poetry by glenn feole

Arcady Wheelchair tipped back, precariously balanced  his Mother's hands on the light blue pads  softly holds a motionless head in a silent upward wide-eyed gaze his toddler's legs hanging limply. Alone in the middle of this littered green field sooted trees with heads bowed low Dorian columns sprout from Paterson soil. A massive gray building looms far off filling his vision with cold stone and silently obliterates the summer sky, his Mother watching him in silence. Could this attic form bring him memories of pastoral scenes,  a maiden’s pursuit as distant from him as this dark stone or remind him of the ancient dark force that must have lashed out even then at watching children in the glens of Arcady? Glenn L. Feole, M.D. Paterson, New Jersey May, 1987

                Portland    I am finally going West raised in Westerly now leaving the East    a pilgrimage to Portland in search of golden elixir I rise up at 4 a.m. the day dark the room cold and see wrinkles on my fair skin caught  in the soft light of the elegant shower   ineluctable thick glass encasing me, claw foot bathtub waiting in silence  as I let the steaming water caress me eyes closed as I go  elsewhere the purple scented shampoo says ‘age defying’ and I am transported  to college days Elysian fields of green the silent peaceful gaze of young women golden Calypsos the plane now rocking my body gently, lulling me the horizon visible ahead  a diffuse pink that merges, suffuses gradients of  light blue clouds on the earth’s rim calling to me  a siren’s call as I unleash myself ...

By the White Office Door for Karen Another bone marrow has lost direction like children just wandering away, confused, alone and another Mother is  gone. After the phone call I pulled the chart to look at my notes The important part is inside the back cover,  the poet’s scratch pad  where meaning slowly emerges.  I write about memories  shared conversations,  of her interests and  kindnesses. Who will buy me chocolates now and smile at me so warmly during her children's checkups? She always asked  about me.   And when I said, “You're going in on the 29th, right?” she smiled and said, “Very good.  You remembered.” Because the little things count, I remember thinking, and the big things too as I see her standing by the white office door children gone sun on her face smiling as I gave her a kiss goodbye  ...

Voodoo Doughnuts trying to write this poem is not easy as I search with myopic eyes  among barren February branches for signs of new growth forgetting what I am searching for what should I inscribe  on my taphos? brief highlights, stumblings from my long philosophical odyssey now reduced to an existential search for the Krispy Kreme hot sign of the soul my life a plenitude of pluperfects No staid bland pale glazed hardened lumps of limpid unleavened dough for me no no no for I have sailed to Portland in my thick-oaked black ship and stand before purple steaming fresh rapacious voodoo donuts the line at 2 a.m. twenty feet long the brazen booming bass line vibrating my chest my soul the purple haired insouciant sybaritic punk rocker girl with pierced nostrils behind  the counter asking, taunting me “What do you want?”          Glenn Feole        ...

Introduction      I have been writing poetry since medical school...I remember one beautiful sunny Saturday in U. of Cincinnati College of Medicine when I spent the day supposedly studying pathology, but instead creating a poem based on The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot, duplicating rhythms, rhymes, symbols, and recalling my experiences as a first year student having spent the day with the poor on the banks of the Ohio river.  I gave that poem to the drummer in the medical school band never to be seen again.  That explains my grade in Pathology that test.  During residency at Children's Hospital, in those romantic pre-digital days, I kept a small black notebook in my white coat with myriads of facts on lab values, diagnoses, symptoms, but my favorite, dog-eared tab was under "P" for poetry.  Those poems kept my heart centered and motivated on a hopeful pursuit of a life of empathy: Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold, The Lake Isle of Inn...