Friday, April 30, 2021

SAFE DISTANCE EDITION - Stone Soup Croutons, 4-28-21: Let Loose (to Michael Collins)

Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked from Stone Soup Poetry's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here.

I also have an award nominated book out now collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.

National Poetry Month is about to end. David Leo Sirois helped us close out the month beautifully. For all of David's lyrical words and impeccable presentation, I had to go and do a poem mixing the death of Apollo 11 astronaut Michael Collins with an old joke by George Carlin. 

You may ask yourself this: Why, God, why?

Jon Wesick can take the credit/blame for this when he commemorated the death of Collins. With a poem about Neil Armstrong. As an also-ran who has stay in the rear with the gear numerous times, I related to Collins, who had to stay in the shuttle during the moon landing (though we all envy his view). Collins deserves a poem better than mine. Maybe I'll write it. Maybe someone better than me will. 

I'm sure Collins real thoughts about his role held much more grace and had nothing to do with the words I shove into him. Ninety five percent of this poem was written during the written. When you're writing this fast, sometimes you gotta go with even your worst instincts. 

Thanks for reading.

Let Loose
To Michael Collins

Michael Collins' last words
written on rumored paper:
F**k Neil Armstrong.

Moon stared at him nightly,
a child he always wanted
but could never have. 

The one world stage 
denied him. No chance 
putting Kubrick on CV.

Strange urge to spill seed
on dead rock, now become
hung skeleton, skullscrewed,

as doomed to fail as Apollo's
flag plant. Deadbeat 's way back
distance between child's 

oceanside view colored blue
and actual ocean. Angels 
watch you write letters 

to hypothetical offspring
but no one delivers. After
wingman for stars, Michael,

what now? Special housing between
sky and glass ceiling 
of atmosphere you can't break?

Hit mountaintops during
summer ride? Nice view 
but no place for a ficus,

just metal seeds in mouth.
Must risk descent and fall
before you plant anything. 

Continuum of life disrupted
from reaching, never taking.
Meditate, lone, blue lotus. 

Give up ghost of what never
happened, cry havoc, turn 
pigeon, be own wingman.

Never hole yourself again.
Spread own flu, shut down
cities again. first small steps. 

Thanks to David's friends joining in.

Special thanks to Jon Wesick, Bil Lewis, Chris Fitzgerald, Carol Weston, Bryan Franco, Roarshock, Mayr Jennings, Jan Rowe, Laurel Lambert, Margaret Nairn Wesel, Toni Bee, James Van Looy, Patricia Carragon and David Leo Sirois.

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