Epics for contemporary audiences.

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:19:02 +0000

“Nor does he begin the Trojan War from the double egg.”

If only to be in love with a nurse,
reciprocal of course, for not all nurses should be
trusted. Some nurses are there for revenge, some take
advantage of elderly, or deny small boys candy
because they cried too much. Others are in bad
divorces, and they take their anger out on patients.

I don’t love nurses who are men, but I’m not sexist.
When a nurse tells me the doctor is coming, then leaves
me in a room for an hour, I don’t love that. I don’t like
when a nurse tells me to hurry up and slams the door.
I don’t like nurses who miss my vein five times; who say
it’s alright to stand up, and only watch as I fall down from
the sheer fright of blood.

I love the nurses who stay at home and watch movies
when they might be called to work. I love ones who give children
three suckers because they cried so much. I love the nurses who
smell like shampoo, and put their hands on my cheek and whisper
to keep me calm, my anxiety like a fish caught on a hook.

I love when nurses tell me “everything is going to be okay” when
the drugs start taking over my body and I am being prepared
to go under the knife. I love nurses who come visit me after I am
sewed up and nauseous (like angels from a story book) with
a tiny glass of water, and a balloon; on Labor day, or even Christmas.

I love only the nurses who smile with bright white teeth,
and when they don’t smile you can still see that they don’t
frown very often. I even love them when they stick me with needles,
lying me on my back for fear that I might pass out (they don’t have
the strength to catch me) I am too tall, and heavy and my arms are
flappy and fragile.

I can only imagine marrying one, a house, my own hospital. I would still
be afraid of needles, but I would scrape up my knees on purpose
just to watch my wounds be tended to, even with a kiss. And
what if she becomes pregnant, and I turn into a nurse myself.
Putting pillows behind her head, or her legs, with a cup of tea
and a pickel, or ice cream and peanut butter.

And what if there are complications, and we have to fly in helicopters to far
away cities, will my panic attacks keep me from saving her life? Will I be able to
tell the doctor that he has missed a step or is doing something wrong
(my boss a man with a blade.) Will he turn to me and say “surgery is
like riding a bike, sometimes you don’t feel the need to use a kickstand.”
metaphors to keep me calm, my hands yellow from sanitizer.

And what if I have to deliver the baby at home, give birth in a tub,
or hire a mid-wife who wears white. Not worrying about the stench of
clean hallways or the flickering of a fluorescent light. It would just be
blue birds, and small fawns, us with imagination that could cure
any infections. We would suckle life through long straws that are shaped like
farm animals. A green one with a chicken, (from a coup in the
backyard). A red one with a horse (that runs wild, eating berries).
A purple one with a pig, (cause they are friendly and taste good).

I ate the little one.

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:18:20 +0000

My friends are dwindling, at times I feel
as if I were a walrus. To dangerous
looking for mermaids or even the occasional
scuba diver to come close to. My large teeth
are a menace, eating is uncomfortable. I am
growing old, and whiskers are falling out.

Montana isn’t a myth, it just creates them

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:10:14 +0000

The cows watch from the high point of the river, bulls, even Buffalo are curious to what the strange creatures are doing in the middle of the Madison, wading, some floating with guides. Some are families with spin casting poles from the 80’s, one has mickey mouse on the reel. There is an old fly fisherman wearing an old fly fishing vest, cussing at the young girls in inter-tubes (he could care less about bare skin) teenagers with beer cans some full, some empty, some even fall into the river. One can cuts the head off of a turtle, one becomes a home for a small brown trout. “Fun goers” the old man says out of the corner of his mouth. An eagle dips for a meal and brings up a whitefish, his children screech from a mile away. Everyone is a little disappointed.

Love, faith, hope, music – sometimes they’re all the same.

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:09:43 +0000

hope doesn’t prove anything,
he says this, then follows by
saying, to think our human
consciousness somehow
transports out of this
reality is irrational.

I don’t believe him,
and I really hope he is wrong.

title is at the end of poem

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:09:00 +0000

Windows got back at it, trumped around town for even
the three legged dog to watch parade on frames. Like slivers down a
stream, un’dangerous, prescription sunglasses, or every safe
moment you’ve ever had. Even while Cracking, and spidering, it reflects
my personality, opening it’s blinds to talk. Bringing back my pompousness,
(seems I’m only happy when I’m alone). Fasten under sheets, grind
“make your coffee taste like you think it should”. Kiss the back
of your lips with a tongue that might have at one time been pierced.
Patch the hole in the t-shirt you’ve had to long. Be mine, be my own,
have my thoughts, give them outright to yourself, or sell to them back to me,
or be religious and pour it all into the sun.

me, looking through the glass of a store downtown

take a pill, no wait don’t take a pill

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:07:59 +0000

She is walking in the sun, on her way to do
something amazing, with someone amazing.
She has grown her hair out, and no longer wears
glasses. She eats meat on Fridays, just because
she cares so much about the carnivore she will
soon be married to. She has darker skin, she is no
longer sick, it was a virus, (she just had to take some
medication). She watches television even when it is
monday morning and blue sky.

When god or ‘whoever nature is’ puts the
pressure of procreation on the back of my neck
I find comfort and solace in being alone, but being alive
contradicts this. Maybe it’s the anxiety, and maybe I’ve
grown old and out of the proper skin. Maybe every
girlfriend I’ve ever had was actually death in disguise.

I am born into a poem that I don’t understand.
Like looking out a window, and wondering if an old friend
is watching me from four blocks away, or
if my roommate is coming home, and what I will do
to act like I’m happy. My scars are for the times when love
happens to smash by, or create sudden pillow compressions.
Fall would be my favorite time of the year.

Getting back into writing, “womben”

northwallace — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:06:06 +0000

I see attractive woman weed whacking around the ponds. Ponds with fishing string tied to posts and stretched shore to shore, like laser alarm systems. “It protects the fairways from those damn geese” George tells me. George is in his late 60’s and you can see the years wear on his face as each new season Bridger Creek brings. His belly hangs over his belt and he resembles a vacationing Santa Clause (never a collared shirt, always wears a 25 cent baseball cap). He sits on a bench at the tee for number 17, and I can hear him breathing from ten feet away. Another old lady, an amateur bird watcher looks me in the eye and tells me “only 20% of golfers are girls” and what I really need to do to find a relationship is “take a nursing class at MSU. That’s where you’ll meet the woman of your dreams.” Her husband shanks a shot in the trees and laughs like a child destroying a sand castle. I can’t remember his name, or his wife’s, I only remember how humorous their love for each other was.

Winter gives, and gives.

northwallace — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 23:16:35 +0000

The last of the geese have frozen over in my backyard, covered in a foot of snow. I dig one out each week and thaw it in the fridge—with a high success rate; even the runt is able to take flight after a few days at 50 degrees. I set them on their feet, tell them “You’re free, go home!” they thank me and fly out the front door, they go North confused, then swoop around and start back South. My two black labs don’t understand, they watch me eat macaroni and cheese and iceberg lettuce and complain how hungry I am.

Google Recognizes My SideWiki Poetry! It’s official!

northwallace — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 20:27:54 +0000

Just wanted to let you know that NorthWallace.com Montana Sidewiki poem has been tweeted as the ‘SideWiki of the day’ at Googles Twitter Acount. You can check out more of my sidewiki poetry, posts, and ramblings in my Google Profile or simply use the URL www.IsideWiki.com.

Thanks Google! And readers!

NorthWallace.com – SideWiki now implemented, where is your poetry?

northwallace — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 20:28:16 +0000

Check out the sidewiki of NorthWallace.com, now not only can you read my Montana poetry but you can add your own. Feel free to use the sidewiki of NorthWallace to publish your Montana poetry to the world.