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.

sincerely,

michael schenk

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.

POEM MARATHON!!!!!!!!

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.)

Wilderness

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."

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?

Christmas Cheer

To offset the darkness of the last poem and to bring in the holidays with a big HOORAY!!! I present you with a Christmas time poem in the form of a letter titled, "Dear Santa."

Dear Santa

I have been a very, very good boy this year and I teased my little sister only a teeny bit. Somebody at school said that you weren't real and I called him a grumpy old man. I believe in you. I believe in you with all my heart because if I don't, then what else is there to believe in? God? Because that story seems to be made of magic too.

Well Santa, I hope I am on your good list because I don't want to disappoint you. The excitement of walking down the stairs to see a heap of presents under the glow of the tree can't be described in like images because it is what everything else is compared to. If only one of those boxes held a Lego set, the open possibility of anything that I can Imagine. A world that I can sink into and forget that it is my fingers that make their arms and legs move. Or maybe a toy gun so I can protect my family and the world across. BANG BANG! The hero is me! Or a bucket of army men that I can lead to the victory of everything good. Oh oh, it could be a ball glove and Dad can teach me how to play pastimes. But most of all now as a grown man, I'd love to be as excited about these toys or anything as I was back then. 

P.S. Cookies and milk will be waiting for you.

Michael Schenk

Brand New inspired

"The Archers Bows Are Broken" by Brand New inspired this poem. It's darker than the other poems I have been posting, but I don't think Brand new has ever written a happy song.

Hysterical grins and gurgled cackles

I tried to imitate humor rather

than horror because the mess is less

and nobody will start to worry.

This is funny, isn't it? 

A scalding wreckage of a 

lacerated body, unsettled and loose, 

like a cannon off its hinges,

careless of the firing commands. 

The wild man performing for everyone. 

A joke of a person, void of 

ambitions or stipulations

worthy to earn respect.

I danced on the bridge,

hat on the ground, begging 

only for a compliment or a friend. 

As I twirled and twisted, kicking piles 

of gravel rhythmically, believing that 

the pebbles sang, "You can only blame yourself."

and I agreed.

So I pinched my head long enough

and I hit my brain hard enough,

to cause a reaction,

to catalyze a movement

within myself to make a new disease. 

Something fierce enough,

something strong enough

I'd have to invent a new attack.

And in the hopes of a formula

I'd work a solution, into a being felt fit

to garner something more than a blink.

My mindest

*This is one from the bunch of poems i wrote for my creative poetry writing class during my last spring quarter in Athens. Wow, that is weird to say. And fuck, do I miss that place like crazy! I went back there a couple weekends ago to camp and completely surprised Mattias. The entire town still felt like a home to me. So in commemoration of the first place i found and turned into a home, here is a vintage Schenk poem.*

Grown-ups Not Allowed

I live in a nameless town that only wandering

children could find, only they could imagine it.

I was born twenty-two years ago and

a number six candle will illuminate

my next fifty birthday cakes.

A town where excitement worked as oxygen,

inhaling as we marched, zigzagging

through the trees and jousting sticks

upward with the rhythm of our song.

We folded pirate hats out of newspaper

and a cardboard box morphed 

into a ship before our eyes.

This ship let us triumph over rotting cold

and we floated past growing old.

Adventure roared and soared until

the day we found contentment.

The jubilee filled us like hot air balloons 

taking us around the world.

We exhaled our way to the ground, 

resting our bones that traveled the earth

and our eyes that still magically sparked. 

The dimming of our fire was prevented 

by the skipping of adulthood,

the dullness of over investing responsibility.

Instead we grew from children to elders,

basking in a life well lived. 

Hopefully some of my old Athens friends will read and remember back to the magical place that we were a part of, created, and enjoyed. I fucking miss all of you a ton. And as I said to you many times before, so long.