Geo's

Poetry Original Works - Post Your Poems
1

Music,
getting louder,
coming down the road.

We pulled on shoes
and rushed out
to the stoop.

A bike-drawn caisson
canopied with
cats claw

vine in yellow blossom
on whose slab
was posed

a 2-foot silver metal
Gulfstream mobile
home

with votive candles
glowing from
its windows

and the tiny figure
of a dachshund
at its door—

we had to follow
the procession,
half a 100 led

by trumpeters,
percussionists,
trombones,

trailed by a man,
I thought—
like many, trans—

so overweight
his faithful,
fitter comrades

hauled him
on a 4-wheel
soap-box-derby cart.

God bless the dog,
laid log-like
on his knees,

its body lone among
the whole cortege
without

grotesque tattoos
and metal piercings
every

where, size, shape
a street punk
can imagine.

As we followed,
mourners sang,
laughed, took

each other
in their arms
and slugged from cans

festooned with dragons,
hemp leaf,
sunsets,

tidal waves.
Some wept.
We kept on following,

crossed Poland,
then a peeled back
chainlink

fence,
at which the ritual
and living freight

was portaged over
NOPB tracks,
then hove back

onto vehicles,
and wrestled up
the levee bank

beyond which
the Industrial Canal
tugboated

a long barge
out from the lock
in the direction

of the river
spread with twilight’s
banquet,

south.
Sublime and holy.
The parade proceeds

along
the grassy footpath
on the levee crest,

as 10 or 15 hounds
both great and small
bound up

from waist-high
wild cane
and join the march.

We follow.
On our right
begins to loom the ruin

of a long-deserted
naval station,
Squat Town

where teenagers
dare each other
to smoke pot.

Half a mile
and we see what’s left
of someone’s

mandala-ish
labyrinth,
then question-mark

our way down
to a weedy clearing
at the waters’

confluence,
on which a scattered
band of most

amazingly artistic
monuments
assembled out

of keepsake,
castaway and trash
memorials to

others of this sad
and lovely clan
of cast-off

youth. We follow.
Geo is his name.
The trailer

replica
and funerary urn
is bolted to a stand.

His mom steps
forward, speaks
to everybody’s

pain, love,
gratitude for
makeshift family.

As she finishes
the band resumes
their upbeat

dirge
in growing dark.
Unsure we’ll find a way

back home
we leave them—
music ebbing, faint.

2

Hi Tom,
A challenge to get my attention over a long poem, but you got it! Enjoyed the dog thread, particularly the log one without tattoos (do you need the judgemental ‘grotesque’?). I like the “twilight’s banquet” which provided a stage lighting for the procession. ‘teenagers dare each other to smoke pot’ - I wondered how you would know? Anyway, a vivid, engaging write.

Phil

3

Thanks for reading, writing, Phil. Glad you made it through.
Both details you question, I dunno, describe the narrator – a far more conventional person than any of the mourners, and familiar with the head-wagging about the goings on in the abandoned site. But I must reconsider them, they stuck out to you. Tom

4

Fair enough Tom. I should emphasize the poem had me plugged into the narrative. Any areas of concern in the poem yourself?

Phil

5

Dunno yet. Just drafted it out last night, will see how things settle. Am planning to go back and visit the memorials this afternoon, get a close look I couldn’t do during the funeral, maybe a few photos.

6

Hi Tom and welcome. I too was carried by the narrative. Greatly enjoyed the ride.

7

Hi Tom—do you mean all this actually happened? That makes me want to reread it as journalism as opposed to poetry.
Jackie

8

Thank you, marc. Tom

9

Not verbatim, a couple details change d, but yeah really should be a novella, so much left out! Thanks, AF. Tom

10

Hi Tom, I wanted to believe this was real, and was glad to read it is based on real-life experience. I too was put off by ‘grotesque’ in a poem that is so open to experience the word comes across as harsh. That aside, I love the poem.

11

Appreciate your thoughts here, David, thank you! Tom

12

Hey, Tom, I missed this poem (I’m still finding my way around the site). What a poem for your debut on the site; the way the poem winds along the parade route, with your minimal line lengths, makes it easy to follow and take in the details.
I like your verb choices like ‘festooned’ with dragons. the twilight’s banquet.
Hell, I love it a ll!

1 Like
13

I’m lost here too, Trish. Hoping to learn site tho.
Very glad you found & like the parade here!
Tom

14

Tom–welcome! So glad to see you here. I still recall your consistent advice concerning my poems–“cut the last line”. It still echoes in my head, and is always first box on my edit checklist.

Navigating the site should get easier. If not, let me know.

Cheers, and again–welcome.

Tracy

2 Likes
15

That’s right, Tom DID frequently advise, “cut the last line” And he was always right! Hah.

1 Like
16

The word “surreal” is misused, overused so much I hesitate to say it, but this is a truly surreal funeral march. I was carried along with the procession knowing I was in some non-tourist part of New Orleans witnessing an intriguing ritual…

17

Thank you, indar.
That’s exactly what if felt like.
Tom