Reflection: An Experiment in Experimental Poetry and Prose

By Milt Lemke Jr.

Through the years Ive learned much from my Poetry Mentors, who are many, and a few Ive mentioned in this book. They taught me by example that, yes, I too can be a Poet. I too can be a member of this extraordinary extended family. A good dose of courage, and risk taking is whats needed to achieve some sort of compromising end. Frankly Ive learned little of this art from text books and class rooms. Its The Masters; the elder Poets who are my text book and class room, teaching me the refinement process of honing and polishing. What ever course my poetry and prose might take My Tutors assure me its a well worth the journey down every path, and side path. Visiting every side show I visit, and eventually discovering my style. I consider my poems and prose as my children. Like their parent I want them to do their best. Ive nurtured them, loved them, and cared for them. Ive held on to them long enough. Its time they go out on their own.

You may be disappointed if you fail,
but you are doomed if you dont try.
Beverly Sills

Milt Lemke, Jr.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 27, 2005
• ISBN: 9781465331519

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Copyright © 2005 by Milt Lemke, Jr..

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

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including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

R E F L E C T I O N N O I T C E L F E R

PART 1

THE FACE!

I WANT TO BE A POET!

MY CHILDREN MY CHILDREN

BEHIND THE SHUT’N DOOR

PERSONALITY OF MY LIFE

REAL ME

I AM ARIES! BORN IN MARCH

HAD NOT MUCH TO SAY

I TOO

THE SUMMER OF LAST YEAR

THE WALL: DECEMBER 1964

(LG + LG) = HJF

HAUNTING MEMORIES

THE HILLS OF EXILE

LIGHT FOR GUIDANCE

A PROBLEM UPON A DECISION

ACROSS THE HAUNTED

THE GREEN GARDEN

WIND

LINGER

WILL I BE?

THE ONLY WAY TO BECOME FAMOUS IS TO DIE

MY POETRY EDDIES

DAY’S END

PART 2

WHO ARE THEY?

THEY’ER NATURE

THE PEOPLE THEY ARE

BEQUEST

IF YOU HAD

IF YOU ARE

FAMILY

ANGLE’ISH

MY SISTER’S NEW OPAL

BRANDY’S CANDY

JENNIFER MARCUS

AMY

AMY MARIE

KITES! AND KITE TAILS

KITE TAILS

SAMUEL BENJAMIN BORN FEBRUARY 21, 2002

TO MEG

PART 3

MR. X! MR. X!

NEWS OF MR. X

MR. EKS

PART 4

SKINNY

I WAS NOT THERE WHEN PAIN AWOKE

I WAS NOT THERE WHEN PAIN AWOKE

WE

MEET THE SUPREMES

DIANA ROSS

IN MEMORY

FIVE SONNETS OF THE MEMORY WINDOW

THE WILLOWS STAND! RECORDED

THE BLACK TAR’D STREET

MY WORDS

PERSONALITY OF HER LIFE

BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR BEAUTY

EMILY D.

EMILY D. IN 1966

SISTER! SISTER! FROM THE 1950’S

HATSHEPSUT HER MAJESTY THE KING!

SOBRIETY

SNOW

PART 5

SONG OF LIFE

RAIN

GOD PUNISHES SIN

DO NOT MAKE BARGAINS WITH GOD MOI? GRANDIOSE?

GOD LIVES ON!

OH DEAR JESUS

ON JUDGMENT DAY!

PART 6

NIGHT

HELL

VAMPIRES

NOVEMBER

HURT AND PAIN

PART 7

WHERE THE LEAVES LIVE

WILL IT SUMMER?

HELL’S DAY OF SUMMER

THE SNOW STORM

O CHRISTMAS TREE

A SLANTED AFTERNOON

PART 8

MORNING STAR

THE SONNET OF THEN

SONNETS OF THE SEASON OF UGLINESS

THREE SONNETS OF ANCIENT EGYPT

HAIKU

DREAMS CREATORS AND TIME

FELLAH

MASTER

AROUND THE BLOCK ON A FOGGY NIGHT

OBJECTS IN THE MORNING

THE DARK SHADOWS OF EVE

CONFUSION

A SEASON OF UGLINESS

SOME’TN WILD

WELTSCHMERZ

FORBIDDEN CAKE

NO MIRTH CAN COMPARE

SMOKE THOUGHT

ADAPTIVENESS

TAKE TIME

LATE BLOOMERS

TOWERS OF FABRICATED GREEN

MOON MOOD

SIXTH SENSE

AN OIL GLAND NAMED GUS

BIRDY BIRDY

CAT IN THE WIND

CREATORS ALL

WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

HES I TATION

INVOLVEMENT

IF YOU HAD

REACHING OUT

PAST

HATE-DISLIKE

AFTER AND AND BUT

PIQNIK

KNOWLEDGE IS THIRST

AS IT IS

A MUST FOR ALL REASONS

A NEW BALL GAME

DOUBLEUU

ANCIENT

TIME MARCHES ON!

COMMUNICATION’S CROSS

THE RESPECT IT COULD OFFER

THE POETS

WE HAVEA COME!

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY

CAPTURE THAT DELICATE PROSE

NO PAIN NO GAIN

LETTUCE! IT’S GRAND!

MOSQUITO

WHEN A CERTAIN DAY WAS DARK I DIED

DAYS END

COMMONPLACE FIXATIONS

This book is dedicated to:

My Mom. And the rest of my extended family.

Cindy Peebler. We’ve been through good times,

and bad times, but mostly good.

Becky B. My dearest and oldest friend of all.

George M. In memory of his parents.

George Sr. and Frieda Marcus.

Tim I. Who knows a lot about doorbells.

My fellow employees of CNS.

And: My most cherished, and valued friends of: A West,

and all my friends of BW.

INTRODUCTION

The summer of 1966 was an impressionable, and exciting, turning point in my life. I was 17, and in love. I was in love with Judy T. The girl next door. And in love with three other girls known as: Diana Ross and The Supremes. The Supremes, especially Diana Ross, were my Spiritual Saviors. And finally topping off this pageant of beautiful woman is my favorite poet. Emily Dickinson.

From an array of fine poets to choose from; Emily Dickinson stood out the most of all. Not only did she capture my heart and Soul, but she sparked them as well. It was that rebellious oddity, and subtle coolness of hers; those strange creative attributes that attracted this awkward 17 year old. Emily is my poetry mentor who led me to a land of creativity, and freedom! Inspiring me to eventually, over the years, develop and expand my style, and to find my poetry niche.

Today I can say.

This is my Poetry.

I write this way . . .

It suits me very well.

I am a poet who dwells

With in that realm.

A place that is seldom seen.

Milt Lemke, Jr.

R E F L E C T I O N N O I T C E L F E R

An experiment in experimental poetry, and prose.

By

Milt Lemke, Jr.

Reflections of the way life use to be.

Reflections of the love You took from me . . .

As I peer through the window of lost time . . .

From:

Diana Ross and The Supremes

From Their album: REFLECTIONS, 1968

REFLECTION

I have come up from my past

To write and to speak.

I feel strong! Confidant! Not weak.

Daring and sweet.

The few Souls I write about,

May They dwell in Heaven!

For this lowly lonely old Soul

Has been rejuvenated!

i am here a’las in my past.

writing, too meekly.

thinking . . . i am the last.

small; timid; waning.

a ‘souls i have written some

They might be in hell.

a ‘quest I’ve sought a soul myself.

stagnate words i tell.

PART 1

REFLECTION ON ME THE BEST WAY I KNOW HOW

I’M NOBODY

By Emily Dickinson

      I’m nobody. Who are You?

      Are You nobody too?

      Then there’s a pair of don’t tell.

      I’ll banish us You know.

      How dreary to be somebody.

      How public like a frog.

      To tell Your name the live long day.

      To an admiring bog.

THE FACE!

I looked in my mirror . . .

And what did I see?

Oh my gosh! I said.

Another face?! Looking back at me!

So I turned away!

Then what did I see?

Whew! What a relief . . . !

Thank God, I only saw me.

I WANT TO BE A POET!

I want to be a Poet!

Not to throw it.

Not to stone it.

However, remember this is what I know.

Consecrating the words of Miss Gavin.

   Don’t tell. Show.

Like those other Poets

Before me, see

I wish that I could

   be.

How do They do it?

In with Them.

Oh! Let me be! Free!

I’ve read a lot of Emily Dickinson.

And Robert Creely and Robert Frost.

Elizabeth Bishop and many elders of the realm.

And some I never heard of . . .

Like Them! I want to be a Poet.

God! Please don’t let me be lost.

Drifting somewhere in that tangled creative space.

Yet I’ve dreamt I could meet these Poets.

And meet Them face to face.

Yet, some of Them are dead.

But really not gone away.

I might ask Them, shyly.

   How did You do it? I too, like You, want to be a Poet.

They might laugh at me, but then again not.

Perhaps They would lay a smile on me in a kindly,

Sympathetic, but noble jest.

But I am sure as I wrench out these words, They would say.

   Just be Yourself, and do Your best.

There are other Poets I

Never heard of; did They go amok?

Hey! Look!

They too are named in many and many

Prestigious books . . .

MY CHILDREN MY CHILDREN

Oh my Children! All my children.

Fragmented as You are.

Coming together and representations of this Host,

For the most, by far.

Oh my Children! All my children.

Gestating Embryos; developing fetuses . . .

Growing yet in an old womb that can’t

Get its feet off the ground to search for

Your special nourishment just can’t be found.

Oh my Children! All my children.

Your food, my children, should be provided from that Outsider.

A charlatan! Who keeps Your food away. They have the say.

And yet incredibly little has happen to You, hence You.

My Children can’t seem to leave the safety of this one provider.

Are You never to see the light of day?

Oh my Children! All my children.

I am Your Mother, and I am Your Father, my milk

Is not enough to feed You, my breast are not mature.

But one thing that excites me is that when I’m dead,

You can have that much needed food. A feast! For sure!

And finally My Children, You will sprout, and grow!

And grow! For my dead body will contain all the nutrients,

Minerals, and vitamins and perhaps in time every one will know.

For it is at this time, when I die, that I’ll gladly give up

Myself, for I love You . . .

Oh my Children! All my children.

BEHIND THE SHUT’N DOOR

What is behind this shut’n door?

Where sun’s light is not allowed?

I must know!

Curiosity is playing tricks with my mind.

I have many questions to ask.

Is it what I am standing on?

This floor of pebbled stony gravel? Dirt and oil?

Or of some strange flowers. Erotic aroma sweet

A bouquet of flavored scented sweet flowers . . . ahhh . . . .

Yellow black spot daises?

Purple stink weeds? On the other hand, Queen Anne’s lace.

Whose delicate flowers burst like white firecrackers bursting upon!

Exploding upon! Shooting rockets, and spreading her sparkling, Crackling diamonds towards a radiant, and dazzling sun.

What can it be? Confusion? Yep! Bewilderment.

But my inpatients; escalates, further. I must

   find a way. I must! I must! I must!

Perhaps . . . Just a peek? A little one—? Oh! A hole!

Fits perfectly around my right eye.

My eye feels irritation as I peer through this