Why I Gave Up Writing and Joined the Circus

I left it all; the paper and pens, publishers
and agents who could not love my inner
fantasy and joined the circus.

The make-up, big nose and fancy pants
helped me overcome my feelings of
obscurity. I created an identity grander
than my literary art. I now have something
worth writing about.

I married the fat lady, she gave birth to
a midget; I learned to swallow swords,
made friends with a contortionist who
told me to turn my pens into pretzels,
and live like a real man.

The Composition of Tears

At your grave I shed 10,000 tears
Letting each fall into a small rose colored bottle

Half of these I pour onto your coffin
They become the river you will sail home on

The other half I pour onto a tray of silver
Under the bright midday sun they evaporate
Leaving only their salt white essence

With this talcum I powder myself in sorrow and sun light,
I recall the day of your birth and mourn for you

Roses and tear drops     Roses and blood drops

We lower you into red cold clay
100 sad eyes and the bleeding heart of Jesus

My Cat's Human
(November 21, 2006)

I would tell my daughters, “That’s the luckiest cat in the world;
she’s so dumb she’d die if she ever stepped foot out the door.”

I guess even she knew that the day I left the front door open by mistake,
freedom beckoned as she stared out into the wild world knowing it wasn’t for her.

I didn’t pet her; she didn’t like to be petted. I freshened her water.
My daughters were always too busy to do it. She was my daughters’ cat.

No one brushed her dreadlocks; the matted clumps that grew worse
as she aged, slowed down, and slept more. So I did.

I grew up on a mink farm. I don’t love animals. What are they good for except
to eat and wear?

She’d sit next to my desk as I’d write, and stare, and talk to no one. She’d sleep
outside my bedroom waiting for me to wake up; scratching the door if I was late.

She didn’t get smarter with time. After thirteen years she was still just a dumb cat.
Well, animals are all pretty dumb aren’t they?

Yesterday she didn’t get up from the place where she’d plant herself until I got home;
the spot at the top of the steps where she seemed to be glued as if she were waiting for
someone to come in the front door.

When I called Elaine to say the Vet had just put Princess down, I made a joke about
her corny name; and started to weep. That was when I realized she’d made me her human.

Exit Strategy

Elaine took me to her German psychic,
as expected, she saw everything.

Our bad days and our glories.
The history of our times and species;
                    we have been together
                                         for generations.

Realizing how long I have been with Elaine
made me feel tired—I didn’t realize we’d been
working things out for over 400 years.
That’s a long time to accommodate a sentient being,
I don’t care what form I was in; me as:
          Her cat
          Her dog
          Her sister
          Her butler
          Her mother
          Her hair stylist
Gerta saw it all against her inner astral cineplex.

I didn’t know I was once a charming pistol packing pescalero
a handsome Mexican bandit who charmed Elaine
         (in an earlier even more succulent form)
                                       to indulge my desires.

Irresistible under a vast pecan tree.
The Milky Way strung over our heads.
I pick the flower she willingly offers me.
We melt into the warm night—two sentient beings
as happy as two souls beings could ever be.

She, the sheriff’s daughter
                     virgin, sixteen, flawless
                               filled with secret flames

Me, hanging from a pecan tree
                     limp, twitching, forlorn
                              looking a bit bewildered

Too many lives to hold in one small boat.
Yet on we sail, east to paradise
          fighting our way toward enlightenment,
                    the only exit strategy
                              for two weary souls.

Charles P. Ries lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His narrative poems, short stories, interviews, and poetry reviews have appeared in over two hundred print and electronic publications. He has received four Pushcart Prize nominations for his writing. He is the author of The Fathers We Find, a novel based on memory and five books of poetry. Most recently he was awarded the Wisconsin Regional Writers Association “Jade Ring” Award for humorous poetry. He is the former poetry editor for Word Riot and a former member of the board at the Woodland Pattern Book Center. Charles is Co-Chairman of the Wisconsin Poet Laureate Commission. He will have two books of poetry published in early 2010: Girl Friend & Other Mysteries of Love that will be published by Alternating Current Press, Leah Angstman, Editor. And I’d Rather Be Mexican that will be published by Cervena Barva Press, Gloria Mindock, Editor. He is a founding member of the Lake Shore Surf Club, the oldest fresh water surfing club on the Great Lakes. You may find additional samples of his work at Literati.net.