The Collected Poems of Timothy Maloney
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My uncle was a man who was wounded to death
and died.
My uncle was a cat who worked with dogs
And drank.
My uncle was a handy man who made all the right twists
But one.
He died in a time when laughing is so much like crying;
And cats purr before dying.
The soul in his own select society,
Making no waves, wound down, alone,
With mixed tears to his day of days.
His sister was there though
With her hands to his forehead.
At the last, unknowing breath goodbye.
Ten times gone, he passed from his pain
To slip into the sad, uncertain sleep
Of two, steady, blue, unfixed eyes forever.
It was the final end of his alcohol.
It is goodbye to his dogs; his crickets;
His loud ticking clock; his log cabin syrup;
And Charlie the cat.
Ruthie's gone,
And he's been by the road's side
A too long time wanting
Might as well
Say goodbye.
My wonderful Uncle Arnold,
Goodbye.
She is walking out of the West
out of the wind,
off the prairie,
tough and soft,
short and big,
Walking, walking, walking.
It is cold and hot.
First she is a young girl.
Then she is a woman.
Her eyes are blue.
Her face is wrinkling.
She is laughing.
She is saying your name.
And you are never forgetting it.
The land is flat at first.
Then it is taller than all of us.
It spins under her.
She is walking west
to cool her tiny feet in the ocean.
She is walking through piles of leaves,
smelling the smoke, the hay.
December is whistling around.
The sun is burning down the pine trees
The ground is frozen.
It is August.
The moon is full.
She is walking west through us.
She is looking her blue eyes away.
She smells fresh like good news.
Her voice is twangy,
as flat as old books.
"October's bright blue beauty,"
she says and finally
She is walking to the ocean.
She is leaving us here,
We will always be missing her
The radio sings a different song
The road is the same
but nothing else is
I remember this rough and graceful girl
She had shoulders like a colt walks
The radio song sings
"this is the greatest love
the world has ever known"
The road slips aways
Only it doesn't change
Like a child's dream, my old school burned down.
Still, it is always there, though.
Instead of having carpets, it is hard and funny and smelled like crayons
It contained my first, best friends.
There were fifty-three of us in one room.
The sun flooded through the window on a girl with long. dark-brown hair.
She was so pretty, her red highlights sparkling, that, of course,
I never spoke to her, but I loved her from the safety of my clunky, oak desk
It had us little Catholics, our old school did.
Our teachers taught us there.
Dick and Jane and Sally.
"Look, look, " at those nuns honking at us like big geese,
glaring though their wireless rims all the way down their long noses.
They didn't mind smacking you or being your tender mother, either.
Sisters Mary Margaret Mothers of the Fear.
I read BOX CAR CHILDREN, lost it for about six weeks,
found it at the bottom of our sock drawer,
went out to recess, fought, got a "U" in penmanship.
There was never enough snow and too much rain,
painful music, fat pencils and blue air.
My perfect sister carried home notes about me
pinned to her white blouse, and we made our teacher cry.
I saw her in the hall, Sister Marian.
I was coming back from the bathroom.
She was young and fresh, ringless,
and didn't have all her feathers yet.
We said bad words and were naughtier than you'll ever be.
Still, the school was ours,
just as your school belongs only to you.
And now I am the teacher,
staring down my own long nose,
looking through my fading eyes at you,
standing before the kaleidoscope
loveliness of your eyes
You are for me such mingled hope and
beauty, not unlike the blossoms on
this tree we are planting,
it is not hard to abandon my messy desk
anymore
and just love you.
Next to Sacajawea, I am a poor guide.
Entirely too forgetful, I am always
losing things, you know.
and mangling your names. Sorry Ryan, Ayron, Mrs. Mackenzie.
But, like Sacajawea, I hope to lead you
down the emptied corridors of my old school,
through the noisy hallways of your own time,
over the numbers and through the letters,
away from the crayons
to cross the wide Missouri of our dreams
over into the brightness of your tomorrow.
You were named Phoebe
from an old, unfinished poem called "Blue Phoebe,"
also, more innocuously, Elaine,
in case you turned out to be one.
In that first year you often woke us
from the crib in your tiny room
fashionably late like sunshine
till I picked you up and held you to me
as your baby eyes blinked off and on
like two, blue Christmas lights
while the heft and flannel-warmth of you
was holding me, too.
That supple, startling strength,
all drawn up, Sweet Pea-like,
a cloth package on a string
laughing in the morning
was our first, best joy.
You stopped sucking your thumb
and cast aside your blanket
on your third birthday.
You quit cold turkey.
Remarkably, it was just a decision to you.
And, at six, you dropped Elaine for Josephine,
just like that, too,
keeping, however, the more unfinished Phoebe.
You are still mostly named after a poem,
though you are constantly naming your own self.
I can't help but notice.
All pets die and eventually everyone has to leave.
First Fuschia (you probably don't remember)
then Najinski, Groucho and finally, Max.
When Woodstock died, you said,
"First you left.
Now Woodstock is dead.
Soon Phoebe will go away to college.
Pat will live in the East.
Then Mom will die,
and nothing will ever be the same."
You were right of course,
and soon you will find Gilbert and Sullivan
out under the apple trees.
But, in the midst of all this, Em,
I will buy you a large, green parrot
with a 100 year wing span.
I will teach him to bite
and foul your new house
and talk so inappropriately at parties
that when I die or fly off again
you will always have me.
I wish someone would give me a big, black crow
with bright yellow feet
I would teach him to talk and talk, just like me.
I'd call him Bob or maybe, Tyrone.
He'd never see the inside of any cage,
and he's sleep where he dropped, too.
We'd have a nice home together, full of loud farts,
no wife and no call waiting, either.
I would teach him to sing while I played the guitar.
His voice would be mine, of course,
and, like a friendly tape recorder,
he would have to remember the words,
freeing my addled brain from having to think,
releasing my heart to soar, still,
causing me some calmness, hopefully,
resulting in a nicer person, possibly.
Who knows?
I just wish someone would give me a big black crow
with bright yellow feet
While you were fretting away
eventually losing your job in Parsippany
and only after I had finally found it
did I walk me across the Brooklyn Bridge
aimless and excited till
the el shot us out to Coney Island
pausing once and only
over the astonishing bone-whiteness
of an enormous Jewish cemetery.
Pretty soon I stood on the earth's edge
and my soul was given a clean jerk east
while my heart pumped blood
brightly through my eyes
and snapped a photograph
of this odd summer's moment
even as the shimmering heat of the sand
was giving rise to us all
It was October out
That wonderful month of dying and death
where leaves fall from habit
at the insistence of a gentle rain
that increased to a downpour
I never wanted it to end
It did though
I died
They buried me in a pumpkin patch
with a few simple words
they pulled the farm over me.
Everybody got a Baby Ruth
(It was in my will.)
An old friend peed on his feet
Another told a joke about an ant
and they threw all my work away.
Everyone left refreshed
especially the bride, my wife,
who married the wind
and flew down the years.
So you too.
Destroy those sad pictures
what bring out those tears.
Give away your daughter.
Re-marry your wife.
Write your mom.
Drink deep
before your years fleet.
When you are sad and lonely,
allow your hands to twin,
feel the pulse reassure you.
Rise up through the stars
over the East and our Northwest,
all the talk, too, even this.
Always remember that we are always for you,
as if our schools are spitting us out
just to show you
you have the perfect looks and feel.
You always did, you always will.
And, though we might bruise you
or make you bleed,
you will always be whole again,
Louise.
How a New Fence is Like a Chicken
Still you lie, Frances Ford, relict of Gabriel
having gone in October, 1852, Episcopal-to-the-day,
even after the only electricity you folks knew
flashed across his face while you warmed his flesh,
as the moist thunder rolled again
across the green hills of New Jersey,
investing your heart into your home
each instant advancing your death,
till you were carried and buried here
"Sacred to Your Memory."
For all of us who have had or have one,
it is painful (but not too hard) to see your home today,
faithlessly holding to the confusion of yet-another family,
all the broken dreams, the abandonment,
even the apple trees, which is to say,
the scattered and eventual wearing away of everything.
All the more assuring then, is the brightness of a new fence
so much like sunshine on fresh linen
or the surprising flutter of a white chicken,
pecking around the New World, in front of your red brick house,
once and forever, in Morristown, New Jersey.
Tonight the moon is at perfect zero,
piercing through the trees, puffs of clouds,
our occupations, the smoke of us.
Tom is gone, and the moon is oblivious.
Even Easter doesn't care.
His passing puts my heart at absolute zero, too.
Inside my house I am torturing myself over
the loss of him, his awkwardness, his smile,
his hair.
The pain is stronger than the pull of this new moonshine,
even as I am letting go the best way I can.
It astonishes me, this star shine and cold blooded midnight,
illuminating the faces of stupid, dumb-ox everybody,
also, the incredible, mechanical misunderstandings
bouncing back into star-lit infinity
A man was here.
he was full of warm blood and liked to laugh.
It was his body that died,
although, like Jesus Christ,
it was and wasn't his choice, really.
He fixed my sink and drove me through the darkness.
I will always love him for that.
The beautiful Chinese boy has tears in his eyes
to see his father leave, but his dad strokes his fine, black hair,
as if to say, "I shall never leave you, my son."
I see this happen in the San Francisco airport
after playing cards in Lake Tahoe for two days straight
then driving past Berkeley, my home, totally sensitized, humiliated, really
I end up in front of the SF bus station,
while all the colors dance around me,
and I am quite certain someone is going to kill me.
It is only after this that I see this young child and his father.
I have been such a shaky dad, it strikes me hard.
When I finally arrive in Maui, there is a large tree
that grows through the ceiling of the Kahului Airport.
It is out of that hole, past the perpetually chattering birds,
up through the warm and blue, Hawaiian sky,
I lift my wooden heart
On the Wrong Side of the Mountain
Red beyond the scattered smell of us
the sky bleeds blue into Mt. Hood
The road winds so steeply your heart just drops
as you roller-coaster through the fading light
Drifting east, ingenuous. motionless and windswept,
the earth slips out from under you.
Here is where you died but I didn't,
so my heart is always breaking
down this strange distance your absence is,
my brother.
The home movie flickers with the last flashes of you.
A still photograph captures you in black and white
at Ft. Lewis in 1966 where the snow is forever falling
across your handsome face
It is bright blue enough outside today to take your breath
away, and the acacia tree in front of the house is an
astonishing burst of yellow.
It is also equally obvious that we are often breaking down into
laughter and hopefulness without you, the family is, and
everyone we know must feel this.
Still, it's a mess we're in you're out of.
It is our only life and ours to endure.
Which makes me love you more.
My blood, my flesh,
My aching absence,
My brother.
When exhaustion conquers desire
and anxiety drives you down
into your bed, devoid of sleep,
where green is no longer anything
but a color unlike others.
Realize, when you can,
you are a part of the brotherhood,
nurtured and wounded by women.
One day it will lift,
leaving you a shaky, newborn, toastmaster,
free to croak out your infant thoughts,
finally letting go of at least what you can,
remembering at last, but first.
Something is always better than nothing,
Mark.
They say it takes seven years
for the body to fully regenerate.
So three changes later
you bring your new bones back to me,
warm flesh and a child.
Thank God your eyes are still brown.
I love your brains.
While sleeping on a bench due to exhaustion,
because they had closed the beach for repairs,
in full view of me,
you slept.
The slackness of your face unmade, did drool.
The sound of the sea and the soft warmth of your skin,
dream worries, the pull of the moon,
a little unraveled sleep, like the roll of the ocean.
I love you.
I do not love you.
I love you.
I do not love you.
I
Never marry an Irish girl, Pat.
It's to let it go, we must, me boy.
Find someone French or Native American
to mix your blood and hopes and fall through the stars for.
Choose no Maureen, Colleen nor Margaret.
Love your mom, my only son,
but follow the coastline south
and look to sunnier skies,
search the warmer, brown-eyed seas.
Not even all of us is Irish.
Split in half, I am.
Watered-down whisky, we are.
Born too blue, still our breath is green.
Our blood is muscadine.
Do not marry an Irish girl.
She might wrinkle wrong.
Then woe it is to all of you,
for, in the black pot of her heart,
you will be cooked.
Do not marry an Irish girl, Patrick,
unless, of course, you do.
Among the animals it is
only us who love and get to live
so long and hard to see
there is no hope
So, there is no hope
they are saying,
between time
after shadow
the cool wind
over mountains cold
cayote-lonely
in the inland-outland
wind-blown air
somewhere between
sadness and anxiety
each moment
masquerading
as one more moment
Then, finally, well after loss,
astoundingly, there is there then
this gentle sound down
rain to soothe the sores
dark drops across the grass
and face to fill the veins
and chase the pain
east again
How silly to say there is no hope.
The home movie reflects
the flash that once was you
to reinforce that nothing
can kill you,
my brother.
All the priests we've known are dead
including the one who buried you.
Neither they nor anyone else
have worked any magic,
and I miss you exactly like always,
my brother.
Outside my window
the acacia trees are bright yellow
like snow against the blue sky,
and we have some great times here,
my brother.
Still it is cold without you.
It's a mess we're in you're out of.
Yet it offers some respite,
this love I send you does
down this strange distance
your absence is,
my brother.
When the time comes, there is no choice to be born.
Then it's time for talcum powder
Time for mama
Time to lie in fresh sheets in your own little bed
Time for your first teetering step
Time to fall down
Time for your first word
Time for big fat pencils
Time for your first communion
Time for cream o'wheat
Time for warm winds and cherries
Time for frozen east winds and the new moon
Time to be an angel in a play
Time for a real angel to come to you in the night
Time for some baseball
Time to be kicked by a horse
Time for your dad to rescue you
Time to meet Iona
Time for the first time
Time to say I do
Time to say I don't
Time to have your own baby
Time to say "oofta"
Time to hang the sheets
Time to hang your head
Time to cross the country
Time to see the mountain for the first time
Time to feed the dog
Time to bury the dog
Time to be in the dog house
Time for the hair of the dog
Time to go to work
Time out
Timex
Times tables
Time to throw a tantrum
Time for a good crack
Time to see the stars
Time to trim the Christmas tree
Time to trim 1000 trees
Time to clean the gutters
Time to pluck the grass
Time to paint the house
Time to be folksy
Time to be foxy
Time to comb your beautiful hair
Time for Corlis Archer
Time for the radio rosary
Time to pick beans
Time to go to the beach
Time for the 50s
Time for the 60s
Time for tranquilizers
Time to lose a son
Time to lose a daughter
Time to gain some grandchildren
Time is a river
Time is a jet plane
Time after time
Time to retire
Time for a walk
Time to talk
Time for some smokes
Time to wind down
Time to be hung out with the sheets
Time to be old
Time again for talcum powder
Time for you last shaky step
But never another time to fall again
Rather only the time to lie down finally
In your own skin
In your own bed
In your own time
And sail off in fresh, clean sheets full of sunshine
To where forever is