of it that way

Before,

But I know I’ve never said, Hey…this sunrise is kind of

Ugly and plain. Maybe I just needed to

Take time and notice.  I nod

Reassuringly and shuffle off

In my old-man slippers…

Knowing,

Of course,

That it’s all true.

The seasons change, and so do I.

But the sunrise, according to her,

Is always beautiful.

The (Not) First Amendment

by Peter Franklin

Scratching,
Itching to claw its way out…
Demon dog at the screen door locked in my head…
Howling…growling
Want to get out, to bite and chew.
Sticks and stones
May break my bones…but it’s the
Words that frighten me the most.
Hurled in hurt, seemingly benign syllables
Glance off.
Minor scratches on the surface
Begin to fester and swell.
Infection. Sore.
Inside, I want to scream out
But I don’t because my society has taught me that
Discretion is the better part of valor…
To stand tough and take it.
Brush it off.

It’s not gentlemanly to behave in an uncivilized manner.

You, however, apparently have no trouble
sleeping at night, acting with such
social depravity
That people are afraid to pass you on the street…
to speak against you…to truly express
what’s trying to break through the
emotional prophylactic of speaking freely.
Of seeking redress.
The rest of us walk around all bottled up…frothing, fermenting…
eating away at our insides…
just waiting for the moment to verbally joust.
It won’t come.  Rarely does.
Life does not imitate sitcoms.
The rules keep the rabid mental curs in place…
Lunging against the chains that hold all in check…
Somewhat secure…in fear
of the consequences.

The corset of society squeezes out
Milquetoast.

A message on today's poems from Peter Franklin

These poems...these creations...are from juniors and seniors at Swampscott High School, in Swampscott, MA.   The authors represented in this brief collection have shared with you their inner-most thoughts…they have invited you to stand in their shoes for a short while. They may be comfortable shoes, and fit perfectly.  Or they may fit awkwardly and feel somewhat painful.  That is wonderful!  Some of these students write for pleasure.  Some write when asked to write.  Some write for therapy.   Still others write because their poetic muse is loud and boisterous.  Creative Writing is, when it’s at its best, a raw and unvarnished look at the world…a snapshot of what’s important, and what’s not, to each writer. Enjoy the snapshots.

While They Now Bathe

by Peter Franklin

The family crosses the street,

children in tow

not walking fast enough

ducklings gone astray.

While

the semi-truck driver can’t quite

negotiate the turn,

angry motorists honk and flail impatiently,

their lives interrupted

but the goods will be delivered.

They

           

Are oblivious to the crane operator

lifting the grate

into the path of oncoming pedestrians,

unconscious ballet of balance and nerve.

No one dies today.

Now

Walter is staring at a blank page, in a cabana

near the shore

Words poised, now totally oblivious

to the twenty-eight souls afloat.

To escape the heat, they eagerly

Bathe.

Puddles Of Truth

by Peter Franklin

Take me to your

Higher Coach,

She who resides within…

She who has all the

Answers,

Whether or not you want

To hear them…

The answers.

They are the ripe hanging

Fruit…harvest time on your

Calendar.

The transition into the

Unknown is fragile

And frightening.

Knowyou’ll go when you

Are ready to go.

Once you quiet the noise within…

Doubts,

Blocks

Obstacles

Will then melt away.

Puddles.Wonderful puddles of what

Once was.

Have courage to access

The treasure chest…

Your authenticity and brilliance are waiting

Discovery.

Shine.

Dazzle.

Be you.

At the core is the truth.

Curtains

by Peter Franklin

Drawn around for what appears to the be last time
Dimming outside light as gossamer images
Flit and dance on the other side.
Wayang Kulit. The shadow puppets…
One final show before the light fades behind them.
No more shadows then.
They reach in…Taunting, Tantalizing,
Telling stories for the ages.
Romance. Tragedy. Loves lost.
Celebrations never to be erased.
They fade from view for just a moment…
I reach lucidity even in the hovering darkness.
I wonder  how I’ll be remembered…
How the final words will sound to my ever-deaf ears.
If there are enough good things to be recalled, then perhaps
I have been a kind, patient, tolerant soul.
Well, maybe not so patient.
But I will hold the door for you…
Please and thank you…
My, you look lovely today.
Then again, perhaps not.
I am impatient,
Even now waiting for the shadows to dance again.
Wayang Kulit.
I’ve been known to be judgmental.
Can tell an off-color joke at precisely the wrong moment.
Here lies an enigmatic not-so-young man…
Irreverent…Childish…
Slightly full of himself…
Wondering aloud what the world thinks of him.
Does it matter wither my ashes go…will
Their mere presence make a difference?
Could they ever make a difference…?
Now, pull back the curtains and let’s get on with it.
Night is about to lift…
Legend has it that the dead never really die…
The soul lives forever.
Saya kembali,  dust and all.
The curtains are
Wafting…

Mad Angel’s Gait

by Peter Franklin

The right-front wheel on my cart
Has that inevitable wobble…
Shimmy…spastic jerk that hampers my forward progress.
At times I pay no attention to it…sometimes
Give it a good kick, makes no difference.
Wobble. Shimmy. Mutter.
Mad Angel’s gait…
It is all here…everything…all of it.
Clothing.
Trinkets.
Valuables faded from the sun,
Faded from memory.
Currency in cans and bottles, stuffed safely away…
Bits of this,
Pieces of that…
The flotsam and jetsam of a
Nomadic life.
Well-guarded.
Hell, it doesn’t get any simpler than this.
It is all here…
Ebb and flow of all that I can carry.
My castle…
My reservoir…
My storage unit…
No options for expansion.
I have nothing that I don’t need,
Though there is a lot that I indeed want.
I sleep. I wake. I wander. Sadly,
No dreams anymore.
Fallen from grace.
You may or may not notice me when you pass by.
I don’t know…as I am paying far less attention to you
Than you are to me.
In self-conversation, I find myself
Lurching down the avenue, in sync with the
Cart wheel.
We are both a little out of control.

Meditative Thoughts While Shaving

by Peter Franklin                                          

I thought of you
While shaving my legs today -
Rather unusual I admit.
I really try not to think of anything…
Or anyone, for that matter…while
Holding a finely-stropped weapon
In my hand.  And not just because I’m new at
This.  I’m not a big fan of giving blood.
Carefully lathered, took a deep
Breath.  Really? Cyclists do this?
I now feel so relevant…though
I’d rather be writing some sort
Of offbeat love poem, a safer territory
For me, but having grown weary of the
Hirsute legs I am plagued with,
Off it goes.
I remember once how you said you
Thought of me while shaving your legs
(which is totally normal for you…the shaving part,
Not thinking of me) –
So here I am returning the favor.
Of course, I’m bleeding…
Rivulets of crimson ego trickling
From the nick just below my knee.
But my heart also bleeds a bit knowing that
You’ll soon be into another life chapter.
It’s time.
It’s normal.
It’s expected.
The nest has outgrown its purpose,
And all metaphors aside, its
Time for you to make your own tracks.
Hey.
That’s what you say.
Hey.
That’s my response.
Hey.
Don’t forget to write.
Hey.
I can’t imagine having to do this again.

Knock. Knock.

by Peter Franklin

To you I might be
nothing – discarded, outcast refuse
washed up on your pristine beach.
I am mysterious, unknown, and am unable
to communicate how terribly hungry –
hay hambre – yo lo tengo - I am,
or how fearful I am – hay miedo – that I
have nowhere to go, and no idea
whether my family made it out or not.
Alone.
Solo.
Nadie.
“Next,” you sneer.  “Cockroach.”
Cucaracha? I don’t think so…in my country
I was a successful businessman –
a lawyer – abogado – but like everyone you
see here, stretched out before you,
I chose to leave…was forced to leave…chase a
dream to live without fear. Without persecution.
Either that or die, over and over again.
We are now all the same, but I am no cockroach.
If you just let me in – I am healthy, you see –
strong teeth, clear eyes…my beautiful hazel eyes…
I will make you proud, and will give
you no problems – you won’t even know I am here.
Invisible –
a shadow – la sombra.
Perhaps you could look at my form one more time,
and maybe while you are looking over there
At that colicky baby – el nino - crying and carrying on
(does the echo in this hall bother you, too?)
perhaps I could slip through this…how do you say…
torno de entrada – and find my way out.
I have this uncle, you see, and surely
I can find him and he will take me in. 
I am more than you think I am.

Men With No Shirts

by Peter Franklin

Shed your decency,
I guess,
Once that tan comes on…
Baking and basking season has sprung
And you feel the need to bare all…
No matter your weight
Your girth
Or any manner of matted
And glistening-with-SPF-30-sunscreen-hair
Affixed to your arms
(fore and aft)
shoulders
back,
you are now on parade.
I get confused now…
In order to convict a defendant of indecent exposure,
It must be proved beyond that mysterious
Reasonable doubt that the defendant intentionally exposed her breasts to one or more
Persons and that
One or more persons were offended by the exposure.
HER breasts?
Nothing about HIS breasts…sagging, unrestrained, offensive…
Visible for all to see, even my tender-aged children.
I don’t want to look…
Tell myself over and over not to look…
Never is nice to stare,
To gawk,
To laser-eye-lock into that which is grotesque and different…
But unlike Odysseus
I am not tied to the mast,
unrestrained…
I succumb.
Drawn in, gasping.
Offended but unable to wrest my gaze from the
Carnage.
On foot…
On bikes…
On and on and on they come at me…a parade of naked
Masculinity,
Unaware of their hirsute offensiveness.
Revulsion etched deeply into my
Consciousness.
Is there no line to be drawn?
Past this point there is no return…
The earth is flat…
Off the edge.
Past this point even Oedipus would have
Terminated
His sight.
Be damned, eyes…
For thou have tricked me again.
The pastoral beauty I have come to love has been clear-cut
Down
To tangled desolation.
Oh,
For inclement weather.

Yard Work

by Peter Franklin

It was my father
who taught me how to rake leaves,
pick up all the trimmings...bear the burden of the clean up crew.

I actually had no choice...
for I was the go-to guy once dad did his halftime clear-cutting of the back yard.
I always knew the call would come...hey, give me a hand.

It was nice for a moment
to think that I had a choice...though he quickly disappeared to the grotto-comfort
of the worn green Naugahyde sofa in the family room...second half nearly underway. 

So I labored, sweated under the late afternoon sun, never thinking to tell him
that the hay fever made my eyes and nose and throat miserable.
But that would have accomplished nothing,

save for only prolonging the inevitable.
I bore it well, I think...
Much like my love for you.