Fire in the Hole

by
Robert R. Reldan

62212 SBI# 557463
PO Box 861
Trenton NJ 08625

© Copyright Robert R. Reldan 2000 All rights reserved

If these poems speak to you in any way,
Robert encourages you to write directly to him at the above address.
All correspondence will be answered.

---

Fire in the 'Hole'!*

Incessant shouting
Bravado is in their words,
but their voices betray them. . .
revealing hurt, pain, and anger
the hurt of loneliness
the pain of rejection
and the anger of oppression

They elbow verbally for 'place',
and jostle for 'status'
each "story" more inflated,
but their facades are
easily pierced

There is an ebb
and flow,
but the underlying din
is constant

Only in the deepest hours
of early morning
does the cacophony fade
to a dull grumble
and the receding echoes
reveal
what could not be heard
in the Babel
the hidden message

I AM HERE. . .I Am Here. . i am here----

* A phrase used when high explosives are about
to be detonated, but in this instance, the 'hole'
is solitary confinement, at Trenton State Prison
in New Jersey.

---

Lost, But Found

Black night quiet time
memory tiptoes through dusty corridors
of the mind . . .
not knowing what it's looking for
but knowing it will recognize it
if found.

There's a first bike
gathering rust, with tires flat
There's an early birthday
look at all the balloons
There's a schoolday. . . a dance. .
a graduation. . .

There are so many things, memory
doesn't know which way to look
more desperate in its search, it hurries on
down this path, up this lane,
through this aisle. . .
dust and ashes

Weary, and ready to rest, one
last door
is opened---------and there
you
are

No need to go further. . .
There are no more treasures
to be found.

---

Mime Time

Standing sideways,
arms outstretched. . .
palms touch both walls

Extend arms overhead. . .
palms touch ceiling

Stand lengthwise, with
left palm on front wall,
and take a large side-step. . .
right palm touches the back wall

This is my world
I am a mime,
but these walls are real
and not made of glass. . .
Still
I go searching,
sliding, hands along steel
looking. . . sliding

I know you can't see me. . .
But if I find that one
blemish
that one tiny crack
The smallest imperfection
in their walls----------
maybe you can hear me.

---

Relative Time

I sit in dark solitude------
and measure my minutes...
they are five hours long

What insane hand has formed
this skewered clock
whose tock and tick
have run amok?

I have measured the minutes
of the condemned
as they chew their last repast
and contemplate their end...
they are five seconds long

The minute's of the cancer patient
are stretched and wracked with pain...
measured by the chemical drip, and drop
of hair
they are five days long

Yet who would dare
be early or late
speed, or slow, the hands of fate?

And who would switch with which
to change the hour or the day,
when none can see, or dare to say
when their time has finally passed
and they can be at peace, at last

---

Baby Steps

Today
I took my first baby step...
I walked into your room

There were no cameras
To record it, or bright applause
To spur me on, nor any steadying hand
As there were with my first steps
So long ago
But I felt just as proud

Tomorrow
I'll try to walk a little further
And take your clothes from the closet...
And maybe the next day,
Actually take them to Goodwill

All these baby steps
So hard without you here
All these baby steps
Walking away from what was
Toward what will be

I don't think these baby shoes
Will be bronzed.

---

Boxes

Our time's tolled off
in paper "boxes"
crawling across
a calendar page. . .
Little "crosses" mark each day

and when our string
of 'crosses' end,
that's when we'll be
on our way

That's when we'll be
gently laid out
in our narrow, wooden
boxes----
with the sum of all
our little 'crosses',
neatly piled inside.

---

"Singing in the Pain"

My wife and I
see eye to eye
on almost everything
but one pet peeve
that really bangs my gong
is when she tries to sing!

I won't say she's bad
but when the dog is sad
to hear her a.m. trills,
I know then it's time for Buddy and me
to take off for the hills!

---

Whose Dog?

"I want the dog!" she said.
"It's my dog!" he argued.

"I take care of her," she whined.
"She goes out with me," he stated.

"I paid for her!" she shouted.
"She's attached to me!" he counted.

Finally, they agreed.
He'd have the dog on weekends.
She'd have the dog during the week.

They could have bought another dog
For what they paid for counseling.