And God . . . , Peter Pan Must Die

And God . . .

rolling around the universe
like a pinball, bumps
off bumpers, rings
the bells, flashes
the light bulbs, spins
out of control, falls
through the hole
past flippers.

And the man
pounds his fists
and kicks at the stars,
at the mystery.

The whole thing
goes tilt.

Game over.

-

Peter Pan Must Die

They are toys-r-us kids lost
on an island called Neverland—
lost in Afghanistan—with
pop guns and little plastic
swords and bombs. Lost boys,
lost army men, lost children,
fighting pirates off shore.
Lost war, lost in Iraq—
the never ending fantasy.
Lost fairytale. Where's the
magic carpet? Where's the
pixie dust? Tinker Bell was wounded
by snipers during an unmanned
drone fly-by. The croc is on time.
Tic toc, tic toc.

Peter Pan must die. Let
the pied piper of youth be remembered well.
But before we have peace, the poppies
must lie flat. More widows must cry.
More mothers and brothers, more
girlfriends and fiancées and lovers
must cry. Peter Pan must finally become
Peter the man. R. I. P.

-

"And God . . ." and "Peter Pan Must Die" were published in the Summer 2011 issue of Pudding Magazine.

Pudding is a hard-copy press. To get a copy of the Summer 2011 issue or subscribe to the magazine, please go here. Thanks.

Eric

I give myself permission

Yesterday, I rode the rollercoaster
of my manic depression
at an amusement park
that was somewhat less than amusing.
I wanted to drink in the afternoon,
but I knew if I did, I could not run
with my dog in the evening,
as has become our custom.

Today, my knees hurt,
clear evidence of my age.
I give myself permission to open a beer before noon
(as if time matters).
And I sip it, knowing I will be
falling down before evening,
then Buster will drag me
through the park as I stumble.

Tomorrow, my brain will bleed.
I will be happy that the pain is only temporary,
until the next day when the carnival will beckon
and the tilt-a-whirl will suck my soul
into its blender, and I will puke
on my new shoes, and I
will lie on the ground
unable to crawl.

-

"I give myself permission" was awarded First Place for Adult Poetry and "Best in Show" in the 2011 Sinclair Community College Creative Writing Contest, which was open to the entire southwest Ohio community, not just the college. The contest was administered and directed by Rebecca Morean.

In addition to a cash prize, as the "Best in Show" winner, I received a full scholarship to attend the Antioch Writers' Workshop held that summer in Yellow Springs, Ohio.

Eric

Sweet Tea

The Mexican hibiscus grows
wild and unruly and bright green
before it spurts flowers like blood.
The policeman thought it
was pot, because the leaves
look vicious and the neighbors
were smiling. He got tangled up
in the scent and confusion
He tried to cut it down,
but he could not repossess it.
It makes sweet tea just the same,
as though it were the weed it is—
wild and unruly and green,
with flowers like blood.

-

"Sweet Tea" was published by Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review in its Winter 2011 issue.

While Borderlands is a print-only journal, copies of the Winter 2011 issue (#35) (as well as other issues) can be ordered directly from the journal. For more information, see Borderlands' order form.

Eric

The Rain Begins

It almost smells like autumn.
Your bags are packed
and stacked neatly by the bedroom door.

I know you don’t like chaos,
so I dress quietly in the dark

and leave for work early.
I make a mental note:
get a winter coat before coming home.

The rain begins,
as I catch the train to the city.

-

"The Rain Begins" was originally published in the Spring 2010 issue of Rust and Moth, a local Austin on-line literary journal.

This is my second contribution to the journal. My poem "Wild Empathy" was included in the Autumn 2009 issue.

Eric

Two poems

Chasing Freedom

I spoke with a man whose wife had just died.
He rambled to me about fixing his sailboat
and how moving to Arizona would be good for his asthma.
He could buy tribal land there cheap.

His daughter would not abandon her friends to go with him.
If only he had spoken to his sister sometime—
at least once—in the past twenty-fve years.
She lives with the Navajo near Four Corners,

where the Cherokee are welcome.
The older boys are still in denial, he says.
But he (and his wife) had long accepted her fate.
If only he had spoken to his sister.

With only a two-foot keel, you shouldn’t venture
far from shore in rough seas, his thoughts return to the sloop.
(It was not sudden or unexpected.)
If only he had spoken to his sister in Arizona.

As the hour turns late, his wolf pet grows restless,
and I am suddenly glad she has a leash made of chain.
The beast’s crystalline eyes follow wildly
two curs across the yard, chasing freedom.

-

Small Things

It is always the small things,
the contours,

the way her rag-doll hair
fits tightly into a bun
and exposes her neck. The way
she stands on her toes, and
how she acts first
without saying a word
then smiles.

The way her tattered jeans
cover her Doc Martins, and how
she holds her beer bottle
like a tea cup.

Her kisses are always gentle,
her cheeks dew-kissed
and pink.

The way she doesn’t wear a bra
or need to, and the way she doesn’t care
when I notice.

How her nose crinkles
when she’s silly. The way she cries
without tears.

The way she walks away
on the tips of her toes
without a word.

-

"Chasing Freedom" and "Small Things" were published in the January 2010 issue (#13) of Breadcrumb Scabs, which is edited and published monthly by Lena Judith Drake.

Eric

Publish Me

Wrap me in your critic's arms.
Edit me only slightly.

Roll me into full-color glossy.
Treat me newspaper cheap.

Spread my tender lines.
Taste my imagery.

I am an easy poem.
Publish me.

-

"Publish Me" was originally included in the September 2009 issue of Oak Bend Review.

Here's a direct link to the poem:
http://www.oakbendreview.com/poetrypage1.htm

Eric

ps - I ran across this mention of my poem at the Short Story Reader blog. It's kinda cool, even if I do say so myself.

Wild Empathy

It must be illegal
to feed pit bulls;
they are always so skinny
and unloved.

I hear the howls.
Arrest me, if you dare.

It seems sometimes
that you cannot take me anywhere.

I cry in public
at the drop of any heartbeat.

I feel the hunger
in every passing scene—
in the flash cards
and ink blots—

and I feel the glory
after the bomb.

I have wild empathy.

I know it’s just a movie,
sappy and droll,
but I cry.

-

"Wild Empathy" was originally published in the Autumn 2009 issue of Rust and Moth.

Eric

Repertory Justice

Smith v. the State again
today on the marquis docket,
another decade-old case.

Drab oak, maple
or walnut panels upstage the light, honored
with traditional props—

the books, the bailiff, the brunette
typing transcripts, and the yawning
from the jury.

A dark robe clings to the bony,
bifocal-ing, caffeine-driven actor/director,
stayed by impromptu lines,

tortious logic ad nauseum, reaching for gavel
at the close of applause—
another bifurcated encore.

Pin-striped costumes
in a choreographed side bar, plead, motion,
beckon for prompted verdict.

"Your honor, are these the legs of a murderess?"
Yet another gallery gasp, in unison.
Flash! Camera flashes.

Opinion:
Held over, mistrial, no
reversible error.

Clerk's note:
Place back on the docket
for rotation.

-

"Repertory Justice" was originally published in the Fall 2009 issue (Vol. 4/3) of Wilderness House Literary Review.

Here's a direct link to the poem (in .pdf):
http://www.whlreview.com/no-4.3/poetry/EricBlanchard.pdf

Eric

So I Can Feel

Do not give me love,
for love is hard to hold on to.
Give me a lover instead,
so I can revel in her touch
and taste her lemon skin.
Give me sweat
dripping from her curves
and the scent.
Give me the tangled limbs
and the screaming.
Give me the gentle—
the butterfly kisses
and the sighs—
so I can feel
like I have had a lover
after the spinning
and the rinsing of linen
in the morning,
when I am alone.

-

"So I Can Feel" was originally published in the July 2009 issue (No. 14) of Autumn Sky Poetry. What a great on-line poetry journal! It is edited and published with great care by Christine Klocek-Lim.

Here's a direct link to the poem:
http://www.autumnskypoetry.com/number14/Eric_Blanchard.html

Eric

ps - Read an interview with Christine Klocek-Lim, editor of Autumn Sky Poetry and also a fantastic poet, at Nic Sebastian's blog, Very Like a Whale.

Young Rose

Bud—
a firm drop of blood
on dragon bush,
blooming.

Soft complexion.
(Blush.)
Jagged edges.
Tears of dew.

Sharp fingers
caress a slender neck.
Suddenly,
a gift.

-

"Young Rose," which I wrote many, many years ago, was published in the July 2009 issue (No. 6) of Hanging Moss Journal. The journal is edited and published by Steve Meador.

Here's a direct link to the poem:
http://www.hangingmossjournal.com/Guest%20Poets/July_09/eric_v_blanchard.html

Eric