Poems by Jeffrey Side

ON THIS FATEFUL DAY AND BARREN LAND

And on this fateful day
I sought some hours,
and escaped
among
certain friendly trees.

I saw a rose upon the land,
half buried in the sand,
and held it
all day,
in the breeze.

And I made some plans
for the Golden Lanka,
and wrote a note
to a woman
and thanked her.

And in some fallen moment,
and some unknown kind
of way, I managed
to pass by
this troubled day.


SNOW RANGES AND FAIR WOODS

Angers and failures:
my lads are not for reconciliation.

I alone drink accurately
on the uncertainty.

I drink for the occasion,
similarly impressed, to brakes, skies,
and ghosts.

Snow ranges and fair woods
have their stint.

Printed feasts of richness.
Thrushes that quote but do not sing.

Racing to the beginning where the
reed’s breath sums up heaven.

And yet the reed speaks of simplicity
while full motion reconciles earthly years.

Dread lurks in the forest.
Candle boys shine the rough men.
Safe are the spheres that are dried
like the shells

The old ships cry fleetingly
under the moonshine.


PLASTER PIECE

The sky-blue plaster piece
you chose because I touched it,
you will always keep.
You like to spend the days with me.

The Sunday I first took you
on plastic with red button lens
you turned out well.
The air was cold, but it was shining.

And the round crowned church
held you in its circle
and calmed you at my side.

You take photos in the light.


SOMETIMES IT CAN TAKE A YEAR TO BE TRUE

It was inconceivable
that the horizon
could be ablated
by the paving
stones of anxiety
foisted upon the
gravelled stairway and
ceramic triangles that
we passed against.

Charlotte was a woman
of strange complexion whose
ambiance was that of
a cat trapped in
a fire escape of
its own projected delusion.

I knew her
well that spring
and June and
on that Friday
morn in blessed
dawn she was
the best thing
that ever happened
to her and
I cannot recall
my problems at
that state other
than to say
we had a
great time there.

The autumn leaves fell
by the gate and
slipped through the mist.
Time has no meaning
to fruit. Nothing bothers
them so it seems.

I found a
woman too I
heard her say
stop dreaming you
lush we are
not in May
so have a
drink on me
if you believe
in nothing he
wrote can be
heard but fleeced.
If I could just
go back to that
autumn week and all
the tables and chairs
that shone so brightly
for her glorious madness
and upbeat tortured serenity.