Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Candy Apple Morning

image from fineartamerica.com

Candy Apple Morning

“There is no way that a writer can be tamed, rendered
civilized, or cured. The only real solution is to provide 
the patient with an isolation room, and poke food into 
him with a stick.”--Robert A. Heinlein.

He sat in the attic
on a sangria plastic chair,
near the one window
with its maroon curtain
pulled to the side.
His cheeks were blushed
from an excess of Merlot
the evening before, and
his eyes were blood-shot
from weeping.

Discarded and sequestered items
were scattered, stacked and boxed,
bathed in sunrise smoldering rays;

a crimson Elmo lying on its back,
waiting patiently for its tummy rub.

An overflowing box of Legos,
with the brick-red pieces
bright and cheery.

His father’s favorite red flannel shirt
folded neatly and moth-eaten, one
sleeve hanging out of the
berry-colored Costco box.

A ceramic current-hued tea pot,
chipped and sad, lidless and tilted.

A raspberry jam jar filled with
paper clips and red rubber bands.

A twisted-up pair of child’s
burgundy pajamas, dotted
with numerous chili cats.

A long string of lipstick red pop beads
hanging off the edge of a tall mahogany
framed dressing mirror.

A Bell quart jar of plastic
red roses, inhabited by
two dueling cherry red ants .

A large strawberry colored Little Pony
with pinto bean mane and tail.

A bulging box of Christmas decorations,
plastic candy canes, blood-red snowflakes,
stars, bells, and balls.

A pair of festive current and green
holiday socks with alternating stripes.

A cranberry glass ash tray
with vintage match covers in it.

A large ball of chutney yarns
with knitting needles sticking out of it.

A Ferrari-red metal model
of a ’68 Mustang, missing
a front wheel.

He stood up, cracked his
ruby-rashed over-washed knuckles,
peered outside at the empty streets,
and made his way to his bedroom,
with it’s unmade bed, with tomato-red
cotton flannel sheets, where a first edition
of Ben Hur in its Persian-red cover awaits.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub


sarah said...

All those reds - image after image just flooding out - it's almost overwhelming - and that sad, sad man in the middle of it all. It's like shards of memories floating around him. It's really haunting, Glenn.

Ken Gierke said...

I agree with Sarah. All of this red in his attic seems like a haunting reminder of what he can no longer have.


This is one of my favorites of yours. Pure pleasure to read.

kate said...

lol you really painted the world RED! But your detailed description are so vivid I thought you must be describing your own room.
Really enjoyed this and will red .. oops read it again :)

Frank Hubeny said...

Nice description of the times in this line: "ruby-rashed over-washed knuckles,"

Unknown said...

I love how you stacked all the different types of red around this lonely life. Perfect.

Vivian Zems said...

I love how you stacked all the different types of red around this lonely life. Perfect

Truedessa said...

I found myself in that attic looking for each item. I smiled when I red the mention of Merlot. I too made a reference of that red in my poem. I have a bottle here that I have been saving and now I wonder why?

Dwight L. Roth said...

Ah the life of confinement! So much all around us inside... nothing moves in the streets outside! The story of our red surreal life! Well done Glenn. Love the pajamas!

Sherry Blue Sky said...

It sounds like an attic full of memories - and losses...........so sad.....glad he had the escape of a good thick book to take him miles away.......

Judy Dykstra-Brown said...

Cool poem, but you didn't mention red!!! ;o)

Kim M. Russell said...

You’ve daubed your words with every shade of red, Glenn, and painted a vivid scene. I like all the details, like the ‘crimson Elmo lying on its back’ and the ‘red flannel shirt / folded neatly and moth-eaten, one / sleeve hanging out of the / berry-colored Costco box’, and the way the poem becomes a list of all the parts of someone’s life, some quite ordinary and others poignant. The final stanza is genius, with its hints at the current situation, the ‘ruby-rashed over-washed knuckles’ and empty streets.

Alexandra said...

This is wrenching.

brudberg said...

I love how you managed all those reds he surrounds himself with turning into blues. All items bringing their own melancholy.

shadiatique said...

Imagine reaing this while waiting for a buss alone in this corona times.
I'm almost crying of loneliness and sadness.


lynn__ said...

Over-loaded with red but must not cry or touch one's face! The pain of quarantine...and misuse of "currant" (the color?). Thanks for a great read, Glenn!

lillianthehomepoet.wordpress.com said...

The pop beads, little pony, and so many of these images so real....he sits facing all his memories and then goes to bed alone. You've outdone yourself here, Glenn. Some of these images coming from your memory perhaps? I can sure see some of them from my past...

I'm so late to the reading and posting for this one....but glad I got to it this morning. Somehow in these days of staying home....I've found myself involved in projects I'd never quite gotten to....and the days just go by.