Monday, January 31, 2011

Grandpa poems (part 3 of 3)

don't pour sprinkles and a cherry on the cats, grandpa

he was leaning against our sink,
spiraling down the drain.
four years of washing memories
down like milk after dessert,
only to forget what the pie tasted like
or that he ever ate. 

he never understood what alzheimer's was.

"would those make good ice cream?"
he asked, pointing at our cats.

"what do you think these are?"
my dad questioned, worried.

"hah," he chuckled, and i didn't know
if he thought it was funny or confusing.

"grandpa, these are cats.... not ice cream."

my dad and i stared at him, searching
for the slightest sign that he was in there.
but there was nothing, so we laughed
to hide the fact that he was gone. 

Grandpa poems (part 2 of 3)


all i could see was trinkets and knickknacks.
to the side was my grandpa's casket and all 
i could see were those damn collectibles.
the funeral home was cluttered with an assortment of antique memorabilia, things like an old unfunctional
sewing machine and 1950s tin coca-cola signs.
and porcelain dolls that never stopped staring
at me from across the room.
it's all i saw, all i loathed.
i was numb to everything else, except 
a burning rage towards those absolutely
worthless trinkets.

and the chairs we sat in.
metal cushioned and upholstered, 
but merely subtracting the coldness
that can be quite pleasant 
to a sweaty palm.   

Grandpa poems (part 1 of 3)

dear god,

i used to know you and him
until the alzheimer's hit.

you made him forget 
me as his grandson

and see his son as 
a friendly stranger visiting

the nursing home filled with 
passive zombies, void

of the love you promised.
the possibility of you and 

his disease coexisting, let alone
the rest of the world's suffereing

was illogical and insulting to 
anything good. and i was 

supposed to praise you, the thief 
of seventy one years of memory?

believers of you go to heaven to live in
peace. those who don't are fucked.

this is essentially what i was taught 
in twelve years of catholic schooling.

my grandpa believed in you and your 
son, going to your house every sunday. 

he loved our family dearly and was a good
honest man. from these criteria he should

have been on his way to heaven.
the problem is that he forgot who i was.

he forgot that he had been married
and who his children were.

who is to say that he remembered,
much less, believed in you?

throughout his last year he lost almost
all of his memory. by the end there weren't 

any signs to show even a hint.
a belief in god most likely escaped him.

by what i was taught, by these criteria, 
my grandpa was fucked.

goodbye god.
i forgot you.

michael schenk

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Beware of the nightclub and its touchy, feely, grabbin and groppin hands

Part 2 of Poem Marathon. This one is the poem version of part of a short story I was writing. I found that I'm much better at poems because they are closer to writing songs. The inspiration came from going to a club in South Carolina and sitting on the edge of the room disgusted by the entire scene.

The Character

The rainbow array of lights seizured around the ceiling.
Bodies magnetized
by sweat and spiced cologne
gyrated around traps of sticky puddles that
splashed from the rims of mixed drinks.
Hips and hands did all the moving, they did all the talking.
Gazes were driven by the prospect of sex and

body language preoccupied their limbs, making them forget to tread.
No limbs circling or scissor kicking to stay afloat.

He used to be a charmer, conjuring spells and
weaving fabrications to make girls believe in him.
Living an alias for a single night, killing
off the character that she fell in love with.
Josh, Ryan, Nick, Steve, and Greg all disappeared
at the climax of their story. He had become a
hunter with a smile, mounting trophies on his bedpost
instead of the wall.

Living as Ben tonight, molded with a girl, working his
incantations on her drunken ears. He summoned her name
and she said Roselyn, his Grandmother's name.
The charm vanished as those pewter eyes pierced the roof
from the clouds. His ancient example of a woman
and why to respect them. Her regard, her care,
her unconditional love now had conditions.

His knees cracked the ground, palms compressing his brain,
fingers snagging his hair, and the gyrating mass opened up,
leaving him with the only private place in the building.
A foot and a half radius of space between him and the mob of sex
was a separate universe catalyzing an instantaneous evolution.

He dug a deep rectangle into his brain, kicking the monster into the grave,
but before he filled the dirt he raised the shovel into the air with both hands.
Muscles and gravity drove the metal tip into its throat.
Two inches of neck were gone and the shovel was removed.
Another strike and three more inches ere torn.
Two more gone, three more gone, and only four inches of skin
and vertebrae and veins held the head to the monster.
The shovel raised towards the sky and met with the ground,
passing through the last four inches of his past.


IM GONNA POST A SHIT TON OF POEMSSSSS CAUSE IM MENTALLY HYPER RIGHT NOW!!!! JAAARRRHOOOOOOO! This one is inspired by the movie Into The Wild (#2 on my all time favorites list.)


Sitting silently still,
mistaken for apathy, yet
content as if it saw an
unshakable proof for God.
Like birds that have
whispered with the wind,
conversed with the sky.
A soft slumber spot and
food for worms, who may say
to each other, "We never
wrote a symphony, but
we didn't hurt a soul."

Friday, January 7, 2011

After 9 years of playing guitar I have finally decided to start singing. I am about 2 months into it and I feel like I am getting better. And it is SO much fun. Tell me what you think. Pwetty Pwease with a cherry on top?