Poetry By Don J. Kraemer

Lee Coursey CC




Keeping Time 
 
 
I ask, Any dreams last night? 
           Yes, I was back on that beach, that black and gold beach. 
Anybody with you? 
            Yeah. 
Who? People you know? 
            Some—some from the street. We’re just lying around, happy. 
Happy how? 
            Nodding off. Chilling. 
That it? I say, unremarking his shift to present tense, foolishly pleased that he did not say “laying.” 
            That’s it. Nothing happens. 
Nothing ever? 
            Nothing. 
Do you have a chair, a beach towel, a bathing suit, sun block? Is there sun? What is black, what is gold (I think: tar washes up on Southern Californian beaches; if the sand was black—Black Tar?). Do you make any eye contact with anyone? Do you ever think of getting up to visit with someone or help anyone in need? 
             No, why would I? Why would I help others who are not in need of help, why would I ruin a perfectly good high, why make changes to a perfectly good dream— 
              But the gold—  
      —Silence is golden. 
 
 
 
 

Progression Sucks 
 
            —Heroin is a temporary fix for long term problems 
            Unfortunately, it works 
            Try not to take the fall, cause it’s a long one 
            I’ve never hit bottom before; beginning to suspect there isn’t one 
            The whole thing might just be a looped circle 
 
 
Bottoms are like horizons 
            we don’t hit. 
Loyal supporters are like horizons 
            that recede but endure. 
Horizons are the circle we fall into, 
            our endless limit. 
Horizons are the directions 
            we think we forgot. 
No sense giving a horizon 
            a questionnaire, 
            an extended interview, 
            ethnographic treatment. 
It’s going to suck you in regardless 
            and always leave you 
            different 
            as you are. 
We met at a horizon once 
            and never let go. 
We’re holding on, even now— 
            even now that’s progress— 
            progress so near, so far. 





Where It’s Always Night 
 
            —Ferry man will take us over 
            Over where it’s always night 
 
 
When you wake up, still night. 
When you hide away, still night. 
When you light the candle, still night. 
When the suboxone kicks in, still night. 
When we resolve not to enable, still night. 
When you shower at St. Ambrose, still night. 
When you eulogize your grandmother, still night. 
When you bury the light-blotting demons, still night. 
When you take turns with your better angels, still night. 
When we surround you in a shining family circle, still night. 
When the boat man needs relief and you seize the oars, still night. 
When you repudiate the cup and reject the Stranger’s poison, still night. 
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Don J. Kraemer is semi-retired and resides in Claremont, California. He has three grown children, one of whom is the inspiration behind and the first audience for these poems.