Rodney Betten
THE LEGACY OF LEAVES
Walking the terrain
counting syllables and steps
I’m moving in time
reciting my poems
in the wind, I hear the applause
of rustling leaves
Hands in my pockets,
kicking leaves against the curb,
and I don’t care.
A DAY IN THE LIFE
I remember the day well. Heaven was over the horizon. I was walking the dog on a stony path—and the blue brook was babbling bubbles, not to mention, the Major’s mistress was married to a maritime marine, and the meek shall inherent the rent. Later in the afternoon, I was scaling the Empire State Building in my pink tights. That evening, I was planning on courting the Grand Green Lady. “You are statuesque in your stately dress,” she said and I asked her hand in marriage and took her last name, Mrs. and Mr. Lady Liberty (If I may adlib, how liberating!). I was working, three hundred jobs that day. I was the Barbed Barber, air clipping hair, the bearded lady working the circus circuit. Meanwhile, I was moonlighting in moonshine as lazy clocks melted on storied rocks.
NEWSPAPER
I was reading the newspaper, like I was new to paper. Fumbling, crinkling, popping, snapping, cracking, echoing throughout the store. I was sitting, embarrassingly sipping coffee at Starbucks, a latte of some sort. My legs crossed, my thighs squeezed snug and tight, secure. I'm happy in slippers, slacks, and my corduroy sport coat. A fire is roaring. But where is my dog with my slippers, the newspaper, corncob pipe? Oh, right here, my feet in my slippers, my dog fast asleep at my side, corncob pipe. Light your smoke? Oh yes, and here’s the new paper.
PARALLEL
We were both walking on sidewalks, parallel to each other, with a road between us. His hair was short and coiffed, mine long and wavy. He wore a navy sport coat and white dress shirt. I wore a Harley-Davidson jacket over a black Mötley Crüe tee. He was in khaki slacks. I was in cutoff shorts. His shoes were polished. Mine were tenner. He swung a Bible. I was walking the dog. But he didn’t see me in the 87 summer haze.
BILDUNGSROMAN
A Western
Stratus clouds choke the sky, like it’s about to cry, sobbing like a baby while as I struggle to saddle up one of the cattle—Is that the kettle I smell, charring like old man Dutton’s holey sock?—I thought I was still dreaming. Here, pinch me, penny for your thoughts as I wrestle that stubborn beast of burden—best damn cattle for collateral, though. But I’m not about to settle until I retire to Seattle.
Suddenly, I trip over a darned bucket, nearly lose my grip, pike my spurs, and grab my sombrero under Old Betsy’s utter.
“Where you going, young man, out West?” my old man yells from the outhouse.
“No, sir, Father. I’m going wherever somewhere is.”
“Somewhere’s got the same green pastures as here—the aroma of manure stinks the same, and so do the dames. Don’t forget your summer wear. And a raincoat to boot, because the sun ain’t outshining somewhere.”
“Well, then it’s wherever or bust.”
“You can’t outrun a brewing storm. Even Limousins don’t move that fast, thundering and rattling your nerves like a rattler’s got your fantasies by the balls.”.
Naked Vignettes
Nude Descending a Staircase is like opening a drawer or yanking down a shade. It happens in a blur. I’m still not sure what I saw.
In the cafe, I wore a bow tie, doffed my cap, sipped my coffee, talked, and gestured a bow.
Sally was my first-grade girlfriend. I showed her glossy new car brochures from my father’s dealership, and I stood on a step stool to kiss her in the classroom bathroom.
I remember Ms. Scarlet’s lingering scent after she grasped my wrist for misbehaving in Sunday school. Years ago on Halloween, a woman wore a negligee and her damp hair smelled like Herbal Essence Shampoo.
For the Lava Lamp Dance, you form a triangle over your head, fluid smooth and groovy, center your hips and twist from your fingertips to your toes like descending a spiral staircase and then up again similar to ascending a swaying rope swing-down up down up-like a lava lamp.
I’ve had more than my share of regrets, but if somehow, they led me to you, they add up to a lot less.
I’m trying to be cheerful and grateful and if that doesn’t work, I identify and say the names of items in my environment—I point to microwave and say “microwave.”
I hug my pillow, knees pulled up, TV on and music over miniature speaker. Vodka on the nightstand and it’s 420 somewhere. The world is my oyster.
Rodney Betten is a poet who lives in Grand Rapids with his dog, Fluffy. He has two adult children. He plays a lot of pickleball, bikes a lot, walks his dog and writes.