~ ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of October 2024 ~
Tag: Bruce Morton
Highland Boulevard by Bruce Morton
Highland Boulevard
I do not know if it was conceived as a grand design
Or the work of someone who had an appreciation
For metaphor and science, or who had just a sense
Of humor, because it is kind of funny in its naturally
Morbid way. Down the boulevard it is all progression
As gravity and life conflate, each a force doing what
It does. Sometimes you cannot help but be struck
By how things are laid out, a plot set to play out.
Be it plan or coincidence, it is genius nevertheless.
Not to mention logical in its simple elegance.
You make your way to the top of the hill,
Where the water tank looms large, a sentinel,
A monument to quench the thirst of affluence,
A resource that greedily absorbs the landscape,
Which from there flows down hill, sloping to
Main Street and the hum and drum of our daily
Life. It unfolds in order, as if by some divine
Invention, or intervention. Here, newly built, are
The upscale homes for senior citizens,
Then the apartments for those who desire
And can afford independent living nestled close
Up against the building for assisted living—as if
Anyone has ever lived unassisted. Next there
Are the offices that house the doctors, all specialties
Stacked for diagnosis and prognosis, each enjambed
To the hospital with its red-roofed emergency room,
A veritable medical smorgasbord. It is a complex
Thing this inevitable slide down the boulevard,
Nature at work, no control to the roll—such is
The nature of it. Until we must cross over
The street to the mortuary-crematorium, funereal
With its black smoke rising above its black hearse,
A dark cloud polluting our small universe.
Conveniently, we need only drive back across
The boulevard to Sunset Hills Cemetery, a misnomer
Because it is located at the east end of town.
Perhaps in consideration of reincarnation?
Situated between mortuary and cemetery is
A pre-school, its children loud with play,
A seeming incongruence. We sometimes see them
Cheerfully queued, plodding on the sidewalk
Up the boulevard, blissfully defying gravity.
*
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.
Three Poems by Bruce Morton
The Things We Carried
Sure, we wore the instruments of war:
The rifle, the bayonet, the pack, canteen,
And trenching tool. But these could be shed
For respite or based on assignment. But
What was always a burden, always wearing,
Was memory of home, the meals, aromas,
The holidays, the hugs, the warmth that did not
Make you sweat bullets, the worry about what
Jodie was doing with your girl back on the block.
Then there was the sense of self daily eroded,
Challenged and threatened, and always the fear,
The fear of loss of control, of loss of identity,
Of the unknown and the olive-drab known.
It was all this that we bore as we carried on.
*
Dog Tags
First things first. The dog tags.
A poor man’s poor excuse
For fashion, a kick in the teeth
As far as aesthetics go. But better
By far than a leash or collar,
Which in their own way they were.
Certainly much better than a tattoo.
Their cheap jingle-jangle dead give-
Away when stealth is essential. So
We wrapped them with rubber or tape
To conceal our presence, if not
Identity. Name and serial number,
Lest I forget. Blood type: Red, A-plus.
Faith: None. All there is to know.
*
M-16
It was a weapon
Not a gun, he said.
I did not see the difference—
Weapon gun, gun weapon.
Either way somebody was dead.
But it seemed an important
Distinction to the drill sergeant
As he instructed us to strip
The weapon while naming parts.
Caress them with light oil, slowly,
Eyes closed, carefully inserting
Rod and cleaning patch into
The barrel moving it back and forth.
Learn to love your weapon, he said.
You will sleep with it. Treat it right
It would love you, save your life.
Make you a killer. Fucking gun.
*
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.
Two Poems by Bruce Morton
Little Debbie Begs the Existential Question
So there it was, the existential question
Of my childhood. Each morning I would answer
The same question—“peanut butter and jelly
Or baloney?” No choice as to bread. Wonder
Bread, no wonder, it was fortified and white.
But the real moment of existential crisis
Was whether to eat, the sandwich that is,
For there was sweet Little Debbie smiling
On a transparent wrapper over a Swiss Roll,
Or Hostess offering cupcakes and Twinkies,
Or perhaps HoHos, Ding Dongs, and Devil
Dogs. These treats, only just deserts perhaps,
Temptations sweet to a fault, enthralled.
Then to go home to the inevitable inquisition,
“Did you eat your lunch?” There it was, parental
Disbelief, as I explained solemnly that I was
An existential victim of a shift of judgment
From prefrontal cortex to amygdala, yes,
That I was betrayed by basal ganglia, and ho ho,
Ding dong, Little Debbie seduced me, I confessed,
Conjuring a sincerity emboldened by surging sugar.
*
Motel: Spearfish, South Dakota
Early riser that I am
I have risen quietly
Sneaking out of our room
So as not to wake her
To nest in the lounge
Vending machine hum
And paper-cup drip
Of too-hot too-weak coffee
To play my word games
And write about the fat cat
Who has climbed over the front
Desk and up onto my couch
To closely check me out
With a mew of approval.
*
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have recently appeared in Ibbetson Street, Grey Sparrow Journal, London Grip, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Sheila-Na-Gig. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.