The Poetry of Doug Tanoury

The Poetry of

Del Corey

Immortal Love

We are immortals, you and I,

for in our memories and in this poem,

we switch off the gears

of the Ferris-wheeling sun,

and live forever in that Eden

at Forest Park, when our first kiss

was like the sweet sip of a fluttering

hummingbird, hovering, thrilling

with young love, and behind

that ancient arbor, your clothing fell

like rose petals to the ground

around the flower of your budding body

and we tasted the nectar of

immortality.

FAREWELL TWENTIETH

Old Twentieth Century sinks like a creaking giant ship

into that vast ocean of the past, sinks like Titanic,

slowly, with time left for music and singing

of glories never before imagined,

of wires abulss with faces and voices;

wings flapless, un-meltingly soaring

beyond Icarus' reckless dreams;

lenses that magnify world no seer could ever see,

and galaxies long since sucked into black holes

of yesterday.

Sing, yes chant to the beat of minutes zinging by,

then moan over weapons no Titan ever wielded,

spears propelled across continents, explosions

that shook the earth worse that Atlas,

man-monster murders that shrink the deeds

of Ghengis Khan and Nero to fiddle-sticking.

Farewell, oh century, bulging

with too many people for the life boats.

Farewell, and thanks for the glory,

and the heroes, and even the gore and the ogres,

for they all are the stulff that will immortalize you,

as you submerge, tired but peaceful,

to nestle against the ribs of centuries the spawned you.

FAIRY TALE JUSTICE

Jack climbed a stalk

of his own making,

didn't he? From a seed

of foolishness, bought

from his own whimsical,

into the fertile ground it flew,

and up it grew and grew

and phew it grew up and up

into giant territory,

what a story, and this giant,

minding his own beeswax,

was slew, now where's

the justice in that? None,

but he fee, fi, fo, fummed,

rumbledy-thumped, and down

he comed anyway, down and dead.

And Jack, he ever-aftered again,

you know how these

innocent fairy tales go.

GRAVE TALK

How is my friend up on earth?

Does your life have any worth?

Have you smiled these many years

Since your eyes ceased dropping tears?

"My dear friend I've been just fine.

And as for me, the sun shines.

Certainly for you I cried,

But my eyes have long since dried."

I understand life goes on

Once your greatest friend is gone.

But have you gained any wealth,

And have you cared for your health?

"Yes, I have a limousine,

I married a queen.

And that mansion on the hill?

Mine, along with many frills."

And did you perform that task

Of you alone I could ask,

Publish my poems for world fame,

And is my wording the same?

"Yes, Del, you were not forsook,

They are printed in ten books.

Yes, I kept them sll the same,

My only change was your name."

ENDINGS

With flannel sleeve he wiped his wrinkled face,

stared at the seeming endless soybean row

of seedlings peeking, greening from the soil.

Remembering his wife's waving gray hair,

he forced back the encroachment in his throat.

How he missed her and her love for this farm!

Work!

The kids are gone, of course, college, knowledge,

and he knows when he goes that they will sell,

or build a subdivision, pave it all.

On his knees, he caresses a handful

of the fertile black dirt, sifts it, lifts, sniffs,

presses it to his lips until tears drip.

Got to stop this and work!

And so he did, weeding, prodding the plants

until he paused, cringed, reached for a vial,

and placed a tiny pill under his tongue.

Work!

BRAIN STORM

In my mind lightning

slashed through the heavens,

cosmic visions flash

like comets across the dark sky,

then plummet like Icarus

into an ocean of ink.

PENELOPE'D

For decades she weaved

a testiclean tapestry,

a ball-wall hanging

to declare "caring."

Days she woofed

her obsessive possession up,

and nights she warped him down,

until down he went, and out.

Now, not even a dog

will own him

as he sails unknown across

his looming godless days

mast-less.

RIP VAN WINKLED AGAIN

Some Monday mornings,

doggone it,

I step on my weekend beard,

my mouth rolls

with rusty musketshots,

and strange people are heaving

bowling balls in the lanes

of my head.

Oh, what revolting revolutions

await me at the foot

of this mountainous hangover?

INCREDIBLE

From a creamy spurt

of passion, millions of microbic

me's, tinier than dust particles,

swim-wriggled in blind race

up the channel to win the prize -

the yoke of life -

until one of me head-speared

his way through the soft-tissued

finishing line - to begin.

The egg and I fused into me;

I am one in a million.

I bulged, punched, kicked,

threw off my animal tail,

and dove, sliding,

squeezing, popping out into

light, screaming with painful

ecstasy at the spicy

promise of it all.

It's incredible.

But then, of course,

I will disintegrate,

and, as from a pepper shaker,

I will scatter

and season the ages.

WINTER

It's snowin' so now,

An' dog cain't stand the cold.

Lookit the frosted windows.

God, he hates gettin' old.

A MYTH

The black-winged thing we created

with dark brown haunches

and proud hoofs

flew for awhile

We clung to it back amid

deafening, drumming thunder

ascending, seeing

only yellow moon glow and

blazing incandescent sun glare

'til callow wings tired

and we glided down blindly

through quivering heat

Now down wind we blink

as old open wounds buzz

and the twitching haunches

attract black circlers in the sky.

PHANTOM PAINS

Like an amputated limb,

you haunt my dreams,

penetrating my insane brain

with so-called phantom pains.

But you still snuggle in my arms

each silver winter morn I warm

in the sun by the window,

marveling at the swirling snow,

You still jostle me while I jog

through evening psalms of frogs

or wander meadows of bird litanies

revering our flitting forest fantasies.

No, you're no throbbing spirit,

no pulsating pain without limit.

You're the loving ache I feel each hour

my mind graces your grave with flowers.

About Del

Del Corey, born in Massachusetts in 1934, attended the West Springfield school system, graduated, and entered the military, serving for three years as a paratrooper. He earned bachelor's and master's degrees from Michigan State University. He then taught for 36 years, 30 of them at Macomb Community College, just north of Detroit. Del taught composition, literature, and creative writing. He started the Macomb Fantasy Factory, a writers' club that lasted 25 years. He also held poetry readings at the college and many local coffee houses. He has had hundreds of poems published, won many prizes and cash awards, and has five books of poetry in print. Del retired in 1995 and writes every day.

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