Old Brown Shoes

---

     
           I don't know why  I put them on
           The old brown    worn out shoes I
                  Found      discarded
         Along the side       of the road

           So very tight       my baby toes wailed
            But the laces      held a while
         And the old brown      worn out shoes
              Held a while       onto my feet
 
                    I begin       walking backwards
          Along the side of       the road
    But not really walking       more searching
          For the history       of leather

           Following the       rumble strip
 Feeling for impressions       of dusty footprints 
            Of worn out       black soles
           Of worn out       souls

          As I walk        I listen
          For echos       of your steps
              Echos      of your breaths
       From nearby        walls

        Slowing now       I scan the scene
    For impressions        of reflections
           Of light         bounced off you
       I am hunting         hidden daguerreotypes

     I shuffle toward        familiar visions
           From almost        thin air
           Almost solid        they hold a while
           Onto my mind        this history of leather
     
               Déjá vu         approaches        
              Askew and      without warning   
         And I am frozen   in time
              Frozen in old brown shoes

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Prelude to “Old Brown Shoes”

The old brown shoes have taunted me for weeks now.

Quickly I put them on, a fury of image and meter.

Easy marks of leather and sole and history,

They laid like lambs at my feet.

But they have turned stubborn and cold and visionless.

Stuck in the gutter
Stuck in the verse
Stuck in reverse

Perhaps I shall cut their laces
cut their ties, their
ability to hold
me

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Homesick at Home (Betrayed)

I wrote this poem for the weekly challenge at 20 Lines A Day.  Check them out for a vibrant blog of poets and writers and photographers.

---

They have all left - kids, wife, dogs.
Not for good or very long for that matter
But I am alone, 
                homesick at home.

Oh how I wish this house were haunted.
At least by more than the spiders and 
                     occasional mouse.

Instead, I am haunted

   By silence the TV cannot drown out.
   By empty bedrooms 
            and chairs
            and couches.

   The normal routines dead end
            in meaninglessness.

But in fact
            this house is haunted.

   By the laundry
   And forgotten library books.
   Even dog's chew toys
   Mock and reproach me.

The anticipation of freedom
      Has betrayed me!

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Breathless

This poem can be read three ways.  You can read the bold lines only, the italics lines only or straight through.

---

Dawn, and across the plains: mountains


Eyes, through warm air, and darkness: night


Rising, from seemingly nowhere


Giving almost no clue to what's beyond


     Majestic to the point of awe.


     Delicate, not to the point of weakness.


And knowing


And seeing


       no cause to be so,


       no reason to shy away,


          it leaves one breathless.


          I breath without resistance.

---

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr./>

Gillson Park Playground

Dreamless

 Sleeping,
          dreams elude me.
I know they are there
        waiting
 always waiting
                just outside
my unconscious drift

Waking,
       I am awash with 
 layers of visions
        pushing
 always pushing
                just outside
my periphery
                just outside
my reach

Dreams taunting my pen
       haunting my keyboard

Fleeting wisps
    hoping to be caught
    longing to be inked
               or typed
               or spied

And sometimes
              only sometimes
      touching paper.

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Lectern Accent

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Saturday

This poem was written for a web page asking for Saturday poems this last weekend.  You can find that site at this link.

---

Sleepover leftovers
washing syrup and bacon grease and utensils
egg shells down the disposal
down the drain
down

Driving here and there and back for
Art fairs and dance recitals and coffee
and Father’s Day cards
(don’t forget the coffee)
driving away and
driving home
driving
me

Eating out with friends
and strangers
and we are all eating
salad mostly
mostly
eating
mostly
driving
down the drain
with the egg shells
with the syrup
with
me

Sleeping over
again and again
sleeping bags
splayed about
about sleeping
and driving
home is here
is sleeping
again
home is
me

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Vastness

The other night

    I looked skyward to see

        Ten million starry worlds

And it made me sad
                   To think

         "How small I really am"


          But thinking more,
              I realized
  
  How great I am

            To be so small
  
  And to perceive

               Such vastness

---

(c) 1995 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

The Song

The notes are changed

And the tune's not the same

But the song goes on

After the band's gone

All the speakers torn down

The song goes on

And the crowd still cheers

And the hypocrite jeers

But this song has played

For the last million years

Now this one single note

Screams out over space

But the thousands of ears

Refuse to hear

Nobody cares

The staff is fading

All the treble clefs bleed

The whole scene most degrading

The time signature

No more regarded

The tempo

Grossly retarded

Fortissimo dead and gone

Pianissimo lives on

Soft and long ... the song

No more can it measure

To the once sterling bars

Of the antiquated fanfare

The song goes on

And the song goes on

In hope of an ear

Somewhere down the line

But like fairy-tales

The child is grown

The dream is gone

---

(c) 1983 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Egghead

(c) 2008 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Bad Haiku

     Haiku is not good

at least this one stinks on ice

              Brr, it's cold in here
 

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Black Thread (Tour Rut)

For 11 years of my youth I spent summers touring as a member of The Cavaliers Drum & Bugle Corps (first in the Cadet Corps, then in the 'A' Corps).  This poem was written in my last, "age out" year with the corps.  While outwardly it may seem depressing, I have always found that writing something sombre takes those feelings away from me and makes me feel better.  May it do the same for any who read it.  My favorite words in the poem are "-We belong-".

---

Here on a curb
     (some truck stop in Missouri)
   Sound of Drums
            Horns
     Diesel Engines

Waiting for parts to fix
            Some piece of
            Some bus
That we reluctantly call
                    Home

Practice is sincere, yet
           All minds long
  To return to the road, to
               Motion
   Somewhere, maybe hundreds
     Of miles away
               We don't care
       Just not here:
              Where the loneliness
         Of truck drivers
              Does not diminish with
   Their numbers but multiplies
        With every empty face
                       Sucking down
                               Coffee

It is now, my summer
       Wails
    For a better place
     To be spent

It is now, I can only
       Dream
    Of afternoons at
      Oak Street Beach
         A family
  So far our of reach

   One can't help
       But wonder why?
       And yet it seems
       -We belong- nowhere
                     Else...

...And coming back
        To a familiar
   School (no one knows what houses
             are anymore)
          It could be six states
                   From home
           For I have forgotten

   It all seems blurred
      Into one barely cohesive
      Line: black thread,
      Tied in a loop,
      Removing beginnings
      And ends to stumble
      Over

   Finding a spot near the wall
          I pass
A dollar dropped on the floor
      Too lazy to
      Pick it up; or maybe
          Its promise is of no
             Value to me
                 Anymore

      So many promises
                   All found fake
        It's difficult to see
                Where home is because
             You cannot break
                Black thread,,,

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

intellect

(c) 1988 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

See the triptych here.

The Triangle

THE TRIANGLE RESTS ON A TRAY NEXT TO THE 

TYMPANIST, BEHIND TROMBONE

STRINGS, AND

TUBAS

GUSTAV HOLST MIGHT FIND

IT WEIRD TO PLACE

ATTENTION

HERE

"MERCURY"

FROM THE PLANETS,

LIKE DANCING SOUNDS THROUGH-

OUT THE HALL; TRIANGLE DOESN'T MOVE.

THE FINAL NOTE - UNDER

MIX OF STRINGS AND

KEYS: ONE

PING

---

(c) 1986 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

yesterday

(c) 1988 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

See the triptych here.

Zombie Garden

Whenever I hear this poem in my head, it is always in the voice of Andrei Codrescu.

---

Tomatoes and peppers 
     Planted by moonlight
          Next to the driveway.

An awful place really.
Too open, too visible;
     Requiring incantations to ward off
          Rabbits and neighbors and zombies.

I sprinkle soil, with its rotting 
    Wood chip smell on the pavement;
          A feeble talisman against
               Vegetable thieves.

Once I stake the tomatoes,
     Vampires will be easy quarry.
But what I really need are worms.

Worms so that after the battle  of the rutabagas;
              After the crusade of the cucumbers,
When my tomato flesh pieces fall in this,
                          My loamy mound,
I am composted quickly;
     
Out of the reach of the neighbors
     And rabbits
     And zombies
To feed the next army.

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.