The Bored's Prayer

The Bored's Prayer
Oh Brother!
I started shooting for the heavens
but hell, I got blocked
so the realization has come
This'll never get done
as it is way past eleven
and I face my daily dread,
so I forgive me my laziness
as I think of ways to pass the time
And deliver me a pizza from the Hut,
Just let me not be tempted to add anchovies.
Amen.

Frank Coughlin feb. 12,2008

Donna Humphrey

     I keep thinking about Judge Lefkow's mother.  I picture her writing in her notebook, maybe after she had finished her chores on the farm.  Is she sitting by the window with the breeze gently blowing the yellowed curtain near her face as she thinks about a world much different from her own?  Does she hope her husband doesn't ask her to start the separater to divide the cream from the milk she has just prayed into her pail?  Would she dare tell him that she could not do it now because she needs time to write?  I see her smoothing her hands over the big oak desk . 

She searches for just the right word to finish her poem.  Will she show it to her husband?  Or would he only laugh and say, "Donna Humphrey, you're a crazy woman.  You know we haven''t got time for such foolishness!"  

     Did anyone read her writing before her poems were found "in boxes, folders, desk drawers," as the paper said after her brutal death in the basement of her daughter's home?  Did it matter to her or was it enough just to get the feelings out on to the paper of her worn notebook?  When she wasn't writing, did she hide the poems somewhere in the Kansas farm home?  In a cupboard, maybe, next to the kitchen sink where she could quickly retrieve them after the house was quiet? I wonder where her ideas came from--the scenes outside the kitchen window, or Sunday church gatherings of farmer neighbors, or just her own mind after reading a book that thrilled her?  One of her pieces was titled "Frustration" and began: "I long to be a poet; and once, I thought I would..."  Who knew how she felt about herself?  A girlhood friend?  A hired hand?  Was she tempted to become close to someone who understood her better than her hardworking husband? Who even praised her for her penciled dreams and told her she was special?  I can't help but wonder.

Marriage: a discussion

     She asks me how did you meet your husband?  Oh, dreaded question.  I was lonely; he was lonely.  Is it enough, I hope?  No, she persists.  Did he propose?  I can't remember, I say, but I think so.  What did he say? I don't know, other than that he did not say that he was lonely.  Did you have a big wedding?  We stole the flowers from potted plants, as I recall.  What do you think makes a good marriage?  I wouldn't know, I say.  Maybe a loyal pet.  A dog or cat that one can ask about.  Is he in?  Is he out?  Has he been fed?  That might keep the man and woman together.  She is not amused.  She has a formula--part this, part that, part sex.  I'm finding it hard to listen.  Does she have any idea what she's talking about?  But I remind myself that this woman is 26 years old.  She is dating my son.  Does he fit her formula?  She tells me that her own parents were very good looking and that is why they married.  (They are now divorced.)  I glance at my son.  Yes, he is handsome.  Yes, she is attractive.  Will it be enough?  Pour me another glass of wine, I say.

It starts out innocently enough, one small flake followed by another. The snow falls in rhythmic, almost hypnotizing patterns from the sky, slowly at first, and then increasing in its intensity. The first flakes melt instantly on whatever they touch, and the only reminder of their existence is the drop of water. It doesn’t take long, though, before the dirty ground disappears and the world is white.

My husband groans as he watches the weather report on the evening news. The kids are excited as they run to the windows with visions of a snow day in their minds. The streetlight illuminates the spectacle of winter, and slowly, the neighborhood is transformed from January drudgery into a dreamy world of white covered everything. Pushing the thoughts of having to shovel to the back of my mind, I stop to admire the beauty of winter. I’m actually thinking how clean everything looks.

I think of Minerva Louise, a silly children’s book about a naïve chicken who sees the world through innocent eyes. She looks out of the barn one wintery morning and envies the snow hat that everyone is wearing. From the light post to the barn, she admires everything’s snow hat. I notice that everything has a snow hat in my yard too and each has its own individual style. The birdhouse has a snappy 3-peaked hat of white. The fence has perfectly repeated hats of snow on every post. Even the BBQ grill is decked out in its wintery finest. I secretly thank Minerva Louise for pointing out this perspective to me.

Hours pass and I notice the skylights are covered. The angry whirring of snow blowers has started as their owners are dismissing the layer of white from their passages. They are robotic in their quest—must remove snow. Nobody is going anywhere yet, but like dandelions in the spring, it has been dictated to us to remove the beauty. Clean up the clean. Oh, I wish it could remain undisturbed at least for a little while. The world is cozy, blanketed in a momentary silence as the neighbor moves to the other side of his drive.

We go to bed as it is still snowing, each with the next day’s scenario playing in our minds. Joe sets his alarm extra early for he will be in charge of snow removal. He anticipates the snarled drive to work and the multitude of faux sick calls in to work. I’m hoping tomorrow is one of the few days Em has the activity bus in to school so that I don’t have to slide her there myself--forget that the kid will be waist deep in snow at the bus stop. The cats have resigned themselves to yet another day in the house, and tuck their noses into their tails for more sleep. The kids, well, they are still holding out that the world (and the school) will be shut down.

The dream of dreams—a snow day. What kid doesn’t snug into bed anticipating the early morning phone call from a neighbor or the chance that your school will be mentioned in the long list of school closings on the radio? There is nothing as surprisingly wonderful as a snow day. The only thing that comes close is putting on last year’s coat, reaching in your pocket and finding a dollar bill. It’s like winning a mini-lottery. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, your world is changed! Isn’t it glorious?! What luck! What joy! Such freedom! You can probably count the times on one hand that you’ve actually had a snow day, but the joy is immeasurable!

As adults, we don’t get snow days. Our job, our paycheck, determines that we show up to work every day. We can’t indulge in the possibility that we can be stopped by those tiny frozen flakes. We are delayed, but not stopped. The sad truth of becoming an adult is that we lose our hope for snow days. Instead, we dread the never-ending onslaught of whiteness and the mess it creates in our routine; our cars are dirtied by road salt, driveways have to be cleared for our assault on the day, kids have to be shuttled to the day care. It becomes a hassle, a pain, an annoyance. At what age does our mindset shift? Is that the day we are officially adults? I’m glad that I don’t remember the day when I looked out the window and dreaded what I saw.

I wake to find the white deeper than had been expected. There are a few remaining flurries tickling the deep belly of snow on the lawn. The plows haven’t even graced our streets yet. The neighbor, an early soldier, readies his snow blowing weapon to battle the driveway. The kids’ alarms are singing them awake as I am heading to the coffee maker. I’m standing there sleepily watching the machine brew when the phone rings. I smile to myself knowingly. Snow day.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
Wait, I can'say that this verse is mine. That would be plagerizing. That would be wrong,unethical,immoral, maybe. But it was done to me. The SOB made a few dollars off of my rhetoric, too. This has caused me much bitterness and created a real writers cramp. Writers whatever. Writing is a passion of mine but this resentment lingers.

Childhood's End

It was 4:35 on Saturday afternoon,
"Dinner" Mom cried, "time to put away your toys!"
But someone had to get Dad 'cause he wasn't back yet from the gas
station,
So my sister Mary and I do the dirty work,
Mary because she can drive and me 'cause she doesn't want to go alone.
She is mad, feeling put upon
"Why do I have to do this shit?" she asks rhetorically,
she knows the answer - she can drive, mom cannot.
Mom needs to watch the supper, protect it, nurture it
keep it from catching cold, save it from burning.
Someone needs to be home in case HE comes back .
Mother must be that someone.
So we drive somewhere
maybe its the tavern
maybe its his girlfriend's apartment
maybe its the police station
Nowhere this ten year old wants to be.
Nowhere this ten year old hasn't been.
"How damn long does it take to get gas?" Another rhetorical question.
"I mean, hell, it's been four and a half hours. Does she really believe
it takes 4 and 1/2 hours to get gas." I don't answer.
I am hoping that he will have a story -
Something with spies and secret agents,
Something that cleans the ugly obvious,
Just like on TV.
I go alone
Into the bar
And I see him through the smoke, he laughs -
his place, his bar buddies, his other woman
(without a warning word, my perspective shatters)
And as I clear my head of childish illusions,
a new world appears
One in which,
I lead this middle aging drunk man out the door,
And I know it is time to put my toys away.

Frank Coughlin April 2006

one of my early poems

Alike, The Swan and I

A fluff of white on a grey winter day,
her virgin beauty stood out.
She floated gracefully by,
leaving a path of ripples
in the otherwise placid water.

Bands of geese and ducks,
Camoflauged in browns and greys,
disturbed the quiet
with their endless honks and quacks,
determining who would
rein master over the preserve.

Oblivious to this commotion,
the swan continued her quest,
meandering from east to west,
and then north to south.

No destination in mind,
just a meditative trek,
encompassing all areas.

Occasionally dipping her graceful neck
into the liquid mass below her,
to catch a morsel of food here or there
and then continuing on
her seemingly aimless trek.
No destination in mind,
no quest to overcome,
living in the moment.

I watched her and felt
a peacefulness pour over me.
Her movements hypnotized me
and I became the swan,
melting into the grey-blue liquid
as she had done,
my reflection merging, creating
a duality with
what lay below me.

Society, humanity,
the world,
like the ducks and geese,
loudly voicing their demands,
exerting power and control,
I, like the swan, need to
continue to stay true
to self and listen to
internal voice within
which yearns for peace and solitude.

Not worrying about what others think,
or my place in the pecking order,
but just floating, floating, floating
to my true self.