SIX CHAPTERS OF SWERVE: CHARLES CLIFFORD BROOKS III Charles Clifford Brooks III is a poet and freelance writer living in Georgia USA. He was inducted into the National Creative Society his senior year at Shorter College where he also obtained a BS in History\Political Science with a minor in English Literature. In 2008 he has worked as the Poetry Editor for Literary Magic Magazine and regularly contributes articles to several magazines and a newspaper. Next Poem:....................................................................................................................................... Back to Poetry Index

 

(1)

In my sleep Patsy Cline plays
in an old Corvair,
singing as long as dirt roads go.
'I go walkin', after midnight.'
Two lovers headed for a blues bar in Bethlehem,
dark shanties whipping by.
The ready lady is wearing new shoes,
a good omen for a good evening.

Windows down, Janis Joplin starts on the radio.
'Take a little piece of my heart now baby!'
Last week's curses are tossed out,
then flare,
like discarded cigarette butts.

:::

Saturday, 3:47am,
awake for no reason,
still bound up in make-believe.
Walking around, unable to softly swerve
from one aroused hour to another,
I rationalize this cerebral screaming:
It is the need. It is the need who calls me.

(2)

The night brought up wraiths,
and I whittle those phantoms into phrase.
To quell my frantic mood
I write a line, maybe two,
but all the lines in the world are too few.

I see her, my favorite joy when I see her.
Her eyes are thick, blue.
She isn't here,
and in the raw reflection left behind
I see my ill-healed wounds.
Hissing anxiety begins to slip
under the door.

Please, mercy!
Does the night hear me?
Yes, quite simply.
Small hours allow me room to move.
I am here at the same time as you,
connected by loose association,
and like gypsies roaming is in our veins.

 

(3)

Daybreak, naps,
rejuvenated by 10am.
I feel unplugged,
a live wire, bounding,
shining and shining like a bright apple!

Dressed, bound for the coffee shop,
I will woo an espresso
into weak Jamaican Blue Mountain.
On my drive the breeze seems inspired,
knocked-up by sheer possibility.
Houses stand out, children play on old swing sets,
lawns smell brand new.

Then the thought,
Everyone should get full of Kerouac once a year.
Until the air sours in my mind's whiskey glass,
dharma, the road, and disappearing billboards
seem like a necessary romp.
Kerouac created an allure around box cars
and hitchhiking. My champion!
I must always be vigilant,
not get carried away.

(4)

To take good care of my sober intent
I mend mother's lawn.
She decided this year her caladium
will be cupped by hosta;
hyacinth in pungent clusters.

Recalling my obligations to her sprouting,
spreading patch of ground,
I blazed over to improve her property.
Early afternoon heat crawled into my socks,
and singed my shoulders.
Herbie Hancock played me plodding along.
Mom fed me almonds and green tea.

(5)

Sunday evening,
contemplative, limbs weary,
I look at another week wrapped in
the likelihood of calamity.

Another subject!

I peruse a shelf of books unread.
I'll have a game of checkers on the patio.
A moment, an exhale,
like Uncle Remus in his rocking chair,
I'll become a cool glass of water.

There's enough decent work done
to rest now.
Gaining an uneasy peace
between myself and frenzy,
I have composed, perspired, and prayed.
A whirlpool of whimsy over three days,
a tour through my mind like a vagabond,
all the doors flung open.

(6)

In prophesies, across neural pathways,
we can see into each other's life.
You'll understand everything
at 3:47am,
befuddled, bursting like I am.
This condition is contagious.

So, if ascensions leave you awake,
pacing at midnight,
the Corvair's door
is always open.
I'm up. Hop in.
We'll talk, turn up the radio,
or fall silent
in the miles of bending willows.

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