Gawaine Caldwater Ross

Tool Shed

Hard rain rakes the roof of my shed.

It’s autumn, and the wind tosses the blanket

That serves as my door.

I wrap my quilt around me

And stare at the books on the wall.

There’s no electricity, and after dark

I can’t read by candlelight.

I haven’t a stove or a fridge;

I live on oatmeal, cabbage, and scraps of cheese.

I drink rain water, or tea,

If I can get a fire going outdoors.

Today when the storm rolled in

I stripped and begged to be struck by lightning,

But Zeus was not obliging.

Yesterday in a state of helpless rage

I hammered a boulder into gravel;

It didn’t help my mood.

Two weeks ago I hiked to the coop

And posted a notice that said:

Help! I can’t find a job!

I have no cash, savings, bonds,

Gems, certificates, stocks,

Monies due, property, or anything else.

There’s been no response.

I’ve been homeless before -

This is nearly as bad.

I came here to be with Darla at her invitation,

The cabin is small, so we

Screwed outside in the summer sun,

Green leaves fell from buttocks.

But after only a month she declared

I bored her, and would have to go

Live in the tool shed instead.

I built the house she’s staying in,

But I don’t own it.

She brings back a new guy every week

Including an Italian fascist,

And she is Jewish!

She stated, “Commitment sounds like a jail term.”

Am I really that boring?

My friends say she’s sadistic,

But I love her so much,

I can’t let go of hope.

My Rockland friends want me

To go on the road and sing with them,

But I’d have to leave Darla,

And the band doesn’t pay.

Yo would give me pot to sell,

But I no longer believe in breaking the law.

I watch the rain flood the yard,

According to the news

There’ll be a frost tonight.

I put on extra clothing,

So much, it makes me stiff.

I stare at the ceiling,

Counting the cracks in the old whitewash.

Gawaine Caldwater Ross was born to a military family in Boston. His family was troubled with alcoholism and schizophrenia. Gawaine spent 10 months in a mental hospital as a teenager and then lived on the streets. Homeless 5 times, and married 3 times, he eventually became a nurse. He has had poems published in various online journals and in a few small publications. He currently lives on a very pretty street in the Back Bay with a cheery little dog named Yayo.

Comments

Ed Dorn's # 22 From Twenty-four Love Poems

from Jacket The strengthy message here in #22 of 24 Love Songs can be summed up in two lines: ['There is/no sense to beauty. . .' and '. . .How/ the world is shit/ and I mean all of it] What I also like about this brief poem is the interplay between the title of the book and the subject of the poems (love/anti-love (which is not hate)): it's all a mass of contradictions, like love. And I have to say that the shorter poems of the Love Songs and the last book he wrote before dying (Chemo Sábe) seem to me much better and more memorable than the Slinger/Gunslinger poems. These (generally) later poems probably attempt less stylistically, but are more sure-handed, hacked from a soap bar, maybe. Easy to use, but disappear after use. In any case, Dorn is well worth the reading and re-reading, for me, though he'll never become one of my favorites. And doesn't every poet want that, dead or alive? ;-) #22 The agony

Jim Daniels

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Corey Mesler

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