Not An Easy Chair

It used to be said
that a hard chair
straight backed
was best
for you.
Now though
they say
it’s ok 
to lounge,
to slouch,
to curl up
in comfort
like a cat
at ease 
in an easy chair.
But some chairs aren’t
easy
for lounging,
or for comfort
or for sitting up 
straight.
They have a design problem
that is not easy to resolve.
It takes determination,
a palette of positions
and maybe a drink
to find a way.
And some deep thinking
on the matter.

Curious

A wind whirls
bells peal
confusion surmounts
decisions
matters of ultimate
concern
draw near
furrow a brow
imagining the life-course
patterns
of unknown extras
in the background
black and white
of old movies.

Randall Rogers is a writer from the US Midwest.  He is intensely concerned with the little things in life.  Makes him tough to live with.  Even the plants are rebelling.  He prefers ground up to top down.  Do not worry of the little people, Randall says, “little folk will survive.”  Randall stands 5′ 5″ after double hip replacement surgery.  Says Randall “Short people do have a reason to live!”  He lives at home with his tall wife and dog.  He often intones “height challenged is bliss.”

A FAIR NUMBER

I drank a fair number of beers
While it was still light out
But the sun sure did sink fast
And then it was night.

I kept opening the beers
And then pouring them down
While eating fistfuls of mixed nuts
And reading poetry, listening to music
The way I do
On days that I drink
A fair number of beers
With the sun sinking fast.

The music kept playing
And I began to sing along.
I think I peed at least fifteen times.
I never looked at the clock,
I just kept the radio on
And read all the poems.

Finally, I had had enough –
The beer bottles were all huddled
Together on the corner of the kitchen counter,
Looking bitter and used up
And I’m not sure if I was listening
To Sonny Boy Williamson I
Or Sonny Boy Williamson II.
Before going to bed
I looked out the front door
Just to make sure
And the night was still out there

With all her vivid darkness.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

the solo lafarge decoder

I am the salamander in the window well

bacon loves the asphalt
the lasting salad names a wedge

the white eye syndrome of the rockies
the fossilized ornament is the universal laugh

most of the mountain
were you ahead of the light?

Drums

Down the hill behind him
shots were again being fired.
Each explosion split a thought
into pieces that drifted in different directions.
He put on earphones then
and turned on native American shamanic drums
and followed their rhythm to a place and time
where everything that happened
was part of the same current
that would lead anyone who followed
to where it
and all else
both began
and came to an end.

Mrs. Tinsley Calls the City

The cars are parked too close to her house.  
Her neighbour is feeding the raccoons again.  
Right from the hand, against local wildlife regulations.  

Mrs. Tinsley calls the city.  
Kids out on the street at all hours.  
Surely there must be a curfew.  

And on a school night.  
Their parents not securing their garbage   
as per municipal guidelines.  
That comes with a hefty fine.  

And the noise from the party house down the street.  
Last time came with a warning.  

Mrs. Tinsley has been put on hold.  
They will surely hear about this as well. 

To Those I’ve Wounded

What I didn’t do
I should’ve done,
and what I did do
I shouldn’t have, 
and now I can’t
escape my own
history, a stench
like dead-flower
water in a vase.

After I die I’ll be dead for a spell

let’s say, let’s say six months after I’m dead
–what will I look like then deader than dead
if that’s possible? Sure, my body will
shrink some and in, say, seven hundred years
I might be indistinguishable from
nothing at all, as if I’d never died
and was never buried although fossils
are a Hell of a lot older. Bowing
before some old dead sucker’s headstone here
in our churchyard cemetery I want
to see the person, what he looks like now,
what rags or jewelry might remain and hair
and belt and shoe buckles and wonder if
any life is left that he might lend me.

Between Me And You

Everything you do is
determined
not by you
but by something
through being you
fits in with the manner
in which the puppet master
has you acting
because there is no free will
and everything you do
from the slightest scratching
of your nose
is preordained
you are a raggedy-Ann doll,
a floppy-disc,
already imprinted
way before birth
therefore what to do
except identify
the cosmos as you already
determined
go with the flow
call it a good day’s
warble
and continue the dialogue,
for sanity, to be sure,
is tentative.

The Turtle Crossing Guard

Once, a boy only wanted to be a crossing guard. He knew there were yellow school
crossings and yellow deer crossings and yellow cattle crossings and even yellow bear
crossings. Those didn’t interest him. He only wanted to stand at a yellow turtle crossing,
with a stop sign and a sash. He wanted to protect their slow way across. After school he
practiced sign angles. Kept a whistle handy. Could say Stop in seven languages. His
mother knit a colorful variety of sashes. His favorite was purple, so perfect for an off day.