Is nostalgia
the material and concrete
days before hell
a respite
an illusion or trickster coyote
lost in clouds and mist.
Is nostalgia
an anchor or heavy burden
a cry for help
the setting sun
locked into a
permanent horizon.
Is nostalgia
a rhythm of song
a cocked eye on
a twisted smile
a time before time
the beginning or end.
Is nostalgia
the hinge on the door
of perception
transcending lost souls
riding a small raft
Is nostalgia
a pitiful island
a castle
a corner tavern
or a broken record
spinning off the turntable
the mighty cause defeated.
Is nostalgia
a past sun
calm between waves
the memory of a ghost train
jumping the tracks
a detour with
flashing lights.
Is nostalgia
an empty closet
once filled with jewels
a fortress of mosaics
a midnight mirage
of sleepless villages
torn by endless plagues
Is nostalgia
a solo bus ride into
a blizzard
a post traumatic hypochondria
dragging of knuckles
in a concrete tunnel
Is nostalgia
what never was
a finger in the eye
blinding a shepherd
finding his lost flock
Is nostalgia
really nostalgic
or the future
when solar rays dissolve
as earth becomes cooler
life dwindles
before the eventual
cosmic blast
returns to
the moment.
I was talking to Dostoyevsky
about the revolution
he laughed
and banged his fist upon the table
`bourgeois, god-damn bourgeois’
the sad man spewed,
`Lenin was queer,
Gogol a fraud,
and James Joyce a drunk Irish prick’
I told him your stories are too long
too depressing
too much sorrow
`bourgeois, god-damn bourgeois’
he bellowed.
`Chekov was a Muslim,
Hemingway a communist
all the rest fake intelligence’
He tipped over the table
spilling cheap vodka
and stained papers.
There are no answers or easy conclusions
to the Czar and his army
`bourgeois, I am a god-damn bourgeois’
he sighed.
The dead sometimes
are dying for years
buried at sea or in
a wooden coffin
or burned unrecognizably
ashes to ashes
at 800 degrees.
Undertakers smile at frozen years
as buzzards fly
among clouds long corridor
ending abruptly
vanished in a short span.
A rocky boat follows the north star
only to succumb to toxic fumes or
a quick hand
a gun
a blade
politically poisoned
on a abandoned dirt road,
decapitated with a laugh
all cries silenced.
Please
please no children
snuffed out before introductions
a family of headstones
lined upright beyond the horizon
where the sun sets
golden orange
fading into shades of black.
The rattle comes slowly for some
mirrors under the nose
pennies on the eyes
fear of the last breath
while remembering
when times were good.
JOHN RAFFETTO
A lifelong resident of Chicago.
Some of his poetry has been published in print and various online magazines. Has been writing poetry for over 30 years. Currently has an online poetry site Bongo Wilderness Poetry.
Holds degrees from the University of Illinois and Northeastern Illinois University. Worked as a horticulturalist and landscape designer for many years at the Chicago Park District. Currently a adjunct professor at Triton College.
–Art by Jan Rockar
–Art by Plamen Stoev
–Art by Joel Hohner