Master of Fine Arts

Poetry by Matthew W. Schmeer

 

Vultures of Sleep
by
Matthew W. Schmeer

 

Driving My Mother To Her Grave

My mother talked about it constantly; she swore 
We'd send her there before her time, 
My sister with her screaming fits

And me with wayward hands that loved 
Dime store candy and grocery aisle toys. 
She kept her money in a pickle jar,

Sweaty cash from men stuck in airports 
With too much time between flights 
Spent abusing the coffee shop waitress.

I'd steal her quarters and sneak 
To the 7-11 or Stop-N-Go and buy 
Now&Laters and rolls of SweeTarts,

Lemon slushies or ice-slicked Cokes. 
I'd buy my friends with rolls of dimes, 
Picking out cap guns and parachuting soldiers

And re-enacting the Alamo in the park 
As if it had been fought the year before. 
I'd climb the trees and drop my troops,

Watching them float toward the swings 
With their guns trained on Santa Anna, 
My mother's voice calling out

From our apartment door, 
Enraged for a day's tips lost 
In the breeze held by a plastic parachute.

---*---

Four Snapshots Of My Father

1953 
He is five. 
The collie licks his hands 
As he pushes the dog away. 
He is laughing. 
Or crying. 
The birthday cake is half-eaten.

1969 
The cigarette hangs coolly 
From his stubbled lips. 
He taunts the camera 
With a tough-guy pose 
From astride the shiny Honda. 
His seaman's uniform is too loose.

1974 
He holds his newborn daughter in one arm 
And cradles a Pabst in the other.

1986 
That's him behind the video camera in the background, 
A cloud of cigarette smoke frozen in mid-December 
And his mouth open as if in mid-sentence. 
His left hand steadies the video camera 
And threatens us with exposure.

---*---

Scarecrow

The swallows with thin black fingers 
And beaks banded with gold furrow into the sky. 
They think I have lain fallow far too long.

Tonight, they will evict me from this field. 
A crow laughs when he tells me of a plan 
Where a thousand swallows will drag me away.

I await the pinching of talons on my flesh, 
The movement from ground to sky, 
The long fall back to earth.

---*---

The Squirrels

At night I lay awake 
And listen to them gather, 
Drawing into themselves 
Under the dimmed streetlights, 
Their feet scuffing the pavement 
With the heaviness of sleep, 
Their clawed fists 
Clenching empty bottles 
And dragging piano wire.

---*---

What Frankie Bishop Said

Two days before Frankie Bishop's car 
Cleared the curve into the bright green air 
Of Guilford Canyon, he handed me 
His saxophone case and said 
" All men desire women's laughter," 
Before bounding on stage, a cigarette 
Still dangling from his lips as the bassist 
Began to play the opening lead.

Later, after the band was finished for the night 
And the crowd had long since gone home, 
I handed Frankie a bottle of Crown Royal 
And a pack of Kamel Reds and lit a cigarette 
Before I asked him if homosexuals 
Desired women's laughter, too, seeing as how 
They don't desire women the other way.

Frankie just leaned back and laughed 
And said yes, them too, and went on to explain 
How sex has nothing to do with it, 
That the desire for women's laughter 
Drives down deeper than sex, deeper than soul, 
That it's women's laughter that keeps men, all men, 
Going into the night and up through the day, 
That women's laughter keeps the world together,

That it's the thankful sounds of women's voices 
Trailing into giggles or wails that make life 
Worth living, that making a woman happy 
Is the greatest thing a man could do, 
And he gave a wink right here when he said 
" If you can make a woman happy 
Without asking her to take off her clothes, 
Then you are a better man than I."