#docluben

[s-11999]

How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become ?

[poetrybumblebee]

[itsasheenthing]

14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes, Doc Luben

"I was eight years old and it took three weeks (three eight year old weeks— imagine) to gather everything I needed to be Batman. Rope, boomerangs, a mardi gras mask with the beads cut off. I couldn’t find a cave near my house, so I buried them all in a bundle under the ivy. For years after, I tried to find that spot again. The ivy grew too fast. I searched in so many spots it seemed impossible I had missed any. But I never found it. How can something be there and then just not be there? How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become?"

[doclubenpoetry]

The Bear

  A bear moved in to the mansion next door. 

A very large brown bear, all full of pre-winter fat. 

The family that owns the mansion is on vacation,

or maybe moving to San Carlos,

whatever pointless thing people who live in mansions will be doing.

But the bear smelled food in the cabinets and smashed in through

the french doors on the back deck and hasn’t left.

He has lived there for weeks.

  At first he ate as much as he could, very fast,

but that lost its novelty soon and

he wandered away from the open freezer door. 

He sat in all the chairs,

and then sat in all the chairs again, 

pretending to be Goldilocks.

  He turned on the computer but

his fingers were too fat

for him to compose anything of great meaning,

so he smashed the screen into the wall

and was angry not to find any kind of meat parts inside. 

Anything that gets warm should have meat parts.

The bear laid down to sleep in front of the fireplace

but it made him feel macabre, too much like an antique accesory,

so he moved into the master bedroom.

  He sleeps naked, on top of the covers.

He tried once to ball up the pillows and comforters 

and form them into the shape of a lady bear, 

but it was not nearly big enough and came all undone

when he tried to nuzzle too hard.

He started to think that a mansion is not a great place

for a bear, but now that he was here

leaving seemed implausible.

The other bears would scold him for returning to the woods,

saying he had been ungrateful for a great thing.

  He tries to entertain himself

with walking up and down stairs,

and knocking over lamps and then standing them back up.

He turns on the television and roars at the people

who do not seem to be frightened

but are still unhappy.

He will go out through the back door and circle the house a few times,

which is kind of like being outside,

and he has taken up a form of gardening

which involves him batting at the rosebushes with his claws

leaving large holes of nothing but bare branches.

  He has eaten nearly everything,

including the Halloween candy hidden in the youngest son’s bedroom.

Every day his eyes look more sleepy.

He climbs the stairs and goes down them again.

He likes the stairs.

They seem almost like magic,

like climbing a tree from the inside.

He wants to give up eating

and focus on stairs.

Stairs are the opposite of food. 

The more you use them the more they are there.

They never run out: all you have to do

is turn around

and there are more of them.

[sarahlouvstheworld]

One of my favorite Portland poets so far.