Category Archives: Poetry

NSFW contains adult language, Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

I know these things

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I know the look of rejection. It is the back of my best friend’s head as he tells the laughing football team about what happened last night, when I trusted him just a bit too much, and said just a bit too much. It is the look in their eyes as they calculate their new advantage. Opportunities for street cred, for violence without consequence, for an option for when their girlfriend says “no.” It looks like “I would have been better off alone.”

I know the taste of a fist. It is of tractor grease and dust from the corncrib and mud from the hog lot. It tastes of the way I looked or something I said or something I didn’t need to say. It is the salt of my tears and the iron of my blood. It tastes of “I deserve it”.

I know the feeling of boot in my kidney. At least that’s where I think the kidney is. Maybe if I had been paying better attention during biology class. Maybe If most of the pages of the loaned textbook had not been stuck together with spits of chewing tobacco. Except for the parts about female reproductive anatomy, which were stuck together with something else. And whether you consent or not, that something else, you do not spit, or you feel a boot in your kidney. It feels like, “my first time should have been gentle.”

I know the smell of a party. It is tobacco and sweat and marijuana and alcohol. Whiskey on beer, never fear. It is the scent of a circle of men, with piercing eyes and curling fists. It is laughter and hatred and the inevitability of my blood. It makes me see my life flash fast forward from zero to zero. It smells of “why do I do this to myself?”

I know the feel of my name. On slurred lips and hops scented breath. The aerosol labiodental fricative, the aa, ee almost diphthong common to my hometown, the voiced velar plosive, the short i that is almost a Schwa, and the hard, liquid t, spit like he’s firing a nail gun at me. Faggit. Faggit is my name and it is a powerful name. And it makes me shake, deep inside. I will feel the power of using it as a weapon, too.

I know the sound of a threat. It comes in a deep voice that should be a big bear of a man, who would wrap me completely in his arms and tell me everything will be ok. Instead, it is an invitation to dance. “Come on boy. Just you and me. And my buddies. And my baseball bat. It’ll be the last dance of your life.” Every night, when the bars close, the phone rings and he repeats the invitation, and every night, I decline.

Until tonight.
“Bring it on, fucker. Let’s get this over with.”

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The Field Tender

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It is not the field you thought you’d tend.
The soil is hard to read,
and the harvest, hard to measure.
You’ve seen so many gardens end,
Leaving you in your need,
With only you left to treasure.

But this is the field that’s yours, today,
and constantly, it blooms.
With hearts you gently till.
You bring your trowel and you stay,
Until deeper soil subsumes
The weeds with loving skill.

You are an extraordinary gardener,
With a soul that finds its way
To that which needs you most.
You and the field become a partner,
In the sunlight of summer day
Or the dark eve of winter frost.

And from that love, we grow,
lift above the earth and spread
Our leaves, full and alive.
And this is a field you didn’t know,
Flowers for joy, grains for bread,
Where those who love you thrive.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Text log 9/20/2014 12:53am

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Me: hey Roomie, where’s the mop?
Roomie: why? What happened?
Me: there was an accident. Nothing serious.
Roomie: I think it’s in the closet across from the bathroom.
Me: I’ll look.
Roomie: wasn’t Rick coming over?
Me: yeah, well, that didn’t go so well.
Roomie: what? Did something happen?
Me: eh. He cheated on me
Roomie: that bitch!
Me: yeah. With Marcus.
Ronnie: fuck. That bastard? He’s evil. That is so low
Me: lol. Yeah. He is. Oh. Found the mop.
Roomie: did you guys break up? I hope so.
Me: oh yes. Hey, do we have any big garbage bags?

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Princesses

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Today at Disney, there are 1000 princesses, all of them magic. Not just magical, but magic. In pale blue and pink and green and chiffon and crinoline, with wands and crowns and glitter, and fairy wings, they are royalty.

They raise their arms and they are lifted onto shoulders so their feet float above the ground, and they can survey their kingdoms. They dance in front of the castle, and the smiles of subjects, with mouse ears and cameras, light their way with warmth and celebration. Ice cream and popcorn appear in their hands. Cartoon animals wave and smile and chatter at their beauty. And after the day, their father princes carry them, sleeping, in their arms and waken them with a kiss at home, just in time for bed.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Horizontal rain

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The horizontal rain whipped under my coat and I could begin to feel the cold damp spread across my pants. Even so, I needed a day in town. People were scurrying and scrambling to get inside, dashing from place to place, so I moved along with the crowd into the Macy’s, through the revolving door.

There were some things I wanted to look at there, anyway. When I stepped in, it was like hitting a wall, the way it smelled. All of the fragrances ganged up to assault my nose like bullies on the playground. It made my eyes water, and the tickle in my throat made me cough. I passed through the perfume section, and up the escalator to the bedding department. I had been deciding between two different mattresses, so I tried each one for its softness, depth, and the crispness of its sheets.

The sales lady came by and asked that I not lie on the sheets, because my clothes were so wet, and that I was supposed to take off my shoes before trying out the mattresses, anyway. I assured her I would come back on a better, drier day and she turned and went on to help another customer. She, too, smelled of a mix of perfumes, probably from her morning shift in the makeup section, and my eyes begin to water.

I went down to the cafeteria, to see what was on special. After looking over the menu, I decided it would be better to try someplace else, or maybe back to one of my tried and true places. I can see why department store cafeterias are a dying institution.

I went against the crowd, and back out into the horizontal rain, but this time I held my coat lower, so that the drenching of those splashes of ice water would be a little less embarrassing.

Three doors down was a tobacconist, I stepped inside and inhaled a lovely aroma of the cigars and the pipe tobacco and the mixes and blends from all over the world, with exotic names like Captain Black, Coastal Cruise and Arabian Light. I tried to find a blend that would suit me, not so much cherry, and a little more leather. They didn’t have quite the right one, but the second hand smoke gave me a good feeling. I shivered at the thought of going back into that storm, but I’d have to come back when they get a new shipment.

I ended up going back to my regular place for dinner. The line was long, but the chili special was very good, but a bit too spicy, so I politely mentioned it to the server. It went very well with the new bread they offered on the side.

I window shopped for another hour, staying under awnings and dashing into doorways, where possible, but it was still bitter cold. As the evening wore on, I went back to take a nap.

I had just fallen asleep, when I felt the nudge against my leg. I was feeling finally warm and couldn’t seem to fully waken, but the officer kicked at me again. “You can’t sleep on the grate, go find someplace else.”

The wind tore at my coat, bit at my pants and soaked my blanket as I walked to find a sheltered spot under the 23rd street overpass. It was a long walk, in the horizontal rain.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Autumn woods, a meditation

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I took a hike up in the woods, to name the trees and plants.
The falling leaves, the autumn chill and golden sun entranced.
I traced a path, through brush and vine, along the mountain’s edge
The sumac and the maple trees cast red hues on the ledge.
Again, today, I’m ambling deep among the trees and stream.
The colors here are gentle soft, like memory of a dream.
I sit upon a fallen tree and taste the mossy scent,
And watch the light that dances on the golden leaves’ descent.
Every time I get a chance, I’ll do this walk again,
And share time with the breezy chorus of nature’s perfect Zen.
The feel of autumn’s cooling air, and earthy mists descending,
The scent of leaves and needles make a special magic, lending
A feeling of great comfort as the woods wind down with me.
They love enough to share my mood, in soft camaraderie.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The Tie

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He was folding the thin end of the gold and auburn, autumn themed silk tie over the wider end, just above the second button. The collar button was still open, because his neck had grown slightly larger than the shirt would comfortably allow. He was excited about the dinner engagement, tonight. Maybe, it’s a little early to dip his toe back in the romantic waters, but somehow he felt ready.

Ever since Chuck had left three weeks ago, he felt the sense of elation and freedom. Though they had been together for four years, the flames had turned to embers, and the embers turned to ash. By the time the decision was made, it was clear to both that things between them had been over for a long time. The surprise to him was that Chuck called it first.

Now, he felt like a kid again. All those things he wanted to do, but felt responsible to stay home with Chuck instead, were now available to him. Shows he wanted to see, men he wanted to date, men he wanted to fuck, all out there, and now, so was he.

Tonight’s dinner with Alex, was a bit of a surprise too. They met in line at the local burger slam, both with a bit of shame for even being there, and they shared a meal of burgers and fries, giggling helplessly, telling childhood fart jokes and stories of crazy relatives.

They agreed to do dinner together, as a kind of dress-up special night. It was something neither had done in years. “Suit and tie,” Alex had said, “Bring on the good stuff.” He actually wasn’t sure where they were going, but his excitement made his fingers shake a little.

As he restarted the knot for the third time, he thought about dates like tonight and some of the guys he’d met online, that he hoped to get together with. Amazingly some very hot men lived not very far from him. He realized how much the closeness of his close dependence on Chuck blinded him to the beauty of the world around, and now, it was his to savor.

He looked in the mirror expecting to be proud and ready to face this world of many wonders, but still, the knot was crooked. The excited shaking in his hands became a tremor.

“But, who will tie my tie?”

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Words tripping

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The words came tripping, tumbling, rolling over each other pushing their way out, trying to be first, but each one just came behind the next, until they were all mixed up, almost backwards. They came in flows of syllables and bitterness and tears and whines and loneliness and hiccuping breaths and ‘I’m sorries’ and snot. They emptied themselves like a bad fish dinner, spilling out over the phone and leaving their malodorous mark on the countertop and floor.

I don’t know what they’re saying or what they’re doing but I’m crying and trying to keep them under control as they spill, and tumble, and vault and stab.. And then, once completely purged, there is nothing but a silence that I don’t know how to handle.

I was certain he’d hung up on me, and that this tirade was for naught, other than perhaps to vent my spleen, but that would not move me forward at all. The obvious next step would be to say “hello?” But that itself felt like a form of defeat, like I was expecting him to be gone, to be overwhelmed with my weirdness and sadness and inability to cope and he would be unclear where it all came from. The silence ticked on for a few more moments, and then I heard him say, “I’m sorry.”

My hands were shaking enough that the phone rattled on my ear, but I still heard the words loud and strong and comforting. I was reunited. I was reunited with the fact that I love this man, and that my angst was just a symptom of how close we are and how distant we are and how much I feared the space between us, and because of how much I depend on him, and how easy it is, sometimes, for small hurts to become big walls.

And those two words were him coming back to my rescue, once again, offering me a way out from that stupid place that I keep going and staying. Again, he was right there where he’s needed.

My words, having had their say, became still in my mouth and in my head.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

An Ode to My Other Companion

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You, bitter trinity, long I have wed.
Our courtship started early in my years.
Your whispers, claiming you are truth, have led
Me to make you the author of my tears.

Dear Darkness, Sadness, Worry, as one you carve
The mortise to my tenon, joining me
Into your lifelong, seamless structure, fast.
That we are joined, not one, is hard to see,
With subtle signs that only few observe.
The love around us, silently, you starve,
Ensuring my fidelity will last.

Cruel Darkness, you faithless, possessive love,
Abandoning your consort to the light,
Then, jealously, you count the cost thereof,
To take your ounce of flesh in bitter spite.

You, alone, can change the world. Your power,
To refine the greatest brightness into dross.
The shining hills, the taste of apricot,
The lilting song, the lace of morning frost,
The magic kiss of love, the dew crowned flower,
the Sun Itself of marvelous strength, all cower.
With murky veil, you dim the shining lot.

Cold Worry, how your countenance comes forth,
Appearing with the first shade of a doubt.
Your vap’rous chill, descended from the north,
Instills penetrating fear throughout.

The future, only mist, you make a ghost,
That haunts tomorrow’s doorway with a dread,
And tells me, “through this threshold is despair.”
You, thief of night who chains me to my bed,
Do tear the gentle respite from its host.
To sleep, I sign a contract made for Faust,
With this aching soul, the bargain seems quite fair.

Sadness, you strum the lyre inside my breast.
The pitch is harsh, with dissonant refrain.
The clamorous noise, an overstayed guest,
That sings to me my failures, losses, pain.

You steal the day, and take me to a place
Regret becomes the main fare of this blight,
Seasoned through with bitter herbs of grief.
Your artist’s hand sculpts darkest moments bright,
Mistakes and wrongs once just a feeble trace,
Now chiseled deep into my fragile grace.
I never can make those trespasses right.

And so, great Trinity, you part of me,
Our intimacy is my greatest shame.
Though I cannot imagine being free,
The emptiness in me Is not your blame.

As with others of your wretched kind,
You dance eccentric waltzes with my heart.
I lately tasted of your apogee,
With your retreat to cold and distant parts.
Days of warming hope, redefined,
Stitched with fragile threads into my mind.
But then, you bound me with your gravity.