"Rocket" by Brad Phillips
Still called 'em tin cans when we found 'em
Gleaming in the grass, sly as the future, hot & bright.
We brought the aluminum home, crushed it
Traded it in just like those half-wild people
Who lived on grasslands in the far stellar reaches
Of the theater along with the lizards and moths
And daydreamed about survival.
City lights and stars, pop that shoots you
On a sugar and sentiment montage into the night;
I've told everyone about all that crashes
So fast solid ground liquefies and leaps
With burning film reminding us light is bleach
Dreams are cleaned by waking thought
And all rubble falls just like arrival.
We called 'em dreams when we found 'em...
Don't give me dimes, give me fireworks
There's no river like the horizon.
Sharing this morning with The Sunday Muse and with Poets and Storytellers United. I've reached that stage of staying-at-home-as-a-lifestyle-choice where attempting to edit a short story ends in me Godzilla-stomping-without-the-suit through the house and growling. And then deciding to make a quarantine diary instead. Which led to me realizing why I was stomping around the house and looking for model cities to devour--months have gone by. And a story begun in March is bumping gently against the edge of June while my brain struggles to catch up, still somewhere in the middle of April. Hoping your week has been calmer and that this finds us all on the edge of a better week. :)
-- Chrissa
It was a simpler time when it was fun to find discarded cans and trade them for a few cents to buy a treat. Today would have been my father's 84th birthday. Sometimes I wish I could go back to one of those moments when he was still here and there were possibilities.
ReplyDeleteI had a visceral response to this ... not many poets are able to elicit that in me. You do.
ReplyDelete"We called 'em dreams when we found them" really speaks to me, and to how far from the dream we have travelled.
ReplyDeleteI really like the last stanza, the phrasing and the truth of it.
ReplyDeleteAnd I completely understand your note. You are not alone in your wanting to scream and stomp.
Nice write, I feel your days. Oh yes, I remember those of my similar days, U.S.Army private with two babies and a young wife not working outside the home and kids. We saved our bottles and cans from roadsides and home, cashed them for milk towards the end of the month. I still see a penny and pick it up.
ReplyDeleteWe too are staying in but will drive for curbside or drive-thru eating and every other week go to our Neighborhood Walmart on Tuesday Senior Shopping time at 6:00AM, we go every other week. Last week we bought car gas, first time since late January.
Plus I'm trying to convert my junked up office back to a comfortable working area. Very slowly.
..
Oh, to get back to our dreams.Brilliantly done.
ReplyDeleteSo good! Such great language throughout. I especially liked:
ReplyDelete"Traded it in just like those half-wild people
Who lived on grasslands in the far stellar reaches
Of the theater along with the lizards and moths
And daydreamed about survival."
Nothing like memories of simpler times to escape the reality of today. I suspect we all have a brain trying to catch up, as we live in this strange social distance limbo!
ReplyDeleteLove this especially; "Dreams are cleaned by waking thought/And all rubble falls just like arrival."💘💘
ReplyDeleteI imagined a whole science fiction scenario about those fiery cans.
ReplyDeleteI feel as if I have visited your dreams Chrissa! This is remarkable in it's use of language and the feelings it evokes! Sigh...I love this and can so relate to your note at the end.
ReplyDelete"Don't give me dimes, give me fireworks"...a beautiful break-out experience. Love your imagery!
ReplyDeleteIsn't it strange that when unprepared for a disaster we are unable to cope being out of control, being told what to do and seeing mayhem all around us. Your future horizon is I am sure longed for by all of us.
ReplyDeleteYes, strange how one loses track of time and motivation.
ReplyDeleteA wonderful piece of writing.
I love the conversational, colloquial tone of your poem and the picture you paint of your past, so unlike my past, although there is one thing we have in common: we got pennies for returning glass bottle instead of aluminium from cans. I also love the way you describe the cans ‘Gleaming in the grass, sly as the future, hot & bright’, precious as gold or silver mined from the ground. No wonder they were called dreams. My favourite lines:
ReplyDelete‘Dreams are cleaned by waking thought
And all rubble falls just like arrival.’
i love your techniques and your thoughts into birthing this piece. i feel great reading them. great work.
ReplyDelete"sly as the future" oh hell yeah.
ReplyDeleteA splendid, wonderfully rendered piece - for a time in which the lines of reality and dreams seem to have become increasing blurry. And, as always your 'back story' is a treat unto itself.
ReplyDelete"City lights and stars, pop that shoots you
ReplyDeleteOn a sugar and sentiment montage into the night;"
Such beautiful imagery in this. Dreams and reality often blur.
Love the ending. Nicely done.
ReplyDeleteThe horizon as a river--I love the image!
ReplyDelete"Dreams are cleaned by waking thought" - this happens too often at the moment where the dream is lost in the mist of awakening. Thank you for that thought
ReplyDelete