Poetry: Selections from Jim Burns

Skeletons’ Night Out

 

Guy walks into a bar.

 

Sounds like the start of a joke,

 

maybe with a talking horse

 

or dog involved,

 

but it’s no joke,

 

it’s a dream,

 

my dream.

 

 

 

I have these dreams

 

dredging up the detritus

 

of a life that has kept rolling on

 

longer than I would have ever imagined

 

when I was young

 

and dreams were full of hope, not regret.

 

Now the rolling stone divests itself

 

of its gathered moss.

 

 

 

Anyway, the dream.

 

So, I walk into this

 

all-night bar and grill,

 

Edward Hopper sort of stuff,

 

glance around at the few customers,

 

think right away

 

there’s something

 

kind of off about them,

 

well-dressed, well-behaved,

 

but something just off.

 

And then I realized

 

they were thinner than skin and bones,

 

they were just bones,

 

they were all skeletons.

 

 

 

A male skeleton had his hand

 

under the table

 

on his female companion’s knee,

 

no skin to touch,

 

just phalanges on patella,

 

but he made do.

 

 

And there was an old jukebox

 

with a teen skeleton leaning against it,

 

trying to look cool

 

and feeling and keeping time with the beat,

 

while a couple was dancing boogie-woogie,

 

bones clanking as if they were jousting.

 

 

At the counter three old men

 

sat and talked of the days before jukeboxes

 

when they danced to live bands until sunrise,

 

and when one turned to pass the catsup,

 

as red as the blood they lacked,

 

I could tell it was my father.

 

 

 

I went up and put my arm

 

around his hard, cold shoulders

 

and said, Dad, how’re you doing,

 

and it all seemed natural like.

 

But he turned around real slow and said,

 

I’m dead, when you’re dead

 

everything’s pretty much the same all the time,

 

but I sure do like the coffee here.

 

And then he asks could I stay and have a cup,

 

so I take another look around

 

and I say, No thanks, I need to go,

 

and he winks and says, I understand,

 

 

 

and I walked right back out of there,

 

but I know someday I’ll return.

The Blank-Faced Man

 

The blank-faced man came to call last night

 

and sat by the bed in my chair

 

His intent seemed not to be fright,

 

and when I awoke he tousled my hair.

 

 

 

He had no key so I was surprised

 

but I didn’t know how to speak

 

as he sat there with watery blue eyes

 

and face so long and bleak.

 

 

 

Fist resting on chin and elbow on knee

 

he perched there without a word,

 

but I feared what his mission might be,

 

like Poe’s raven, an ominous bird.

 

 

 

After awhile he arose and turned

 

and left without revealing his scheme,

 

and in me remained the question that burned,

 

was he Devil, Death, or a dream?

Black Rose

the world opens

unto you

like a flower

a black rose

and inside

lies a black spider

waiting

waiting for you

to both

sniff the fragrance

and feel the pain

Riders in the Night

drive through the night,

the Angel of Death rides shotgun,

sometimes she perches on my shoulder

like a prized parrot

squawking in my ear to remind me

of her eternal presence,

otherwise she sits beside me

quietly preening her wings,

satisfied that she has my attention.

All in all she is a more agreeable companion

than the Grim Reaper,

he of hood and scythe,

an overly serious chap

too consumed by his job, always on call,

I can’t imagine him perched on my shoulder,

instead he sits there in his seat,

tense, upright, but bent forward at the waist

himself a victim of time and his calling,

forever all-business,

insisting that I must turn here, turn there,

that only he knows how to get to

wherever it is we’re going

and showing how eager he is

to lead me to our destination.

The Angel, on the other hand,

seems less hurried, less bossy.

secure in the knowledge

that our trip will ultimately be through

and her purpose fulfilled.

The moral of this story is simple,

if you’re driving through a pitch-black night

and are hailed by two hitchhikers,

pick the wings over the scythe,

you won’t live to regret it.

Jim Burns was born and raised in rural mid-20th century America in a place where Roses are red, violets are blue was considered fine poetry. He attended Indiana State University where he obtained his B.S. and master’s degree in history, and Indiana University. From the latter he got a master’s in library science and spent most of his working life as a librarian. He wrote some poetry in his youth, then returned to it after retiring, finding it was a good way to preserve his mental faculties, as much as possible, that is.