Poetry Showcase from C.L. Liedekev

Photo from Hannah Xu on Unsplash.

C.L. Liedekev is a poet/propagandist who lives in Conshy, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen’s, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. He is also a 2021 Best of the Net finalist.

I give the darkness names

Terminal hill of fear,
beast of fur and wet,
scream of open cement mouth,
moor of the belly, fen of mind.

I pinpoint each sensation,
roll its feeling in my mouth.
The stone chill of the couch,
sweatshirt, a dry leech on the back.

I list each fear, an anti-prayer
of peregrine and punish,
her heart drowns in its own chest,
her liver dries as fruit, eaten as death,

her kidneys and skin rope together
and hang to the sway of her screams.
No wraith appears, no fire, no rocks
just the crushing wave of night.

The hospital courtyard is blacked out, 
snow coasts over the windows,
I see nothing but the monsters
I have already named, over and over.

Past her bed, past the wires of blood, 
platelets, life - is the thick door, its rectangle, 
reinforced window sprung alive - 

A lighthouse I did not know I needed.

The Story of Anxiety

A poet once told me, “Begin the story
in the middle. Let the reader draw
the lines themselves. 
The same rain fills the dry 
river bed during every storm.

How about the Solar Brothers, 
one toe-headed, the other wore a ring 
that scared my neck
down into two thick highways.
My mother, her voice dimmed
behind the door. My father bleeds 
panic. I shake off the sound
of an electric knife turning off.

Or start at the lies about my sister
Endless lines in endless stories: 
the trunk filled with my parent’s
stolen socks, the police camera
that fetched only ghost images.
She is just some cryptid, night
sucker vanishing on injured
legs. Then her curse is gone 
for five years like some
dope-fueled comet.

It is my daughter at this point. 
After her diagnosis, after red transfusion
after platelet transfusion,  
I take my daughter home in a bubble,
she is now a fine crystal in the shape
of a failed baby’s bones, empty 
of white blood cells. I don’t so
much as sleep in her doorway 
but carves the names of everything 
that can hurt her over
and over on in the molding.
So many names
it mimics stars that built the night-stained sky.

Life Past Rehab

You find out later,
after the weary edge of history 

has burned smooth,
after the harsh world has laid
its skinless body in the bathtub, 
and turned the faucet on full-reign hot, 
after the stolen chairs, the fearless silverware, 
hocked wedding rings whispering tales in the pawnshop 
window - children on a field trip, the wonder of being unowned. 
You find out the real story is headless, 
handless, a plotless, a rectangular mass 
of letter after letter, bill after bill,
credit card fees, electric company threats, 
loans, impounds, fines, court costs, lawyer fees,
child support, new shoes that outgrew the disappointment.
They all sit in piles on the table by the door,
red lettering, attention, and denial,
all asking the same question:

“Are you any different?”

Code of Minor Haunting

Her scratching on tables,
where fingers nails are left
flicked away, slow
rasp, lipstick, red under
bottom lip, the shade
of the chin’s cleft.
A voice pulling
the end consonants
down at the end
of the word, an act 
of drowning,
in the lungs, right
e a hazel twitch,
the lucky coin
catching the light, turning
in point of witch fingers,
a flick of lash, there
here is pain,
hands hold wine glass,
a maroon throb of vein
in the wrist, pulse’s
truth and panic, as
the anger bubbles
up along the teeth
and is swallowed,
lump in the throat
vanishes, a body down
into the deep. Gone.

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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