'Godfather' and Other Poems, by Craig Kirchner
Godfather
I’ve been working undercover
for years now,
only Intuition and Conscience knew.
New identity, papers,
published stuff, a bunch of stuff,
pretending to be a poet.
It was difficult to be accepted,
involved with odes, eulogies,
sonnets, even haiku,
submissions to family captains
of free verse and flash fiction,
pointing out cliché and fugazis.
Assigned by Conscience
to learn the secrets
of the family of Poetry Lore,
to bring it to justice,
uncover its hidden meanings,
reveal to the world,
its trafficking in human toil,
extortion, theft of time,
the usury of joy and misfortune,
make it testify under oath
about its essence as the Don
of the written word.
Open Road
Had to get out
away from the bullshit
escape the city
black top, the bottom of a ‘V’
to the horizon
Slight hash buzz
illegal, but didn’t impair
just a step up
like the landscape
added magic to the ride
The short view
on the passenger side
a neighborhood babe
great legs, attitude, no bra
and a 289 Mustang
Kicked-back Kerouac
top-down, high corn
honeysuckle and sweet onion air
wheels a-whirr to Rocket Man
Michelins, and the slick
cruising nymph
skirt thigh high
crooning Elton at 60 per
took the curves like a pro
like hydroplane on silk
Morning encounters
The metaphor of mirror
on the medicine cabinet door.
Twins, he of the new language,
me twisting and shaving the other,
grounded barefoot on the cool white tile,
the one that grew the 3-day stubble.
It’s cold out there, he says,
redefining with the black comb the part,
now sitting on the right.
I tilt his screen 90 degrees,
to face the wind and sleet
beating against the bathroom window.
He, no longer there to see,
is faced with the appropriately,
frigid answer to his question:
replaced also, as it were,
with the prescriptions, remedies,
ointments and mouthwash.
Neatly arranged new metaphors,
categorized carefully on 3 shelves,
quietly not caring about
the view or the weather,
the vanities of me in the third person,
and one-dimensional musings.
Craig Kirchner is retired and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Poetry Quarterly, Decadent Review, New World Writing, Neologism, The Light Ekphrastic, Unlikely Stories, Wild Violet, Last Stanza, Unbroken, The Globe Review, Skinny, Your Impossible Voice, Fairfield Scribes, Spillwords, WitCraft, Bombfire, Ink in Thirds, Ginosko, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Blotter, Quail Bell , Ariel Chart, Lit Shark, Gas, Teach-Write, Cape Magazine, Scars, Yellow Mama, Rundelania, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Loud Coffee Press, Edge of Humanity, Carolina Muse, and the Journal of Expressive Writing and has work forthcoming in Valiant Scribe, Chiron Review, Sybil, Timalda’s Diary, Versification, Vine Leaf Press, Wise Owl and Moria.
Photography by Katherine Bowers