The Sunday After Midnight (2014)

Midnight, my prized stray cat, passed away one year ago today. He was a true friend to me, in spite of my severe allergy to cats. Some things can't be explained; except to say that he came along right when I needed a companion the most. This is free verse but it has a rhythm if read properly. 

You could never tell where the kitten

would be sittin’.

He had so many places he liked to hide.

In the summer it was the porch

lying in the shade.

In the winter he found shelter inside.

In the garage there was a heating pad and chair.

And on summer stormy nights

there was a Christmas tree in there,

and he took special comfort from the lights.

We ran them anytime,

when the wind began to whine

or thunder cracked.

And it worked in winter, too,

making him feel that he was warmer than he was.

He loved that tree.

And the shadow from the lights grew longer

as the kittens time grew shorter;

‘til there was an empty place on my porch.

In my garage, the Christmas tree is gone;

the lights only lit the empty spaces in the night.

The Saturday After Midnight

You could never tell where the kitten

would be sittin’.

He had so many places he liked to hide.

In the summer it was the porch

lying in the shade.

In the winter he found shelter inside.

In the garage there was a heating pad and chair.

And on summer stormy nights

there was a Christmas tree in there,

and he took special comfort from the lights.

We ran them anytime,

when the wind began to whine

or thunder cracked.

And it worked in winter, too,

making him feel that he was warmer than he was.

He loved that tree.

And the shadow from the lights grew longer

as the kittens time grew shorter;

‘til there was an empty place on my porch.

In my garage, the Christmas tree is gone;

the lights only lit the empty spaces in the night.

For Midnight - He was a great cat.

2011-2014 

Second Version

You could never tell
where the kitten would be sittin’.
He had so many places he liked to hide.

In the summer it was the porch
lying in the shade.
In the winter he found shelter on the inside.

In the garage there was a heating pad
and where on certain summer stormy nights,
with the tree ablaze, he would sit and stare,
taking special comfort from the lights.

We ran them anytime, when the wind began to whine
or thunder cracked, and the wind would moan.
And it worked in winter, too, made him feel warmer than he was.
He loved that tree and didn't feel so alone.

But the shadows from the lights grew longer
as the kittens time grew shorter;
‘til there was an empty place on my porch and in my heart.

In my garage, the Christmas tree is gone;
now that his time is done,
they only lit the empty spaces in the night.

"Under the El Tracks" by Glen Russell Slater (2013)

Glen Slater is a friend of mine; despite the fact that I know almost nothing about baseball. He’s generous in that way. He forgives me my shortcomings. He also writes stories and verse, of which I know a bit more than baseball. That's him in the red shirt in the front row above.

 This poem was written by Glen last year and is a perfect example of the free verse I wish I could write. Of course, Glen thinks it’s no big deal. But that’s because it’s easy for him. He has a blog of his own on Wordpress; though he hates the word “blog.” I hope you will drop in on him sometime at his site;

http://talltalesandtruestories.wordpress.com/

“Under the El Tracks”

by Glen Russell Slater

I feel so naked and awkward

In the sunshine

As if I’m being X-rayed by the stuck-up jerks on Lefferts Boulevard

In the rain I have some shelter

No one sees me.

But not in the sunshine, which exposes me.

Under the el tracks, they share a kind of common misery

Under the el tracks, I don’t feel so alone in my loneliness.

I wish that I lived near the el tracks

that would cover the boulevard

And I could get lost underneath the din and the dark

and the vibrating roar that envelops your ears and your entire body

from your head to your shoes.

Of the el Train of Jamaica Avenue in Woodhaven

Or the el tracks on Brighton Beach Avenue.

Once upon a time,

One Brooklyn winter,

I made sandwiches at Perlmutter’s Luncheonette on Brighton Beach Avenue

Under the el tracks.

I used to screw up the sandwiches and give the wrong change

because I was so nervous as I was scrutinized by the tough guy jerks

who went in there to place bets

On basketball games.

They’d eat sandwiches and drink coffee and talk about the point spread.

And that funny-looking damn little Russian, that genius, wise-ass teenager

who worked there, too.

He made everything look so easy;

I wished the bastard would go back to the Soviet Union.

I’d deliver those sandwiches to those batty Russian broads every day

in that beauty parlor

above Weintraub’s hardware store

That was in the mid-80s.

But I didn’t know how good I had it……..

Lost underneath the el tracks.

"Under the El Tracks" by Glen Russell Slater

A friend of mine has posted a terrific poem in free verse; which I suck at; on his blog Stickball Hero. I am re-posting it, with permission here simply because it’s really good. I’m better at putting together structured verse, with a bit of wordplay thrown in to keep the reader guessing. This is more in your face, with no ambiguity about it. Glen is in the front row, second from the right in this classic 2nd grade photo from his blog.

Under the El Tracks by

Glen Russell Slater

I feel so naked and awkward

In the sunshine

As if I’m being X-rayed by the stuck-up jerks on Lefferts Boulevard

In the rain I have some shelter

No one sees me.

But not in the sunshine, which exposes me.

Under the el tracks, they share a kind of common misery

Under the el tracks, I don’t feel so alone in my loneliness

I wish that I lived near the el tracks

that would cover the boulevard

And I could get lost underneath the din and the dark

and the vibrating roar that envelops your ears and your entire body

from your head to your shoes.

Of the el Train of Jamaica Avenue in Woodhaven

Or the el tracks on Brighton Beach Avenue.

Once upon a time,

One Brooklyn winter,

I made sandwiches at Perlmutter’s Luncheonette on Brighton Beach Avenue

Under the el tracks.

I used to screw up the sandwiches and give the wrong change

because I was so nervous as I was scrutinized by the tough guy jerks

who went in there to place bets

On basketball games.

They’d eat sandwiches and drink coffee and talk about the point spread.

And that funny-looking damn little Russian, that genius, wise-ass teenager

who worked there, too.

He made everything look so easy; I wished the bastard would go back to the Soviet Union.

I’d deliver those sandwiches to those batty Russian broads every day

in that beauty parlor

above Weintraub’s hardware store

That was in the mid-80s.

But I didn’t know how good I had it……..

Lost underneath the el tracks.

__________________________________

You can view Glen's original post here;

http://stickballhero.wordpress.com/2013/09/24under-the-el-tracks-an-attempt-at-free-verse/