Bad Break

Many, if not most, poems have a story behind them, an occasion or emotion or trigger event. The poem Bad Break originated as a response to the unsettling sensation of growing up in a world where nuclear winter was an ever-present danger.

I’m not sure how much fear fire drills create, but there was something ominous about the widespread practice of air raid drills and what to do in the event of a nuclear war. Just as today’s Homeland Security processes for travelers keep evolving, so did our air raid drill instructions. I remember at one point we were all lined up and marched to nearby houses so we could hide in basements around the neighborhood. Evidently this was deemed time consuming and our later air raid drills involved getting seated in the hallways with our backs to the lockers, heads down between our knees, hands folded behind our necks. The place you did not want to be was in a room with large plate glass windows.

Either the threat of war diminished or the fears instilled by all this preparation resulted in our not needing to go through with these exercises. Or someone somewhere determined that it was all foolish futility anyways should those death bombs fly.

To be honest I still worry a bit about the bombs, knowing how many missiles are still out there, aiming here, there and everywhere.

Bad Break

agitation
face white
deep breath
hold tight
run down
look round
hope hard
underground

ten seconds
ten years
dull moans
shrieked fears
wild thoughts
no tears
eyes wide
all ears
push shove
hide fast
screen view
whole past

breathe deep
make haste
taste death
bad taste
sky tear
bright light
no air
stomach tight

flame flash
all ash

e. 1975

This poem originally appeared in print in Zenith City Arts in 1987.
Photo: Ed Newman Lightwerx Series

Wednesday Miscellaneous

Today I posted my 358th entry on my Many Faces of Ennyman art blog, which I started last February. The first entry had four paintings, and the rest have been one per day. Next week will have been one year of posting (mostly) faces.

I started blogging at Ennyman's Territory in 2007, twelve-hundred-eighty-one posts ago. Since that time I've met a lot of very interesting people from all over the world. Thank you to all who have commented or contacted me, and to the new friends who have continued to stay in touch. We live in amazing times.

Last week while in Los Angeles I got a reminder email from Nora at the Superior Library that February was my turn to fill the display case there with art. Last night I brought things down to begin setting up and will finish (hopefully) tonight. If you are a local artist seeking a venue to show your work, Nora is always looking for new talent. Send me a note and I will put you in touch, or contact Nora Fie.

Speaking of venues for art, my paintings will remain on display for another month at Goin' Postal. The packaging/shipping franchise is owned by Uprising guitarist Andrew Perfetti who is also eager to show artist's work there and dress up his walls. Contact Andy on Facebook if you're interested in being considered for a future slot in the schedule.

And finally, in this miscellaneous summation, it's possible I will be doing a reading of some poetry at Beaner's Central tonight. It's Open Mic Wednesday there, and hey, why not?

Here's a poem I wrote in 1982 during the Cold War. The sentiments expressed were unearthed from childhood memories of elementary school exercises in which we practiced what to do in the event of a nuclear war. Remember children, stay in line. We have twenty minutes...

Bad Break

agitation

face white
deep breath
hold tight
run down
look round
hope hard
underground

ten seconds
ten years
dull moans
shrieked fears
wild thoughts
no tears
eyes wide
all ears

push shove
hide fast
screen view
whole past
breathe deep
make haste
taste death
bad taste

sky tear
bright light
no air
stomach tight

flame flash
all ash

ed newman ~ 1982

Three Words Too Many

For Father’s Day this year my son gave me a book called The World’s Shortest Stories, edited by Steve Moss. Evidently, being fascinated by the short short story form, Moss started a competition called Fifty-Five Fiction. That is, each story could only have 55 words.

The stories are nearly all mini-O. Henry type stories with clever twists and surprise endings. I mean, ever sentence of phrase, in some instances, is a sidewinder. The themes are as varied as story telling always is, but that 55 word constraint is more tightly adhered to than a highway speed limit. It’s the one hard and fast rule.

So, I pondered, and decided to count the words in one of my own short poems which I believed would make a great piece of Fifty-Five Fiction. And guess what? As short as it was, it is still three words too long! And when I tried to figure out which three words to cut, in order to submit it, I was stymied.

The book has been fun. I hope you’ll find my little 58 word piece here fun, too.

Bad Break
Agitation, face white, deep breath hold tight,

run down, look round, hope hard underground.

Ten seconds, ten years, dull moans, shrieked fears

wild thoughts, no tears, eyes wide, all ears.

Push, shove, hide fast, screen view whole past.

Breathe deep, make haste, taste death, bad taste.

Sky tear, bright light, no air, stomach tight.

Flame flash… all ash.

Sixty words including title.