It Could Happen to You
"It Could Happen to You"
and Other Poems
by Daniel Hargrove
Copyright 2015 Daniel Hargrove
Cover art copyright 2015 Daniel Hargrove
This book is published for anyone's enjoyment. Authors retain the copyright to their work. Users may read, copy and distribute the work in any medium or format for non-commercial purposes, provided the authors and the journal are appropriately credited. The users are not allowed to remix, transform or build upon the published material.
Table of Contents
1) It Could Happen to You
2) Sudden Fruit
3) Under the Watchful Eye of the Sun
4) Staircase
5) Fair Warning
6) The City
7) Scared 'Em
8) End of the Song
9) To the Uninitiated
10) An Easy Moon
11) A Hard Moon
12) Guilty Moon
13) (untitled)
14) Decay
15) The Widowed Morning (w. Sophi Zimmerman)
16) The Blanks
17) Sleeping Through the Storm
18) Up
19) A Show of Anger
20) An Able Slap
21) Swear
22) Turn
23) Sit!
24) Jostle Town
25) Old Records
26) Of the Wrongness
27) Dark Red Wine
28) Sole Survivor
29) Go
30) (Three untitled poems)
31) Once Upon a Wish
32) Lover
33) In Hours or Years
34) (untitled)
35) Grade
36) The Tryst
It Could Happen To You
Stories within stories, within stories
Identities within identities
Extra-nominal light spills into confluence.
Harmonic convergence
finds its inner paradox
and inertia finds mobility
in its friend and neighbor
or its worst enemy.
Efficiencies within efficiencies
within inefficiencies
at the pulsing of history
and enumeration passes focus
in a heartbeat, even quicker
and ecology opens wide
even while economy
crunches our dignity.
Where one meets the forces of the struggle
another meets an ending in
the null conclusions of myth.
From one treadmill to the next
we make friends in our foibles and follies
and find inspiration in overcoming.
In the media circuit, contrast meets nothingness,
the nothingness of mutation
and then finding traction with the fishy smell
of the imaginary merry-go-round
that is the cycles of the seasons these days,
a brief rendezvous with a time away from time.
Sudden Fruit
Flowering, vibrant
the blossoms came to head quickly
a spring of cadences
if wishes were horses
Nothing kept the creek
from winding through the woods
bubbling, rushing noisily
to the tongue of the doe
if wishes were horses
The high peak of ecstatic vision
in the blush of fevered dreams
fears all conquered
and brides all drunk
if wishes were horses
Lighting followed in seconds by thunder
a torrential rain in the desert
and every seed awash with life
if never parched again
the lynx drinks deeply
if wishes were horses
forever trapped in amber
Under the Watchful Eye of the Sun
And the light gets away...
it is plotting its return
through the cycle of the seasons
upstream, like a salmon
back to where it spawned
to lay slippery eggs.
I recognize the difference
between heretofore and wherewithall,
between ass-backwards
and forward, march!
Slips away into the water
reflected in the snow,
frozen like a
long, tall, cool
drink of water,
curling up like a sprout
in the gravity of
acres and acres
of black Louisiana gumbo.
Focus hard
as the pyramid crumbles around you...
watch your watch, heel to toe, heel to toe,
as the compass spins out of control.
Staircase
Step after step
climbing higher and higher
up the long staircase
Long, slow ascent
Air getting thinner
A step at a time
Where does this staircase go
you wonder
Further and Further
Time passes slowly
moving ever upwards
plodding along
Fair Warning
The sign said "Stop"
and I didn't go past it
fearing the dire consequences
of such brash behaviors
The sign said "Do Not Enter"
and I didn't go in
knowing that inside was
something I shouldn't see
The sign said "Employees Only"
and I didn't trespass
because whatever was in there
shouldn't matter to me at all
The sign said "Beware of Dog"
and I paid attention
rather than get bit
for lack of proper caution
The sign said "No Trespassing"
and I didn't go past the fence
because I didn't want to be shot
which is the cost of being illiterate
The City
The boxes of the city,
the traffic of the city,
the garbage of the city,
the noise of the city,
the pollution of the city,
the chatter, chatter, chatter of the city...
if all adds up to a caustic mess
that eats away the living soul of a person
and turns them into a walking corpse.
Tradition means nothing to the city,
obscenity means nothing to the city,
beauty means nothing to the city,
holiness means nothing to the city,
love means nothing to the city,
books, art, music, nothing,
depth means nothing to the city,
and breath means nothing to the city.
The city is a scar on the earth.
The city is a racial slur.
The city is a bad nightmare.
The city is a mass murderer.
"On your way!" say the city,
and "Never arrive!"
Scared 'Em
The shrieks and howls began
as soon as
they had opened the door
Reflexively, I jumped back
and ghosts began pouring out of
the doorway
around Connie.
She was too frozen with fright
to move
Stopping at this house
was a very bad idea
The luminescent spirits
flew around her,
darting in to nip her arm
She
screamed a heart rending
shriek of total fright
and holding up her arms,
ran in my direction.
The ghosts followed
howling
like the high wind
End of the Song
With the sun in my heart
and the stars in my soul
I plumb the story I know so well,
and it tumbles down into the sea
the sun douses out with a hiss and steam
the stars are swallowed by inky water
The glorious heavens have not opened yet
the promises I believed have not come true
With a sparkle in my eye
and a song on my lips
I ask the questions I've asked before.
I am frozen by the winter
in my place, like a statue,
and the last red of the coals dies out.
No one should know better than I
how the life of the spark disappears.
To the Uninitiated
Spell out the words slowly;
write them down, one by one.
Raise your voice; explain the obvious...
or they will not understand you.
Step on the red scorpion
with a hard boot, hard.
The children are playing;
it doesn't belong here.
Light the fire well before sunset;
when the chill sets in, your fingers,
too numb to strike a match,
will fumble with our last hope.
Spread the word, far and wide;
the time is well upon us,
to warn of the tide of militants...
murderers and jackals, all.
Paint a picture in blue
with a slow and steady hand.
Color me not with red.
Study it for long hours...
An Easy Moon
The moon takes no prisoners
Holds its breath
for days on end
It does not shout...
nor whimper...
nor groan.
The moon asks easy questions
with very long answers...
it counts the days
between new and full,
silvers the bluejay.
"The moon", said my mother
"does not stamp around and raise a fuss
when it's time to go to bed...
does not pull the cat's tail...
does not question me
when I tell it to eat its peas."
When the moon dies
many years from now
it will leave behind a ghost
that will haunt the sky.
We will bury it at sea...
throw roses on the ocean...
and the sun will cry
for a very long time.
A Hard Moon
Trading words
with the man
on the moon...
Old dusty smile...
Eyes like craters...
On your walk on the moon
did you find
anyone home?...
anyone smiling?...
a warm fire?,..
a comfortable bed?...
Hard words
Just a disagreement
About
which face to show
and which face to hide
The sun is an easy lay
O moon...
A pretty lady...
A sly question
O moon...
With the sun in your bed,
and the the earth at your feet,
have you conquered the night?
Guilty Moon
I told on the moon
Gave it away
and at the trial
I testified
while its victims cried
It hid its face.
The moon is in jail tonight
The moon has betrayed
all we stood for
It looks hollow tonight
An anonymous prisoner...
if it escapes...
where can it go?
Behind a cloud, perhaps
Into shadow.
A good moon gone bad
All we had taught the moon,
all the lessons,
and morals
were forgotten on that dark night
when the moon killed a man
So many lessons are forgotten,
so many dark nights,
now that the moon is a prisoner
(untitled)
They took my poems away
and put them in
their lonely box
never to see day.
They wouldn't give them back, you see,
they took them all away from me.
They took my love away
and locked it in
a lonely room
to slowly turn gray.
They didn't have an answer there
when I asked the question, "Where?".
They took my dreams away
and made my night
an empty place...
why, I couldn't say.
My hopes were all that made them live
and loving all I had to give.
Decay
This Webster's dictionary
is sopping wet
and this copy
of Roget's thesaurus
is worm eaten
and missing half the pages
this poem
is oil stained and grimy
and this sentence
is full of logical inconsistencies
This prison
has no bars on the window
and the door is not locked
this noose
is made of Kleenex
and will soon fall apart
these handcuffs
are made of tinfoil
easy enough to break
but this cop
is made of muscle and brawn
and he can break you
The Widowed Morning (w. Sophi Zimmerman)
Dawn came gray, like some old woman shuffling in her slippers
A workingman's ethic lay forgotten and covered with dust under the bed
He cast a sullen sleepy eye to the shrouded morning
Part of him crawled out of bed; part lay still
Sleep, not rest, last night, a fish bowl of ideas
Money lay scattered about on the floor in heaps
Papered with regrets, the walls hum-drummed familiar excuses
while he trudged back into a hazy dream sleep
He sauntered down the boulevard, a wallet heavy in a pocket
A shambles on the sidewalk, tin can, got a quarter, mister?
Reaching into his coat he looked down into his own face, greasy with the street
He gloated with pity and pulled a twenty from his fat wallet
He extended a hand with the money, and saw that his destitute self had no arms
With skillful diplomacy the tin can was lifted up with bare calloused toes
Suppressing a grin, he put the twenty in the can
With a clunk, the can was lowered to the sidewalk, coins clanking, the 20, silent
He began to walk on, then curiosity turned him back to the mangled mendicant
The very personal question came out in a miserable croak
"Gone," came the answer - "Gave them away"
Stirring in the bed he muttered apologetic words of pity
In the hallway, the pay phone rang again, an echo of coins on tin
The gray sheets wrapped around him like gauze bandages
He thought of the struggle to rise, then sank deeper in the bed
then the sun broke the window into a million splinters of glass
The Blanks
Grime and sweat on the construction site
a twelve pack on Saturday night
ten years in prison
He did something
Thirty-thousand dollars a year
a wife and a loving family
stench of malt liquor sleeping under a bridge
He must be broken
Soulmates and close friends
love burning bright inside
an equitable divorce
They were really in love
Smart as a whip
asks all kinds (underline all kinds) of questions
crying and angry red butt
Kids will be kids
She's always full of smiles
always a kind word
hating herself for her weakness
Everyone makes mistakes
We lead pleasant lives
work hard, make money
get married, raise children
grow old and retire
Sleeping Through the Storm
Thunder cracks, stirring my blanketed form...
sheets of water drop from charcoal skies.
The night is deep within my lidded eyes;
dark are my dreams while sleeping through the storm.
In my mind, my clothes are rags, dirty and torn...
my wife is here, I listen to her cries.
We live in an alley, filled with trash and flies,
and in this sooty place a baby is born.
Outside, the storm rages on. The lightning tries
to rouse me from my nightmare's sullen glare,
to no avail, I have cut my earthly ties.
In my arms, the newborn babe is wet and warm;
his eyes are black as the night, his skin is gray...
my wife beside me weeps, pained and forlorn.
Up
Top dog on top;
one of many kings;
big bold braggart ...
heart made of sand.
You are cold, cold company;
maybe you will lend an ear.
Oh, yes I am uppity ...
hop over, lie atop stone.
Maybe you are IBM;
maybe a pimp with a stem;
maybe you are a TV preacher;
maybe you are the mayor.
You just thought the odds were small ...
don't cash in your chips early ...
at least you have respect ...
at least you have her ...
Have fun, stiff.