Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Pede, 1934-1979
I
Someone might call and ask
What Pede did in years
Past, or he might timidly
Not. I could write in
Readiness with whatever I
Remember happening
But it will be faint,
A dim recollection
Without time or reference:
We often walked
Miles or rode the bus
To Long Beach and
The Pike. No one ever
Bothered us having nothing
Anyone wanted and being
Of no interest which was
An excellent cover for our
Slips and slides, hiding out of
The way. I’ll describe the musty
Rumblings and of heat induced
Mirages almost finding us out.
II
The shimmering other end of the grinder
Was the goal, the lesson our DI
Taught and the two sent there to
Find the swatted fly became
Indistinguishable from all the other
Waves of heat hovering in the
Transparent river. We with our
Blinking watering eyes could but
Watch. They would find a proper fly
And bring it back in its black box for
The proper Marine Corps burial, killed as
The DI said in performance of its
Duty as we were expected to
In the same way if a day
Like this one when heat
Erupted in gunfire or bomb
Blasts, and we who have
Lasted think back at the
Times we might have stumbled
And not even seen the
Black box that carried us.
III
He sat atop the popcorn
Machine to watch the fight,
Complaining later of the melee.
It was toppled, the machine with him
On board. Moderately bruised
And bloody I later listened as
I Always did to his view
Of what occurred: Walter
Knocking aside the stick that
Hit him, my laughing, the
Challenge and all that happened
Out behind the cafeteria. He
Though was of milder stuff;
Yet all my talk of the Marines
Got him thinking he needed
To prove himself to himself.
Life atop a popcorn machine
While his best friend outnumbered
Ten to one was beaten
Chafed until he sought the
Recruiter with trembling steps.
IV
A fair-skinned Dane on a Californian
Sea, on a boat he built and sailed
Not far from shore, heeling
Over, catching the sun and sea
On his fair forehead, setting store
On what was made with his two hands,
He held the tiller and main-sail sheet
Tight in the slight chop
And fifteen knots of wind,
But if one watches the sun
Another hour, there
Will be a freshening, a
Singing in the shrouds
And trembling in the stays.
He used no anchor,
Sailing with great care up
To the dock, sometimes losing
His temper when the timing
Was off, the sea out of key,
The grating scrape of the bow
On barnacles black as the deep sea.
V
He wouldn’t make less of life
In the face of death, rising
As he did sun-burned and ruddy
From a porch to look out
At the gentle sloshing of waves
Upon the sand. He’d go
Out each day to swim.
Free-diving as I began anew,
Well settled and with the time,
I sought him out but he declined.
The photo he sent me in Korea,
Kneeling before speared-fish
Had passed. He smiled,
Lifted his glass as he recalled.
How could the look of death
Make any less of that?
Kierkegaard for anxiety and
Dickinson in a nut shell. Hell
Held no terror. His attention
Drifted back to his curtain now
Fluttering in a freshening breeze.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment