Guest Poet CA Griffin

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!
I know it has been a while and I apologize. But what I have for you today will more than make up for the gap in posting. CA Griffin is someone I recently met and a very talented writer and poetess. I was so impressed by her work I have decided to post one of her works here, along with a link to her blog. You can find some of her stories along side of my own at: www.short-story.me Enjoy and be sure to link and comment, both here and on Ms Griffin’s sites.
BJ
CA Griffin Blog: http://justaroundthewaygirl.blogspot.com

Private Storm
by CA Griffin
© 2011

I was in my quiet existence
Reveling in the calm from within
Then I felt the wind pickup, baby
And I knew your love storm was about to begin
I felt the slightest tremble in my legs
As my heart confirmed it was true love that I found
That’s when I saw your approach and I started to lose ground
I was swept up in the wind of your embrace so I held on fast
But as you sent a rain of sweet kisses all over me
I gave in and let go of the hurt from my past

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me

Ooh ooh stop right there right there.
I don’t think I’ve much longer to last
Baby you shake my walls
And make my breath come so fast
Ravage my body, seduce and take hold of my heart
It’s no use I can’t fight it my resistance is breaking apart

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me.

Baby if you haven’t fallen already
I’m gonna do everything to get you to do so….
And if you tell me you are feelin me too
Then I’m gonna work you deeper inside until you go…

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me.

Let your storm come baby bring the rain
Wash away my hurt my heart is yours to claim
Let your storm come baby bring the rain
Wash away my hurt my heart is yours to claim

For Love by BJ Neblett

For Love

by BJ Neblett

© 2013

He killed himself

Slowly

Little by little

He couldn’t help himself

He couldn’t stop

He was who he was

It couldn’t be any other way

He took his own life

One day at a time

Till there was nothing left

It was suicide

Cause of death: A self-inflicted broken heart

July Cool by BJ Neblett

Hello again and thanks for all the support! Summertime is here again and for some of us with a vengeance! Enjoy your holidays safely. Here is a re-post to get you in the mood, aptly titled July Cool. And once again, as always, for Amy wherever she may be.
Peace,
BJ

July Cool

by BJ Neblett

© 2008, 2013

Burning July

sidewalks as hot as

the tip of the smoldering punk

clenched tightly between

teeth and gum

like some fancy cigar

because we were cool

in red hi-tops

and white T shirts

sleeves rolled

with empty Marlboro packs

like the older dudes

because it was cool

cool as the locking blade

knife ordered

from the last page of

a Green Lantern comic book

it bounced in the back pocket

of our torn

and faded jeans

stained with rainbow badges

proclaiming our cool

bloody nose red

and fishing hook green

and the wide dirt brown stripe

from sliding into home

Torturous July

stealthy pendulum

hovering between youth and tomorrow

when we were cool

and not yet cool

like the tarnished silver ring

that spent July sleeping

in that cool little pocket in my jeans

I bought it from Woolworths

to give to Amy Johnson

in the flickering coolness

of a Saturday matinee

it felt warm

and full of promises

but I didn’t give it to her

because I was too cool

or not cool enough

and Chris called me

a coward

and he was right

so I bought popcorn

with my last four bits

just to hear Amy’s

freckled laughter

and taste her hazel eyes

that made my stomach bubble

Enchanted July

when days exploded

with sunshine

and dandelions

and wishes

like the Black Kats

and Lady Fingers

we ignited with the punks

we pretended to smoke

when shy fireflies

sang in Morse code

and bold butterflies kissed

when I got my first pair

of Matador boots

but had to wait

till September

to wear them to school

because they were cool

and they made me cool

Sultry July

of watermelon days

and transistor nights

when one Willie Mays

was worth two Richie Ashburn’s

unless you lived in Philly

that magical July

our clubhouse

in the woods

became the smoking spot

no more un-cool punks

we had Salems

from mom’s purse

and Chesterfields

for twenty five cents a pack

they burned our throats

like the warm Schlitz beer

Timmy stole

from a neighbor’s garage

then the smoking spot

became the drinking spot

the same spot

where I first touched Robin

in that spot

and Amy knew

and killed me

with her hazel eyes

that made my stomach bubble

Ineluctable July

of inky nights

spent hanging out

because we were cool

trouble matured with us

from playground

to bowling alley

to pool hall

we were too old

for the curfews

we ignored

too old and too cool

but too young to drive

except for the cars

I stole

to impress the guys

and to win back

Amy Johnson

who told me

I was just too cool

Too cool for the July

that melted too soon

like the tangerine sun

and the jealous moon

and Amy’s hazel eyes

that made my stomach bubble

that cool July

For Amy, wherever you are thank you

Amos Fuller Doesn't Speak by BJ Neblett

Amos Fuller Doesn’t Speak

(A winner 2007 Penn American Writing Program)

by BJ Neblett

© 2006, 2013

Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.
He sometimes sits with us when there is room,
His stark dinner tray occupying his private
quarter of the table.

His khakis are always neat and clean,
Wrinkle free, yet strangers to an iron;
His heavy black boots shiny and worn.
He never wears sweats, or sneakers, or
T shirt,
Just the same long sleeved uniform, winter
or summer.

If the salt and pepper are out of reach he
does without.
Sometimes one of us will place them in front
of him.
Then mashed potatoes become snow covered
mounds,
The single, thin slice of meat an ash laden
shingle.

Bent in posture yet proud in manner,
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.
He wears his thinning Afro like a skull cap;
His withered brow reads like the rings of
a southern pine.

He bows his head in prayer, and raises it
in drink,
His vacant eyes prisoners to a different
time, a different place.
Fork clenched tightly in a rough arthritic
fist,
The lacking meal is meticulously
consumed:

           Dry green salad;
           Mean portion of rice or potatoes;
           Meat.
           Two glasses of water.
           Always the same.
           Never dessert.

Once there were cucumbers on his tray.
Halfway through the meal Amos Fuller
burped, expressionless.
He wiped his puffy brown lips
and continued to eat.

Someone said he murdered his wife and
her lover;
Their splattered mingled blood stained the
Curtains and carpet of the tired motel room.
That was 40 years ago,
The last time anyone heard Amos Fuller
speak.

Dinner was silent and tense tonight,
Eyes shifting about like butterflies.
I stood to leave, dropping a wrapped candy
mint on his spent tray.
He raised his blank face to mine,
and rapped his scarred knuckles on the
table.
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.

                                                      

Untitled by BJ Neblett

Here's a poem from a younger and more, shall we say, romantic BJ. Then again, looking at some of my more recent work, I guess not that much has changed... life goes on.

Enjoy,

BJ

Untitled

by BJ Neblett

© 1970, 2013

I sat until the old man of the park came by

as he always seemed to do about this time.

Yet dusk arrived early today,

or was it only the clouds that

blocked the sunlight from my eyes,

the same sun we shared often

but never enough.

But there was never enough time and

perhaps that is why I’m alone now,

alone, watching the old man,

the funny old man of the park

you called him,

as we sat and watched him

and the people

and the pigeons,

and the buildings melted into the sky

as we walked through

the thoughts we shared

and the love that grew like

the trees in the park,

the park where we sat

and met

and talked

and loved

and watched the old man,

the poor old man of the park.

And now it’s dark and I’m alone

and the old man is gone.

No, he didn’t come today

as he always did before.

Now he is gone

and so are you.

                                    Broomall, PA

                                    October, 1970

Where Have You Gone To Godzilla? by BJ Neblett

…memories are realities ghosts…

                                    BJN

Where Have You Gone To Godzilla?

by BJ Neblett

© 2008

Where have you gone to Godzilla?

Are there no more toy

tanks to stomp,

children to scare?

On a burning Saturday afternoon

indecisive leather clad doors swing freely

their oval panes frosted with the fingerprints of time,

just two bits a head to enter the tunnel of dreams.

Yellow brick carpet

worn smooth as grand mom’s mohair sofa

lumbers into the inky darkness,

bruised seat cushions

and jealous velvet ropes

smack of popcorn and promises and disinfectant.

A three story shroud yawns gracefully

and the billboard sized screen materializes,

celluloid church commences.

Where have you gone to Godzilla?

Have you retreated to your

octagon metal crypt for good?

White T shirt and blue jeans

the uniform of the faithful,

red Converse hi-tops

and pink Keds

become one with the floor

awash in a sea of Pepsi cement.

Coiled springs bloom like May flowers

out of the tired recliners

where me and freckled Amy Johnson

and two penny Mary Jane

form a sweet ménage a trios

in the center of the sixth row.

War, protests and hatred

dance  on the silver wall

a muddled juxtaposition

of newsreel

and preview of things to come.

Speechless Tom and Jerry

do what comes natural

to a cartoon cat and mouse

with frying pan and anvil.

Amy’s elbow has found my ribs

and my hand retreats to her shoulder.

Hazel star filtered eyes

and 70 millimeter reverie

take wing with discerning dialogue

and butterfly kisses.

Oh, where have you gone to Godzilla?

Rampaging terror in black and white

psychedelic clown in Technicolor,

there is no joy in Erewhon tonight

the king of monsters

has gone dark,

the last reel flapping your dirge.

Wide screen CinemaScope illusions

have flickered into letter-boxed reality.

                                    Youngstown, OH

                                    January, 2008

July Cool by BJ Neblett

As my memoir Ice Cream Camelot about growing up during the Kennedy era is about to be published, here's a look at the poem that started it all, a poem I wrote for my first girlfriend Amy. Enjoy.
BJ

July Cool by BJ Neblett

© 2008

Burning July

sidewalks as hot as

the tip of the smoldering punk

clenched tightly between

teeth and gum

like some fancy cigar

because we were cool

in red hi-tops

and white T shirts

sleeves rolled

with empty Marlboro packs

like the older dudes

because it was cool

cool as the locking blade

knife ordered

from the last page of

a Green Lantern comic book

it bounced in the back pocket

of our torn

and faded jeans

stained with rainbow badges

proclaiming our cool

bloody nose red

and fishing hook green

and the wide dirt brown stripe

from sliding into home

Torturous July

stealthy pendulum

hovering between youth and tomorrow

when we were cool

and not yet cool

like the tarnished silver ring

that spent July sleeping

in that cool little pocket in my jeans

I bought it from Woolworths

to give to Amy Johnson

in the flickering coolness

of a Saturday matinee

it felt warm

and full of promises

but I didn’t give it to her

because I was too cool

or not cool enough

and Chris called me

a coward

and he was right

so I bought popcorn

with my last four bits

just to hear Amy’s

freckled laughter

and taste her hazel eyes

that made my stomach bubble

Enchanted July

when days exploded

with sunshine

and dandelions

and wishes

like the Black Kats

and Lady Fingers

we ignited with the punks

we pretended to smoke

when shy fireflies

sang in Morse code

and bold butterflies kissed

when I got my first pair

of Matador boots

but had to wait

till September

to wear them to school

because they were cool

and they made me cool

Sultry July

of watermelon days

and transistor nights

when one Willie Mays

was worth two Richie Ashburn’s

unless you lived in Philly

that magical July

our clubhouse

in the woods

became the smoking spot

no more un-cool punks

we had Salems

from mom’s purse

and Chesterfields

for twenty five cents a pack

they burned our throats

like the warm Schlitz beer

Timmy stole

from a neighbor’s garage

then the smoking spot

became the drinking spot

the same spot

where I first touched Robin

in that spot

and Amy knew

and killed me

with her hazel eyes

that made my stomach bubble

Ineluctable July

of inky nights

spent hanging out

because we were cool

trouble matured with us

from playground

to bowling alley

to pool hall

we were too old

for the curfews

we ignored

too old and too cool

but too young to drive

except for the cars

I stole

to impress the guys

and to win back

Amy Johnson

who told me

I was just too cool

Too cool for the July

that melted too soon

like the tangerine sun

and the jealous moon

and Amy’s hazel eyes

that made my stomach bubble

that cool July

For Amy, wherever you are thank you

                                                Elkton, Ohio

                                                February, 2008