Poetry

I Am Not the Famous One: a tribute to author/poet Ray Carver
                        by Gary Leon Zimmer
I am not the famous one. But my pain was equal to his.
He became Chekhov. I became Alfie.
The meanness of the streets that spawned us made him a literary oak, while I became the hollow man, looking both outward and inward for substance not yet there.
His legend established; his journey ended. My mediocrity lingers long, yet unexplained.
He lived close to the fairgounds while I climbed its fence in a black leather jacket, collar turned up, white t-shirt underneath, scowling, announcing a manhood not yet achieved.
He was raised by an alcoholic, itinerant father. My flesh grew as the devil ranted, my spirit beneath his feet, no handhold to raise itself.
He had no inside plumbing on fifteenth street. At the house in the alley, I had beer bottles on Sunday and hunger by Wednesday.
His father wrested a living from the same mill that filled my friend Jimmy with water, taking away his profanity and leaving his mother with hair turned white overnight. Death still not understood, I laughed at his funeral.
His house too full, he wrote his stories in cars. Bereft of self, cars became the vessel in which I conducted a fruitful search for meaning, if only for the briefest of moments.
Words were his refuge. Mine was spherical and a talent to manipulate my body in fluid physical form, pleasing to others, giving birth to more brief moments of wholeness.
His was the class of Monda, Golphnee, Majors, Irwin and Keith. They lived in the light while our equal to Russian brilliance groped in the darkness, unseen.
His star, fully risen, he kissed his Tess goodbye and surrendered himself to the infinite untold story.
Still lost in the forest, I look back over my shoulder and ponder the complexities of that mean little town, still mostly unaware of the stature of the boy who emerged from its east side to take his place alongside Hemingway, Mailer, Thoreau and Wilder.

The Man Bowse
                                               by Gary Leon Zimmer

With my ear to the ground and a moist finger to the wind, I have discerned that this man Bowse is most worthy and deserves whatever honors we of faint heart and inadequate sinew can bestow upon him. I have learned that he emerged from his youth with a kind heart and a formidable physical presence, led to maturity by a man called King and instilled with wisdom by a woman named Anna.

His quickened gait has slowed and his frame no longer leans into the wind, but instead, quakes and tilts while the ground lurches precariousy, gust and gust again, each a threat to his uprightness. But this man Bowse plods on, weathering the storm, whistling and sometimes humming, 'Danny Boy and Run For the Roses'.... he has indeed stayed the course, and played the course with manly intent and valorous deeds.

'Bowse' has brought honor to all men; and scholar and warrior alike decree his legend to be peerless; his manliness unmatched. Though quake and tilt reach out for him, he is a Knight of the Realm and one with all that is noble. I say, "Let us, knaves, Knights and Kings all, hoist each a chalice, brimful with celebratory nectar, to the man Bowse'.

I say, "Long live Bowse!

Perfection! 
                     by Gary Leon Zimmer

The eyes, evenly spaced, one eye and another, one to a side
The eyes warn of the precipice, find the water and search for prey
The ears hear the risk not seen, one ear and another, one to a side
The ears discern a threat, sense the danger, and caution ‘step away’

The nose, centered, beneath the eyes, nature’s blessing
The nose, a wafting of flowers, a babe’s sweetness, an aroma of spices pure
The mouth, nature bestows its riches, apples, cherries, and icy water streaming
The mouth, a spoon to nurture, of tasteful pleasures, and we endure

The arms, to heft the bounty, sinew to raise all that is of essence
The arms, to protect loved ones, to embrace, to till the soil
The hands, to build, to feed, to fold in deference to a greater presence
The hands, to calm, to stay the evening chill, to celebrate the harvest of toil

The legs, to lessen the distance between mother and child, to walk, to run
The legs, to ascend the mountain, to follow the trail, to seek the new and leave the known
The feet, to seize the earth, to stride, and in turn, to lower gently, earthward, a victory won
The feet, to stand, to steady, to lean, to tactfully depart once seeds are sown

The mind of man, to conceive, to invent, to ease the burden, to assuage the pain
The mind of man, to conserve the forests, to defend the jungles, to cleanse the water
The Spirit and Soul of man, enduring, unceasing, continuing beyond our earthly plane
The Spirit and Soul of man, to love Nature as man’s Mother and Father

All to hint of a plan, that of the perfection of man