Richard LeDue

Yellow Mama Archives III

Richard LeDue

As Grey Hairs Make Love to the Silence

by Richard LeDue

Drunk at 6 PM,

losing count of your drinks,

of the hours piled up through the day

like dirty clothes thrown in the floor

not from passion, but from laziness,

and of the years, making promises

you knew were lies, yet listened to

because you couldn’t do any better.

Grey Clouds Again

by Richard LeDue

Rain pelting a puddle

somehow reminds me of that person,

who always smiles,

regardless who died,

and the only metaphorical umbrella

I can muster is to smile myself

when sitting alone,

trying not to think

about all the dead I know,

who must have done something right

because they have better things to do

than to haunt me.

Lost Among Rising Mortgage Rates

by Richard LeDue

Sunrises flat as dollar bills,

while the living room picture window

may as well be closed eyes,

and your neighbour's new truck whispers

about how your tiny, fuel-efficient car

reflects all the loveless nights

you lie awake, all the mornings

when the alarm clock argues

with the silence

over who owns your soul.

Warm Bologna Sandwiches

by Richard LeDue

I wrote a lot in my youth

about kisses that never were,

where blood didn't mean a test

for high cholesterol or liver enzymes,

but was the same colour as my hope

of falling into welcoming arms,

only to realize no one cared about me

having a parachute, except myself,

and even if the warm bologna sandwiches

packed in my backpack

each day would never become roses,

the mustard highlighted

my own practicality, which helped me

starve the sort of loneliness

that could have grown old with me,

if I had let it.

Survival Isn't About Reaching the Top

by Richard LeDue

I feel like a mountain climber

who hasn't survived a fall in months

because the beer is left at the liquor store,

while whisky wonders what happened

to me, only to forget my name

when someone new buys a bottle

without noticing all the descents

and ascents give each other meaning

around a summit, littered with corpses

too lost to risk rescuing just to bury.

Time Is a Strange Thing

by Richard LeDue

The past hurts

linger like a bruise

we pretend we don't remember

how it happened,

and we assure anyone who asks

it all must have been

an accident,

and the present can be a half-healed scab

hidden under a sock,

but afraid of the future:

a battered, drunk fist

punching another wall

because blacking out

on Saturday nights shine a light

on all the wounds we've accepted.

The Truest Spirit

By Richard Le Due

My yesterdays are ghost stories

without a campfire,

while my old drinking buddies

phantoms who haven’t died yet,

and the cheap whisky in my cupboard

the truest spirit, letting

my past slowly die of thirst.

“Bach’s Ghost”

by Richard LeDue

I like to believe

this is more of a conversation

than just me listening to a dead composer,

and I wonder

if that is the truest immortality:

being able to haunt a person

born long after you died

with something that had nothing

to do with them

by playing sound against silence.

Such spirituality makes me think

how this poem feels

like a phantasm hoping to howl

against all the nights

I’ll never see,

but afraid of becoming a whisper

that drowns tragically,

beneath the noise

too often thought to be a necessity.

An $11 Lotto Ticket Retirement Plan

by Richard LeDue

I’ve foreseen my own death

and know with certainty it will happen

eventually,

and the afterlife might be

a burned-out light bulb

or ten-feet-tall angels with a projector

playing a movie starring all the people

I’ve ever wronged.

If only the lotto numbers were so easy

to predict, then I could quit my day job

and write more poems like this.

Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, Sometimes, It Isn't Much, was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2024.

In Association with Fossil Publications