Reading and Making 'Metaphor Poems' by Simile & Rhyme
The plan for these In Vitro readings is not topical, as with 21st Century Bread, but sequential, read in the order they appear in in the book. (Just page down to find the most recent reading.) That way the reader who wishes to get a sense of the architecture of the book will see it emerge as he or she goes along. (See the web page "IV Synopsis" for an immediate overview of this.) Those interested in 'metaphor poems' will find examples in most of the pieces read in this video series. The book opens on some scenes of childhood:
Video Readings from In Vitro, Section I: Reprise -- Weighing in With Papa
Prologue: Looking Glass
For S.J.E., “Big Sis.”
When I’d say something that would really irk
you, you’d come back, “And brats that live in glass
houses should not throw stones.” Your quirky smirk,
your one arched eyebrow — who could let them pass?
I’d find a way to up the ante, hit
you on the arm to raise a lump, perhaps.
“Ow . . .” you’d howl. Mother would, lickety-split,
confine me to my room and bottle caps . . . .
Yes, you were right. Can’t count all my glass houses.
The stuff of glass is silica, and it,
ninety five parts to five, is what arouses
to life all human cell walls — keeps them fit . . . .
But seeing all that’s in my glassy hide
requires the Inner Eye look deep inside.
Fetching Hot Water
Grandfather Mountain, North Carolina.
Early autumn.
“You old enough to fetch hot water?”
Eager, I ran up to the lodge
and asked for help from Mr. Cotter.
He filled my basin. “Bon Voyage!”
I slopped hot steaming water out
most every pebbly step until
Dad met me at the door. “Good scout!
Well done! And thanks. This fills the bill . . . .”
He rinsed his razor, splashed the soap
off of his face, and smiled at me.
“Thanks lots! You’ve learned another rope.
Let’s warm up in the lodge, shall we?”
There, backsides to the fire, toasting,
grown men told tales that Dad called “boasting.”
Love Seat
Coral Gables, Florida. Early spring.
When Dad came home with his new “operation”
I begged and begged to see his brand new scar . . . .
Fed up, I guess, with my one conversation
he hiked his P-J top. A handlebar
wide as my trike’s! I almost upchucked lunch.
It knifed along his belt-line, thin and pink,
and crossed the up-down scar: A one-two punch!
No wonder he still lay there — on the blink.
Mother insisted, since his tummy ached,
I could not lounge beside his long warm thigh
’cause when I did, the bed just quaked and quaked.
I first must learn to be a quiet guy.
That I could practice by myself, alone
on her slick “love seat” — slick and cold as stone.
“Real soon you’ll learn enough that you can read
all by yourself,” Dad said, “and find it fun.”
He seemed to want to get me “up to speed”
in reading well before “the day is done.”
Day is done? That was three whole weeks ago.
Since Dad came home with his new scar, he’d said
a lot of things that had an undertow
like rising surf all drip-sand castles dread . . . .
“Strong readers benefit at every turn,”
he said. “Your skills and knowledge both will zoom.”
So keen was his desire for me to learn
to read — free of stumbles — it filled the room.
“Dad, Mother’s love seat is so slick and cold.
My fanny slips and slides. I can’t grab hold.”
“Aye, aye,” he said. “Come round, my little guy,
and fetch a pillow, over there, for you.
And bring your Mother Goose so we can fly
imagination’s wings, and see the view.
Just watch your elbow. I don’t need a jab . . . .
See well enough? Let’s swing the headboard light . . . .
Do you feel ready? Want to take a stab
and read to me? No? Okay. That’s all right.”
“Dad, I know Jack and Jill went up the hill,
but reading words is tougher than just knowing.”
“Aha! Then shut your eyelids, if you will.
‘Just knowing’ — what across your eye is flowing?”
“I see they’ve gone to fetch a pail of water.”
“Excellent! Your just-knowing eye’s a spotter!
Now, eyelids closed, what does your knowing eye
see next?” “Uh, Jack fell down and broke his crown.
What’s crown?” “Top of your skull. It can apply
to a king’s hat, or a kingdom’s biggest town . . . .
You spoke, from memory, words you ‘spotted’ there.
No trip. No falter. How did you do that?”
“From pictures in my eye — floating in air,
and words that called out, ‘Hi!’ — in nothing flat.”
“You see, those words made bridges, and they drew
you on, called you to cross them, all within
your inner eye and ear — gave you that new
word ‘crown’ . . . . Do I see just a little grin . . . ?
Word pictures, plus their voices’ friendly ‘Hi!’s
will guide your tongue — and I can rest my eyes.”
Escalator Up to BOYS’ and MEN’S
Burdines Department Store, Miami, Florida. Midsummer.
His mother’s dearest friend, who’s Mrs. Hughes,
looks down at him and says, “We’ll buy new shoes!”
She quickly clasps his hands in hers. They pour
through Burdines’ brass-framed glass revolving door
and wedge themselves into a “stair” at PENS,
the Escalator Up to BOYS’ and MEN’S.
“New sneaks and lunch will chase your blues away.”
Lunch? With his breakfast eggs like lumps of clay . . . ?
Squeezed on the skinny tread against the base
board crack as it slips by, there is no place
to stand that does not drag his right foot’s sneak.
He feels the tug and hears it rub, squeak-squeak.
They rise and rise, their tread now fifth beneath
Boys’ Level. There he eyes bright knife-like teeth
gobbling treads between the ceiling and the floor.
His right foot twists and dives. He can’t ignore
it — captured by the vise-like baseboard crack —
an ambush on his toes and foot! Attack!
He tries to pry it free with all his might
but it is clear the crack has lots of spite.
It wrings his foot. It pops his knee. A flash:
Those teeth! They’ll slice and chomp him up like hash!
Wild terror paralyzes him. It seems
his lungs collapse. He’ll suffocate. He screams!
Bellowing, Mrs. Hughes yells, “Help us! Help!”
The knife-like teeth gnash on, by squeal and yelp,
and burp bad breath like smoke from burning shoes.
How many kids, minding their P’s and Q’s,
has it sliced up and munched down for its lunch?
I’ll knock its teeth out with a mighty punch!
IT STOPS . . . . He clings to the rail with both arms.
His legs twitch. Mrs. Hughes, her bracelet charms
all tinkling, hugs him. She smells bitter-sweet.
Three ladies and a balding man compete —
untying his torn sneaker’s snarled-up knot.
They smell like jasmine blossoms, the whole lot.
Baldy says, “Easy, now.” He pulls . . . . “Hooray!”
They gently peel his cotton sock away.
He sees his piggies. They are red and blue.
Baldy asks, “Can you wiggle one or two . . . ?
Now can you wiggle all those toes?” He can.
“And can you take a step or two, young man?”
Both hands are leaden, shaking still with fear.
His legs, like jiggly Jell-O, quake so queer.
He limps across the rug on blue-bruised toes,
scuffing the sneak still on, in to-and-froes.
He spots the jasmine ladies cheek to cheek
still wrestling with the escalator’s sneak.
Now Baldy fits new sneaks. To see his bones,
he X-rays them. He speaks in undertones.
His smile seems weird beneath odd darting eyes.
“For you. They’re free, from Burdines Store.” He sighs.
Baldy speaks to Mrs. Hughes, in her ear.
Her voice is dropping. It’s too soft to hear . . . .
(But wait. He just makes out her throaty yelp.)
She’s saying, “I had hoped new shoes would help —
help him get over it. So much for plans . . . .”
She takes, in both her hands, that Baldy man’s,
then, one by one, each jasmine lady’s hand,
now his — and says, “Shall we eat lunch, as planned?”
His jiggly Jell-O muscles crash — and melt.
Not hungry, he nods Yes. He tugs his belt.
She’s now his lifeline. He won’t eat, just sit,
while Mother, in Oklahoma, stays a bit . . . .
Two weeks at most, Mrs. Hughes had said, sad,
not berry pick . . . — just berry-ing your dad.
The Belt
South Miami, Florida.
In memory of G.M.P.
For S.J.E.
The next long summer after our dad died
Mom introduced to us a man she liked.
He wore a see-through belt that mystified
me. Giggling, Mom said, “You are really ‘psyched.’”
He pulled it from his keepers and he let
me wrap it twice round mine . . . I peeped through it —
it sniffed a little like a cigarette.
I gave it back. Round him, it truly fit.
Next time he came he wore a plain black belt . . . .
Big Sis unwrapped a “brooch,” and I a see-
through belt like his. It fit! Mom said, “Real svelte,
Art-Deco.” Chuckling deeply, he said, “Oui.”
“But where is yours?” I gazed in his brown eyes.
“Around your waist. I had it cut to size.”
A Party . . . and Mom’s Wedding
South Miami and Coconut Grove, Florida. Autumn.
For S.J.E.
I didn’t know why “death” took Dad away
two summers past, but now that real nice man
who “cut to size” his belt for me would play
with us, and bring us treats called marzipan.
Mother told Sis and me she’d marry him
if that was okay with us too. “Oh, yes!”
I said, and so did Sis. Mom looked less grim.
Smiling, she clipped an ad. “My wedding dress . . . .”
I wanted nothing more than to vamoose
from all those grownups standing stiffly round
sipping from glasses on short sticks “their juice.”
In some were olives looking like they’d drowned . . . .
Episco moms each wore a hat or cap.
Dead silence. “Psst! Big Sis, when do we clap?”
Doc and Mom Would Get Along
With Papa at the Army Base Medical Clinic, Venice, Florida.
For S.J.E.
The doctor’s office reeked of iodine
and alcohol. Doc shaved my scalp where blood
throbbed out. Plus, he asked me, “What monkeyshine
brought you here? Someone hit you with a stud?”
“I leaped into a piece of railroad track.”
“What?” “It’s a counterweight. Roof of a shed.
The Coast Guard dock. Big Sis teased me. Get back
at her . . . . I leaped to shore, but broke my head.”
He cleaned me up, and stuck a plaster patch
where he had shaved me. “Next time, when Big Sis
and you get in an all-out teasing match,
what will you do, so’s not to come to this?”
“What will I do if she calls me a creep?
I’ll look, like Mother says, before I leap.”
Sunshine
Visiting kin in Luther, Oklahoma.
For S.J.E.
My cousin Jack and I, arms out for balance,
toed still-warm rails. Our blue jeans’ pockets carried
great rusty spikes (one each) that we bent double
plucking from ties. I couldn’t catch my figure,
stilts-like, racing east in setting sunshine,
lashing the rails no end with skinny shadows . . . .
Short night. The stars’ faint gleamings cast no shadows.
“Three legs,” said Jack, “don’t teeter. Don’t shift balance.”
Real low, I found her udder warm as sunshine.
Jack’s rhythmic pings turned into spurts and carried
word of how good he was . . . . I couldn’t figure
out how to finger one teat . . . . Jack did double.
“Okay, let’s swap. She’ll fill a pail near double
what we’ve got in there now.” We swapped, in shadows
growing less deep. But then I couldn’t figure
what switched my new teats’ lengths . . . . She shifted balance.
A hoof went in the pail and kicked, which carried
it out the shed: white — somersaulting sunshine.
“Whoops!” Jack said. “That will drive away the sunshine
I’d hoped we’d see in Grandpa’s face. Make double
trouble. ‘It’s wicked to waste.’ He’d have carried
some to a neighbor . . . . Let’s keep to the shadows
today. Mom says he often loses balance.
Says older folks can act real strange . . . . Go figure.”
I fetched the pail for Jack. “What do you figure
made her do that?” He squinted in the sunshine.
“One of us probably pinched a teat. On balance
it’s usually that. Happens now and then. Double
the work . . . . You pump. I’ll wash.” “Look at our shadows!
Right up against the house, the sunshine’s carried — ”
“And in Gramp’s window, on his wall, it’s carried
us, stilts-like, here beside the pump. He’ll figure
we’re up to nothing good with those dumb shadows
dancing there . . . . Grams will be our indoor sunshine.
Her funny bone is sharp. She’ll tease with double
meanings and riddles. Trust Grams. Keeps her balance.”
Our half-pail gleamed in sunshine when we carried
it in. Grams smiled — great double chins. “You figure,
on balance, steak and eggs could fatten shadows . . . ?”
High on Swamp Gas?
On the Saint Johns River at DeLeon Springs, Florida.
The rising sun had not yet broken through
water oaks darkly strung with Spanish moss.
Fishing with Papa was a dream come true —
it beat a hot fudge sundae heaped with sauce.
I asked if I could row, and he said “Sure,
why not go first?” We stowed our fishing gear.
We cast off. “Bought, for each of us, a lure
for large mouth bass the pros say has no peer.”
Our shallow reach was blanketed by fog.
Each time I pulled the oars, two wraiths would bubble
up — “swamp gas,” Papa called it, from the bog
beneath the river — rotting cypress rubble . . . .
In snags we lost our lures, plugs, every leader . . .
’til — laughing — we discovered something sweeter.
An Unexpected Barb
DeLand, Florida.
I tied the fire-blackened butane tank
with sash cord to my bike’s bright handlebars
and pedaled into town as it bounced clank
clank-clank against the fork it barked with scars.
I reached the welding shop, filled with old cars.
“Sonny, where did you get this tank?” “I found
it. Fire that burned Bob’s Dry Clean to the ground.”
“Found it, you say?” “Yes, lying in the ash.
It was abandoned.” “Well . . . . — What can I do . . . ?”
“It leaks. This crack.” “Can’t weld it, lest it flash.
Could braze it.” “What’ll that cost?” “Just for you,
a dollar and a half.” “Air-tight, like new?”
“If that’s the only leak.” “Okay.” He filled
the tank nine-tenths with water. “Keeps it chilled.”
“Why chill — ?” He lighted with a pop his blue
gas torch. “There’s butane gas still in the steel.
This way it can’t blow up my shop — us too.”
Beneath the torch the crack glowed red. A real
bright blue-white flame writhed there, much like an eel.
He torched a bronze rod in the flaming crack.
He cooled it, emptied it, and gave it back.
“Now, Sonny, what you plan to do with it?”
I counted out six shining quarters’ pay.
“Air tank, to fill soft tires.” “That’s legit.
But nothing foolish. You hear what I say?”
“Yes, sir! And thank you.” Pedaling home that day
I swallowed hard. That “Well . . .” had a barbed hook:
Did they abandon, or just overlook . . . ?
I’d Felt Like Chocolate . . . .
Finishing a meal in a family restaurant.
DeLand, Florida.
The rich dark chocolate ice cream tasted sweet
and smooth, and chased down salty shrimp and chips.
Mom looked at Papa. He said, “Seems upbeat . . . .”
She looked at me. “We’ve got to come to grips
with your fast slipping grades, behavior too —
kicking that dog — and fey acquaintanceships.
Does Tim inspire you with his pinched world view?
Does he bring home the A’s? Everything but.
Same kids in band — though music pleases you.
It’s not just you, and friends, who’re in a rut.
The Ed Board is so weak it lets you down . . . .
We’d like to treat you to a prep school up
in North Carolina. We can’t let you drown
in fetid ponds our Ed Board calls their ‘schools’ . . . .”
Mom’s mind was made up. It was in her frown.
“Twelve times in seven years I’ve learned the rules
from bullies as “the new boy.” Not again!
You couldn’t pull me there with twenty mules
if it’s not got a band . . . .” Then, Papa: “When
you fear you’re losing friends its hard to be
objective. Try to step back. Count to ten . . . .
Don’t know yet if it has a band. We’ll see
when literature arrives. Like Big Sis, you
should have live options, and the liberty
to seize them, based on a larger world-view
than that of teachers playing tic-tac-toe —
another school won’t throw you, buckaroo.
Assume you like it. You’ll return, and go
there five whole years. For four, you’ll be an old
boy new boys ask about the rules you know.
You’ll add new friends to old — glad you enrolled . . . .”
I gazed down at my chocolate ice cream, now
all melted in its bowl. I wasn’t sold.
Coming Ashore at Chapel Hill
For S.J.E.
Restless both day and night at Duke
Hospital, biopsied for the cause
of my malingering fever (spook
of cat-scratch malady’s sharp black claws),
I was just thrilled to see your schnozz,
your smiling eyes, your friends’ good will —
plus amber suds they let me swill.
You weren’t serene. “He’s just thirteen!”
“My bunkmate’s gone. He’ll have his bed.”
“But who’ll take care . . . ?” “The sheets are clean.
Tonight, an aspirin for his head.
At breakfast, I will see he’s fed . . . .”
As coached, I zonked — hand on the floor —
feeling so glad to be ashore.
Unlikely Jocks
Christ School, “a working prep,” a “poor boys’ Kent,”
in the mountains near Asheville, North Carolina.
In memory of M.H.H.
For C.E.K.H.
Inside the foyer of the ‘Thirty Eight
Dorm was where we first met. You were a new
boy, I an old. No doubt I’d bragged of weight
and skills I’d gained on Uncle Frank’s farm crew.
Our quick exchange got personal, and hot.
A clutch of dorm toughs challenged us to box,
thrust gloves upon our hands, and tied each knot.
If we’d not fought, we would be laughingstocks.
I’d never boxed before, and flailed away,
arms aching, lungs on fire. I thought I’d die.
They’d shamed us. Boxing was so dumb. Dismay
was what I felt . . . . The toughs called it a tie . . . .
Two eggheads, we — when fitted out like jocks —
found we were kindred in that paradox.
Beating Out the Train
Arden, North Carolina, to DeLand, Florida.
I’d have to wait ’til 5 to catch the train
in Biltmore. I’d get home next day past noon.
But Sid was really cool and eased my pain.
He hadn’t thought me crazy as a loon
and gladly dropped me, at Route 25,
by 12:15. I hummed a happy tune.
And waiting there, I hadn’t time to skive
my fingernails when Trailways hove in sight.
I kneed my bag the three steps up. “Hi — I’ve
a ways to go, will ride most of the night.”
“Pay thirty cents. That’s to Hendersonville,
first rest stop. Buy your ticket, get a bite
to eat there at the counter. Eat your fill
because the next full stop is down the road
a piece in Greenville. They’ve a real good grill . . . .”
Six hundred jerking, jiggling miles I rode,
with stops to use the john, buy dried-up ham
and cheeses, apple pie (no à la mode) . . . .
At last we reached DeLand’s main drag. Hot damn!
The driver dropped me off at my front door.
My house key slipped me through the creaking jamb.
I’d written Mom I might get home round four
A.M. by bus instead of just past noon
by train. I crept in bed to Papa’s snore
and thought I heard Mom’s too. It was a boon —
felt great — this extra half a day’s vacation . . . .
Tonight a date . . . . Svelte moon, slim as a spoon . . . .
Young Longhairs
Diversions on Mondays, a day off
from classes at Christ School.
In memory of M.H.H.
For C.E.K.H.
Chores done, kids rode Old Green & White, our school
bus, in to town to spend from one to five
off campus. See a flick. Drop in a cool
hot record shop and buy a 45 . . . .
We rarely went, unless to listen to
a new concerto or a symphony
you’d learned about in your longhair review
of books and music — or, on BBC.
Most Monday afternoons we chose to hike
the nearby mountains. We’d search outlooks there
to turn our eyes away from books, and psych
our conversations in the vast fresh air . . . .
Back in the dorm, relaxing from our climb,
Beethoven’s Sixth might stretch that paradigm.
Here to Stay
In memory of E.T.P. and G.M.P.
“But Mama,” Papa would cry out in heat
from deep within a dream, “why is it that
you hate me so . . . ?” At breakfast she’d repeat
his words, though she would play the diplomat:
“Now Papa, you know that just can’t be true.
When have I raised my voice, or thrown a lamp
or pot, or even one dry sponge at you?
My mother reared a lady, not a tramp.”
“That’s true. I can’t imagine that you would.
You’re quoting me? Or some ventriloquist?
Perhaps Old Satan. Not me, knock on wood.”
He’d tap the table with a knuckled fist
and gaze at me, and smile — as though to say,
Life’s ambiguities are here to stay.
Not Telling
A passing thought while hiking with two best friends through
a virgin forest on a 30-mile segment of the Appalachian Trail
between New Found Gap and Davenport Gap on North Carolina’s
border with Tennessee — once the highest mountains on Earth,
and among her oldest. Late summer.
In memory of M.H.H.
For C.E.K.H.
This stretch of virgin forest’s tall and dense.
It’s dank with fallen trees and great decay —
here nothing greets the nose save what ferments.
Beyond the blaze-marks pointing out our way
(revealing linear, human mind’s small art)
the mind in acorns and great ants holds sway.
Until it clothes in sapwood its tall heart
we cannot see the acorn work with sprouts,
nor can we see the ants take logs apart.
Great ants are not berserk, don’t live with doubts
the way they seem when we break logs in two,
exposing to the light their whereabouts.
The mind in acorns and in ants is true,
not warped like men’s . . . . I’m struck by how compelling
that thought appears to me . . . . What might men do
to live more true to Astral Mind, indwelling
our galaxy, these insects, and us too . . . ?
This virgin forest knows, but she’s not telling.
Deep in the Beech
Coming down into Davenport Gap.
In memory of M.H.H.
For C.E.K.H.
Descending to the gap at Davenport,
by far the steepest slope in half a week,
we saw three children playing some strange sport
while their tall mother scrubbed clothes by a creek.
The breeze bore us their speech. It was unique.
You chuckled. “Deep in Appalachian beech
you still can hear Elizabethan speech.”
Weighing In With Papa
“He best exemplified those values he most ridiculed.” — R.H.
In memory of G.M.P.
“Just look at how they live. No values,” Mom
said. Papa’s belly gently shook with mirth.
“He values money. Got an itchy palm.”
“No, val-ues, in-born — or by Divine Rebirth.”
At this his belly shook again, deep down.
It was a running dialogue they had —
her refuge indignation, his “the clown”
who let her have the last word, iron-clad.
Artist at heart, an architect by trade,
in his view “values” got expressed in lives
men lived, and not when, on their knees, they prayed
on Sundays for their business, kids, and wives.
It seemed his brown eyes flowed more free with love
as hers, sky blue, pinched up with God’s above.
~~~~~
Buy the book now, direct from the publisher. Click on the image on this page, or here: In Vitro: New Short Rhyming Poems Post-9/11.
Or, click here: Get it at Amazon.com.
~~~~~
This concludes Section I of In Vitro, "Reprise -- Weighing in With Papa." To continue with the next section, return to the top of this page and click on "IV Videos Section 2." Thank you.
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