Junior Blues E-Book

Joseph B. Raimond III

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 25

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

In this gloomy little book containing 23 poems, Joseph B. Raimond attempts to sort through the emotional confusion resulting from the recent death of his father.

Leseprobe

MIRRAN THOUGHT

Written in Fürth, Germany in 2016, except “Junior Blues” written in Fürth, Germany, Gardone Riviera, Italy and San Diego, California. “Atlanta Ground” was written in Atlanta, Georgia. “Not From You” was written in Paris. “Turtle Blurter” was written in Barcelona.

As always, in loving memory of Frank Abendroth and Tom Murphy.

For Conny, my perfect angel

Dedicated to Joseph Raimond Jr.

Cover art by Joseph B. Raimond “Claustrophobia” watercolor and ink on paper, 2016 Fürth

This is DWM release Nr. 143

Table of Contents

Junior Blues

Back Seat

Joseph & Mary

Fairborn, Ohio

Belts

Red Taillights

Like Mother, Like Son

Broken Heartless

Two Strikes, You’re Out!

US Airforce. Vietnam.

Not From You

I Imagined

Poor Glasses

Pine Valley

My Valley Of The Lost

Butcher

(When I) Dream Of You

I Hope

Tortoise Whisperer

Turtle Blurter

Twisting At The Family Ball

Atlanta Ground

(A worthy) Epitaph

Junior Blues

Please forgive me,

This probably vain attempt

For a few brief moments of immortality

As you lie on your deathbed, I think

Of you

Happy not to have to see

How age and regret, ravaged your life

Up to these last minutes, as you drift away

Happy for you, that you are not in pain

Happy for you, that you got that right

If not much else

You know how I am, better than anyone

Not to want to see the so-called progress

Of modern, medical technology

I am your son, after all

It doesn’t matter what road one takes

The destination is always the same

Some of us just arrive earlier than others

Some of us are given an easy road

Some of us take the long, hard road

You chose the road called sadness

Distance and other people’s routine

Ruin the best intentions

Not that your intentions were ever all that good

And the mighty dollar,

America’s one true god

The one you really pledged your allegiance to

Well, where is it now, when you need me?

Who am I kidding?

You never needed me

If creative is creation, does that make me a god?

For only when I create do I feel immortal,

But still, like any of this could ever mean anything

To anyone

It didn’t mean that much to you

And you certainly

Would never have read this book

Is this divine enough for you?

Weren’t we always really speaking

The very same language?

But at least I’m not addicted to my own sorrow

But at least I know the meaning of passion

Like a word from another planet

I don’t think you ever felt what the word means

Can a person be passionate about regret?

If so, you were the champion

But could not color nor form

A well placed word

Or an inspiring melody

Not plant a small seed of passion?

Not in your soul, ever

Or were your thoughts

So full of regret and remorse

So grey with indifference