Joe Dolce: Six Poems

Apparition

 

Something not right woke me from my dreaming.

The cold air, perhaps a premonition?

In the dark, I listened for your breathing.

 

Tonight in your own bed, you were sleeping,

Beyond my care, my touch, my cognition.

Something not right woke me from my dreaming.

 

I tiptoed stairs, in the doorway leaning,

(you went to bed in such sad condition).

In the dark, I listened for your breathing.

 

Windblown curtain. Things not what they’re seeming,

Life-without-you awful apparition,

Something not right woke me from my dreaming.

 

The rise and fall of your breast, so pleasing,

Call it just some midnight superstition,

Something not right woke me from my dreaming,

In the dark, I listened for your breathing.

Joe Dolce

 

Distant Relations

The box spring squeals,

through the plasterboard,

a rusty iron heartbeat.

In the children’s dark bedroom,

during pause in the 3 am concert,

alert unshuttered eyes

stare at imagined shapes.

 

My father’s voice: are you ready?

My mother’s: I’m rarin’ to go.

The love engine begins rolling.

Suddenly, from the bed next to mine,

my little brother scalds

our scared silence.

Mommy, what are you DOING?

I hold my breath,

fearful of beatings.

It’s all right, honey, go back to sleep.

I choke a nervous giggle.

 

In the morning, after dad goes off, nosing

through bathroom wastebasket,

I find a crumpled ball of toilet tissue—

inside, the tied-off French letter,

full of mercury.

A jewel in a baby’s sock.

It jiggles in my small hand.

I feel akin.

Joe Dolce

 

 

Ice Ann

Let me tell you      all about Ice Ann.

She had one ice eye,      and one ice hand,

Her teeth were cold,      her lips were nice,

But everything she bit      turned into ice.

 

I met Ice Ann      on an ice blind date,

We fell in love,      but it turned to hate,

I loved her body,      I learned too late,

She was way below zero,      in her mental state.

 

I married Ice Ann      in a tall ice church,

Exchanged ice rings,      but it could have been worse,

Ice Ann’s mother      made a big ice cake,

I ate so much      that I started to shake.

 

Our wedding night      was snowy treat,

We slept beneath      her fine ice sheet.

She gave me a kiss      and an ice back rub.

We made love twice      in an old ice tub.

 

Well, I fell into       a deep ice sleep,

And dropped down a hole,      six feet deep,

The slides were slippery,      I couldn’t climb out,

My throat was frozen,       and I couldn’t shout.

 

I dreamt we had      two little ice twins.

One looked like me,      I looked like him.

The other grabbed my ear,      with a frosty claw,

She was the spitting image      of her old ice ma.

 

I woke up suddenly,      in an ice cold sweat,

Ice Ann was standing there,      soaking wet.

Her nighty was ripped,      she looked a wreck,

She was holding an ice pick      over my neck.

 

I called 99,      they sent the ice man,

He drove her away,      in his big ice van.

But the fuel line froze,      the steering jammed,

He hit a gumtree,      and killed Ice Ann.

 

So we laid her out,      in her favourite freezer,

Called on the Reverend      Ebenezer,

For the Final Rites,      he raised the Host,

To the Hailstone Mary,      and the Frozen Ghost.

 

We stacked Ann’s body,      on a funeral pyre,

She was so damned cold,      she froze the fire.

We poured on petrol,      but she wouldn’t burn,

So an ice cube tray,      was her make-shift urn.

 

Instead of ashes,      we shaved Ice Ann,

And crammed her flakes      in an old tin can,

I hired a plane,      and flew it myself,

And scattered her over      the Larsen Shelf.

 

They say the ocean      rose that day,

A piece of glacier      just broke away,

Polar bears jumped      right off and swam,

To get away      from cold Ice Ann.

 

An eskimo paddling      a red kayak,

Pulled alongside      the floating pack.

He took his axe,      gave it a whack,

And stuck Ice Ann,      in his sealskin sack.

 

He traded Ice Ann,      at the Trading Post,

For a pack of tobacco,      and a Walrus roast.

The trading fellas      packed Ice Ann,

In a tuna crate,      bound for Japan.

 

Now, Hari Sakamoto      was eating sashimi,

When he suddenly got      the heebie-jeemies.

He started coughing,      and couldn’t chew,

He choked and spit,      and turned bright blue.

 

They wheeled him down      to the Emergency Ward,

He was cold as hell,      stiff as a board.

They switched the defibrillator      up flat chat,

Ice Ann jumped out,      mad as a cat!

 

They say when a butterfly      flaps its wings,

A tsunami blows,      in East Peking.

When Ice Ann bit down      with her teeth,

It whitened a section      of the Barrier Reef.

 

She bit the nurse,      she bit the doctor,

She bit the defibrillator,      that really shocked her,

She bit her way,      through the hospital wall,

And left an ice tunnel,      three feet tall.

 

Now, I know this tale      sounds convoluted,

But Ice Ann got      reconstituted.

She hired a limo,      and a Swiss chauffeur,

And was looking for me,      the last I heard.

 

So, let me tell you      all about Ice Ann,

She had one ice eye,      and one ice hand,

Her teeth were cold,      her lips were nice,

But everything she bit      turned into ice.

Joe Dolce

 

 

 

Ode Al Dente

 

The gods send nuts to those who have no teeth.

—Proverb

 

 

My jaw aches and a drowsy numbness pains,

safe in my bed, far from the dentist’s chair,

as nerves shake off the spell of Novocain,

I gaze upon this wrenched tooth resting there,

 

upon my palm, like Hamlet might have stared,

its crack, exiting from the cementum,

still echoing like gunshot in my ears.

 

The tooth, now separated from my care,

yanked from a bloody gum,

I would reflect awhile upon its cheer.

 

It’s said George Washington had wooden teeth,

but now they claim history was misled—

a frightening set of dentures served his needs,

of metal, gold, animal fangs and lead.

 

From Medicine, Dentistry was distinct,

once practiced by the barbers and blacksmiths.

The first toothbrushes were cinnamon sticks.

 

Now, 3-D stamps out new fake teeth, by links—

aesthetic ceramics—

from online templates, broken teeth are fixed.

 

The hardest substance in our human home.

The longest lasting fossil in the frame.

Multiple layers of tissue—not bone—

fingerprint-unique, no two are the same.

 

Asleep, beneath milk tooth diphyodont,

the rise to permanence, in jaw, with me,

for longer years, than any wife or friend,

 

it could outlast this poem, to be quite blunt,

in Archeology,

this molar might define me, in the end.

Joe Dolce

 

 

Where is the Poetry in Pain?

 

Where is the poetry in pain,

when one has to suffer so much?

How can mere words keep you sane,

when a touch is needed to touch

 

those places where language can’t go?

Someone to protect you from harm

or bandage the bruise that won’t show.

Someone to embrace in your arms

 

and lay for awhile with you there,

listening as you breathe, or cry,

reminding you someone still cares

whether you live or you die.

 

But, if no kind one is near,

a poem, that is honest, just might

supply a map for the fear,

to steady you down from the height,

 

loosen the wire where you’re caught,

give latitude lines for bearing,

a moment to focus your thought

or a sympathy card of caring.

 

There is no poetry in pain.

Someone who’s lost—or who’s missed—

poetry can never regain.

Poems keep you company, at best.

Joe Dolce

 

 

Voltaire Left

I may not agree with what you say,

but I will attack, to your death,

for my Right not to hear it.

 

Joe Dolce