There is a mossy green field with a border of shade trees
and a pool of warm water at one side.
It holds me by the wrists
and swings me like a carnival ride
Arms outstretched, my cheeks flushed,
the verdant smell overpowers my equilibrium

And I am thrown like a light switch into darkness,
Now itchy and sandy, brushed up against rash making wool,
I must close, arms wrapped around my knees, dizzy,
hot-faced shoulders skin icy like frosted cake corners.
A dark stairwell, musty floors, dank basements and chromed poles.
A laugh and some awful remark.
Corroded happiness crumples just like rusted metal.

What is real? What makes a thing become real?
One, or two of us together?
Be careful before you say if perceived, something is real.
You’ll go mad trying to prove it.

So I never threw that rock? That was Opie.
I may never have crapped my ski pants,
or sung in front of so many or
killed a cat In mercy.

The cellar flooded. My toys were down there.
There was a sump pump, but they stunk forever.
Pushed into that water, I never got the smell off.

A cigar box with sew-on emblems and hardened rubber bands,
a picture stained with faded ink.

That is no treasure. Who calls that treasure?

And there you stand, silent and skinny –
Your empty eyes demanding,
“who must I be to make you love me?
what do I do to get you to love me,
To be held close, to smell the human warmth on your chest?”
It is hard to separate the scratchy smells and soft fresh sensations
from feeling unsafe.

We know we are rotten. You can’t get that smell out.
Vaguely like trampled grass and watery soil,
fragrant in its putridness, it doesn’t come out.
It’s alive or something,
it leaves a stain even bleach cannot remove.

So I hold you
back to me, blanket in between,
fetally wrapped around you
If they want you they have to get through me.
literally.
If they tap, ask, or force me, I will keep vigil over you.
You don’t have to be alerted. It is the best I can do

And we cling and we cling to each other,
until the mildew is overpowering.

Do you know what I will do to keep from thinking about this?
Look up thesaurus listings, spellings for words; I will write about
what I will do, just to keep from smelling that smell, down there on
the cellar floor.

The metal gave way and the screech scared the crap out of us.
Maybe we shouldn’t be here.
Someone is going to find us and we will be in trouble.

The flicker of this light died so quickly.

I have lost them - The heavy gauge train set, the green box
for the famous army man, the book of riddles:
“Why did Silly Willy open the refrigerator door?
To see if he could catch the salad dressing.”

There is no such thing as treasure.

Concussed backward by the shrieking of the metal,
I cannot feel anything behind my eyes.
And my eyes are bleeding.
Let the blood flow.

There is
No treasure.

This ride will have to be shut down for repairs.
Dizziness is suddenly scary.

This will touch the heart and spirit of many of us. But James, you have so loved that "smelly" little boy that he has the pure, fresh, wonderful smell of a very much treasured child.

You have done so well in giving us a vivid picture. Still, I think all the smells are gone, the bad ones. In becoming so much one with and so protective of the little Tyke, you have produced a real treasure in this wonderful poem. This is a keeper for me.

Thank you so very much for sharing this. You have a good manly scent--and the child is full of wonder.

Peace brother.

Bob

Thanks, Bob.

I think you are right; there is contradiciton in the poem. As I read it again and again I sometimes want to take that away.

But in bringing a voice to my experience, I have to include some things that are 'as they were,' combined with things as they are now.

And I am overdescribing.

Thank you for the very kind words.

I really want to be a writer. A published writer. An acknowledged, published...well you get it, right?

James

Yes I do James. Good for you. So do I...

Never give up that dream & desire.

Victor

Thanks Vic, I wish you the best.

James

You have the gift James. Most people could not write as you did. There is a saying that writers learn early--"show me, don't tell me." You showed us. We could experience what you were writting.

Write as often as you can James. A page here or there. Maybe on two or three things at a time.
The more you do it, the more you develop the way you want to write.

I have had a lot of things published. I am not a great writter--I have a book I feel should be published but I can't get a publisher to agree with me. So I keep working on it. (four years)! It may never get published, but I learn more about writting as I keep revising.

James, you ARE a published writter--you are published world wide. People all over the world can and do come here and look at things written here. You have accomplished your goal--now you can keep doing more and more of it.

Bob