Richard Le Due

A Short Poem for a Long Trip

by Richard LeDue

I will probably never travel

further than this page,

where white reminds me of Himalayan snow

and words are tracks too easily

filled back in, as if existence a lie

told by a guide to impress tourists,

who believe they're missing something

they can't find at home.

A Failed Love Poet

by Richard LeDue

Love poems don't care about your broken tooth

or how you have to drive three hours

to have it fixed, love poems

don't stay awake, worried

about the possible blood clot

in your leg, love poems don't ask

the pharmacist their opinions

on the best diaper rash creams,

where the Metamucil is located,

what multivitamin is preferable

for a six-year-old boy who only eats

six or seven different foods

(having said “banana” once,

only to never say it again),

and love poems don't

pay the dentist bill with a credit card,

the raising prices reminding us

how low we feel when we realize

most love poems go unread

because the audience more concerned

with a developing cavity than

the smeared heart blood left on a page.

August 24, 79 CE

by Richard LeDue

They say brains became black glass

from the heat of Mount Vesuvius that day,

and I imagine imaginations

going dark,

while memories of unsaid love

became even more fragile,

but maybe that sort of death wasn't the worse—

creating the realest afterlife,

but only for grey brain matter

that fired thoughts like lightning,

always believing itself to be more like Zeus

than the neighbour, who's only thunder

came from yelling at his wife

and smashing another bottle against the wall.

A Not-So Brilliant Poem

by Richard LeDue

Fame is a fart

we should be too polite

to acknowledge—

it is a stench disguised as Miss America,

trying to fool nostrils

into believing they can blink,

but being average is the real rose:

the most glorious blooming

we sell too cheap

just to wither in a vase that cost more

than this poem ever will.

Something Bigger

by Richard LeDue

A poem about tiny bugs

(who survive on spilled honey,

just out of sight

on the top shelf of the cupboard)

could say something bigger

than my own inadequacies

as a housekeeper,

but too many of us admire clean floors

and how we could eat off them

if the occasion called for it.

Necessity

by Richard LeDue

The price of milk has gone up—

another ingredient in inflation's recipe,

and I'm sure the lactose intolerant

are laughing behind bathroom doors,

trying so damn hard

not to be heard, although

no one is even listening,

while cows probably feel more important,

like a grocery clerk making fifty cents

more than minimum wage

because it helps a necktie sleep.

A Reason to Put the Rent Up

by Richard LeDue

A DNA test to prove who

let their dog crap on the landlord's lawn

is enough to silence a broken dishwasher

or the doctor's bill for a sore back,

while rent goes up quietly

among typed words on a white page,

and your anger goes unheard among indifferent faces

that would become more interesting

underneath paper bags,

but if you were to light them on fire

it would be no prank, but a crime

used to sell more newspapers

or bait more clicks

as your lawyer checked their phone,

deaf to the real guilty.

Giving Up on Hope

by Richard LeDue

Hope can live inside someone

like a mouse chewing wires,

only to cause a fire

when it's least expected,

ruining some, while leaving others

feeling lucky

because they knew when to get out.

Whatever Is Inside of Us

by Richard Le Due

Wolves watch from a safe distance,

making no myths about the religious implications

of eating a person and their soul,

while a passing raven has more reverence

for a twig shaped like a wing bone

than the way warm breath dances

with cold air, proving whatever is inside of us

smart enough to try and escape,

especially as our tracks go in circles

because we're too stubborn to admit

we're lost.

Beer and Love Songs on a Wednesday Night

by Richard Le Due

The father in another county

as the teenage mother

doesn't even have a nun

squeezing her hand,

whispering about God's plan,

how adoption could be salvation,

and she'll still listen to those same songs

about love afterwards,

except now she'll notice

the twenty-something rock stars

don't seem as good a match

for someone who's 16,

and the engagement ring

she threw back at him

says more about love than those songs,

and his smug hello years later

when she worked as a waitress

(even though she went back

for her grade 10 after dropping out)

caused her to go home and get drunk

says more about love than those songs,

while the half sister I met three times

seemed nice enough

for a stranger.

After I Turned 40

by Richard LeDue

The Beatles and ice-cold beer

turned into ghosts I learned to live with,

but the dead voices sounded

more alive than teeth, chattering

like a cheap joke prop,

except it was conversations

about inflation, the right

time of day to floss,

how much salt to add to soup,

and the best way

to cook steak,

which at least, all makes life

seem simple enough sometimes,

like fixing a hot day

by eating an entire box of lime jello,

while the sidewalks crack,

unnoticed,

as if they were young once

and believed in love songs.

The alarm clock

by Richard LeDue

tells me the time

with numbers red as a cardinal,

but its song is static

because I despise the alarm

screeching like an owl

using my darkness

to swoop down,

peck away parts of me,

making my blood turn white,

leaving behind bones

more than capable of 9–5,

sleeping in the weekends,

Monday after Monday,

January after January,

until years decay into decades,

so that living only gets in the way.

Sentimental Love Poems Shown to No One

by Richard LeDue

No one can stop you

from closing your eyes

and dreaming of a dead face

from some childhood film noir

you don't remember the name of,

and even if you can't make love

to a shadow,

you still write love poems

on the back of weekly grocery lists

that you always forget at home,

and even though the meat manager

asks how you are,

you'll lie and let your broken heart

find camouflage among ground beef

until a new cashier smiles at you,

ruining all that pain

that made your life comfortable.

Another Saturday Night

by Richard LeDue

The record danced with its needle,

while we drank beer,

comparing our dead grandfathers.

Mine a veteran who lied about his age,

survived Nazis and drinking with ghosts

at his kitchen table,

while finding comfort in a six pack

and cigarettes he rolled himself

(when he could afford the tobacco

instead of smoking teabags),

just to die of lung cancer when I was 3,

and yours a conscripted messenger,

whose last message was his own

order of execution that he never delivered,

and years later in another country,

he startled your uncle awake,

sleeping on the couch separate from your aunt,

by having his usual midnight beer

in his living room.

Our empty cans slowly filling

with the sort of memories one inherits

by being born.

My Death Knells

by Richard LeDue

I have died a thousand deaths

just to survive Monday to Friday,

have bled out without even trying

or losing an ounce of blood,

with bandages stained brown

as cheap whisky,

while my nurse is no more

than my own voice echoing

in my hangover

saying everything's alright,

only for my death knells to disguise themselves

as laughing extra hard

in a world afraid of dying.