But your breath could melt a glacier at three
miles, she says, and then we might consider
the dirt under your nails, the way you slur
your sibilants, and how you seldom see
the cracked eggs in a carton, a downed tree
branch in front of you, the ripened blister
of paint in the bedroom, or your sister
lying drunk on the floor in her own pee.
Back to your armpits. Do you realize
we could bottle that aroma and make
a fortune? I inhale it and forgive
your many faults. The odor provokes sighs
and tingles, blushes I could never fake.
Ain’t love grand? Elevate those arms. Let’s live!
I thought it was time to post something for fun, a poem that might elicit a few chuckles. Note that this is in the Petrarchan sonnet form (or should I say Pitrarchan). Thanks Plain Jane!
Never in my wildest dreams did I envision writing a poem about armpits. But the August 2015 Tupelo Press 30-30 challenge/fund raiser, and Plain Jane, the title sponsor, provided that opportunity. This first appeared here in April 2016, and was subsequently published in Algebra of Owls. Many thanks to editor Paul Vaughan for taking it.
My poems “Another Sunrise, Another Moon,” and “One Becomes Two” are live at Skeleton Flowers Press. I am grateful to the editors for taking these pieces, and to poet-musician Tara Linda for providing the title “Another Sunrise, Another Moon” during a fundraiser for Brick Street Poetry a few years ago.
Dear Stephanie: No one connects here, and no matter
how resolutely we trudge forward, ignoring spinal fusions
and attacking hearts, the line skips lightly ahead, mocking us,
I think, in that way only the ineffable may claim. Looking
out, I see a lone wren, clouds filtering the stars, and strands
of barbed wire looped like question marks around cedar
stumps, punctuating the day’s greeting. No answers there,
only more inquiries blanching under the sun. But this
is my febrile landscape, not your lush green headed by
gray. Nothing matters, or, everything’s imperative.
In this gnarled season I can’t tell which, although
the vulture ripping into a squirrel carcass on my
suburban front lawn tells me something ain’t quite
right. Full or empty, the glass is still a glass, despite
my propensity for seeking more, whether cava or beer
or yes, enlightenment. I fear this reveals too much
about me, and wonder if I should draw the shade or
keep tugging it higher, admitting more light. Have you
ever noticed that half often amounts to less the closer
you get to it, each portion diminishing, divided by two,
and again, until only a thin shadow vaguely resembling
the original shape remains? Perhaps this is how we’re
meant to exit as failures on this field. The horizon’s
still there, red stroking green, clouds feathering in,
and maybe if we keep walking we’ll reach it in a sunburst
of doves and glittering red dahlias. Yeah, right. In the
meantime, let’s multiply our losses and sculpt another
morning truer than its source, stronger than its media. Our
optimism has already blown this joint. What else have we
got to lose? I remain, as ever, yours in insolence, Bob.
Originally penned in January 2017, “Letter to Harper from Halfway to the Horizon” was published in MockingHeart Review in May 2018. When I wrote it, I had no inkling of what was to come. I knew only that Stephanie L. Harper was truly special and that I looked forward to our daily communiques. We lived 2,000 miles apart! Little did I know that in a few short years we’d come together in Indianapolis (now that was never on my Bingo card!), to build a home, a life, together. I have led a charmed existence. I love this woman!
Stephanie L. Harper, my spouse, my partner-in-life, my love, my inspiration, my editor, my everything, has two poems in the latest edition of The Iowa Review. This is THE BIG TIME! The list of writers published in the pages of this major journal include the likes of Jorge Luis Borges, Anne Carson, Louise Gluck, Jorie Graham, Kurt Vonnegut, and many, many others we can only hope to emulate. Now Stephanie’s rubbing (metaphoric) elbows with them. I am so proud of Stephanie and so happy for her, because I know, I’ve seen, how hard she’s worked at her craft. One of the two poems illustrates this commitment to the art: “Pelvic Organ Prolapse” is an “in-titled” poem. Created by Stephanie, this form is composed exclusively of the letters appearing in its title, with no letter occurring within any individual word in the poem more times than it does in its title. To say the least, it is a maddening form to attempt. But here it is, within the pages of The Iowa Review!
My poems “Barstow,” “Even the Darkness,” and “As If We Understand the Tree” are live at Hibiscus https://www.hibiscusmag.com/the-poetry-vase. Thank you, editor Jackie Bluu, for taking these pieces.
In April 2023 I was diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer. The cancer had spread to the lymphatic system, the brain, the liver and the pelvis (actually fracturing bone). The large lung mass was also responsible for partially paralyzing my vocal cords, in addition to affecting the heart, resulting in the implantation of a pacemaker. While the prognosis (not good—it’s terminal) and timing (uncertain) remain unchanged, I feel much better than I did when first diagnosed.
All this is to say that I admit to being surprised (though grateful) at my ongoing existence.
And I continue celebrating this persistence, despite certain setbacks. Lately, food has not appealed to me. Oh, I’m still eating, but food has become fuel rather than edible joy. I’m the guy who gets excited about red pepper paste, about finding mayacoba beans or za’atar seasoning on grocery shelves. Several months ago Stephanie and I were meandering (but not in a mazy motion, as in Coleridge’s Kubla Khan), in between medical appointments, the aisles of a store when I spotted a treasure. “Ooh, cornichons,” I exclaimed in my outdoor voice. I grabbed a jar, and babbled on, as I do, about how I needed them to make Julia Child’s potato salad. Stephanie looked amused, because, well, she’s used to my food enthusiasms. The potato salad was excellent, by the way.
But for the past six weeks or so, I seem to have lost this enthusiasm. Nothing has appealed to me. Or if it appealed to me before I started cooking, by the time I pulled it out of the oven, I no longer wanted it. Except last weekend, a brownie recipe slipped into my email inbox, and I simply, absolutely, inevitably, needed brownies. So I baked them. Dark chocolate, a smidgeon of espresso powder, chopped walnuts. THE BEST EVER! Perfect crust, crunchy exterior, moist, soft interior. Yum. It appears that my food enthusiasm isn’t entirely moribund. Perhaps I’ll become a baker. Maybe not.
But as this is a poetry blog, I should mention something about poetry. During the past year, knowing that my time is limited, and that if I want my poems to be published, I must send them out, I assembled several manuscripts: a couple of chapbooks, a micro-chapbook, and a second full-length book. The long and short of it is that within the next year, I’ll have had published, by five separate publishers, two full-length books, two chapbooks and one micro-chap. After so many years of accumulated rejections, this level of success is unprecedented. And very welcome! Something to celebrate! If only there were brownies…
My poem “Collision” has been published in the “Secret Menu” issue of Mid-Level Management Literary Magazine: https://midlvlmag.com/robert-okaji-collison/. Thank you, Tim, James, Shannon and Tiffany for accepting this piece.
My poem “Can’t I’m Booked” is live at https://thecandidreview.org/cant-im-booked/. I am grateful to the editors for taking this piece, and to Joanna Drake for providing the title way back in 2016. It took a while to find a home for this poem…
My poems “Scrambled Eggs” and “Side Effect” are live at issue two of The Calendula Review: A Journal of Narrative Medicine at CNU College of Health Sciences. I am grateful to the editorial team for taking these pieces, which are from a series of hendecasyllabic poems (eleven-line poems, each line of which consists of eleven syllables) begun last fall.
O at the Edges 