Poems for the American Brother, by Max Stephan

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Buddah's Not Talking, Robert Okaji
Buddah's Not Talking
Copyright 2022 by Robert Okaji




"In an era of ego and agenda-based poetry, Robert Okaji ties us to the moment, the gesture, and the event. What few may understand is how important his commitment is to the truth. Okaji measures speed, spit, and distance, always taking the velocity of time into account before launching an image or forecast. And he never misses his target."

—Robert L. Penick
author of Exit, Stage Left and
Blue Forms: Selected Poems 1990-1998
Poet Bio:
Robert Okaji
Sample Poems:
Buddah's Not Talking        It Was 10 A.M. When the Angel Said You Have to Go Now        After the Wake


Robert Okaji

Robert Okaji Robert Okaji holds a BA in history, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, toiled as a university administrator, and no longer owns a bookstore. His honors include the 2021 riverSedge Poetry Prize, the 2021 Etchings Press Poetry Chapbook Prize, and the 1968 Bar-K Ranch Goat-Catching Championship. He lives in Indiana with his wife, stepson and cat, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Threepenny Review, Crannog, Vox Populi, MockingHeart Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tipton Poetry Journal, Evergreen Review, The Night Heron Barks, Indianapolis Review, Book of Matches, Slippery Elm and elsewhere.



Poetry

Buddah's Not Talking

He looks out from the shelf while I consider
manure, sharp knives and the hagfish's second
heart, or whether odors differ in texture when a dog

retraces his steps through the park, and do they really
lose themselves or just quickly shed their pasts,
forever moving towards now. Sometimes I say hello,

but truthfully we seldom interact, unless I bump his
shoulder when retrieving one of the books leaning
against him, and then it's only a quick "sorry" on my

part, and a stare on his, perhaps a slight nod if
I've not yet had coffee. I fear I'll never grasp
the difference in having and being, that my true

nature has splattered on a trail and the dogs will
sniff it and lift their legs in acknowledgment,
or perhaps acceptance of the infinite, with wisdom

far beyond my reach, before moving on to disquisitions
about soil and fragrance and the need to justify art
with decimal points. Yesterday I roasted chicken, moved

books, sipped ale. Today I'll sweep, discard papers and
wonder if I'll become what I think, whether reincarnation
will be cruel or kind. Either way, Buddha's not talking.

Copyright ©2022 Robert Okaji




It Was 10 A.M. When the Angel Said You Have to Go Now

Forgive me for seeking clarity, but do you have a specific
destination in mind, or are you saying, with a little less
force, get lost, go away, I'm done with you, or might you
merely be suggesting that I go forth? And what exactly is
your position on, oh, let's just say the afterlife and the
journey there? As for turning, you certainly did,
offering both in sequence, again and yet again, to my
great appreciation. Butter. You must explain your fetish
and how the room exuded pale gold and sweet after
one little death, as if a honeyed light had oozed in beneath
the door, and, in kissing the carpet, released endorphins
and cool warmth, and love-moths frantically flapping
to dry our sweat without the slightest chill. It’s the little
things, my mother always said, never considering size,
but meaning those thoughtful touches, the fresh flowers,
a plate of cheese and fruit, and yes, the tenor sax moaning
in the alcove. I'll go, but you know this is my apartment.


Copyright ©2022 Robert Okaji



Driving Without Radio

One minute you're sipping coffee at the stoplight,
and the next you find yourself six miles

down the road, wondering how you got there,
just two exits before the French bakery

and your favorite weekday breakfast taco stand.
Or while pondering the life of mud,

you almost stomp the brakes when a 40-year-old
memory oozes in-two weeks before Thanksgiving,

the windshield icing over (inside), while most definitely
not watching the drive-in movie in Junction City, Kansas,

her warm sighs on your neck and ear, and the art
of opening cheap wine with a hairbrush. How many

construction barrels must one dodge to conjure these
delights, unsought and long misfiled? You turn right

on 29th Street and just for a moment think you've seen
an old friend, looking as he did before he died,

but better, and happier, and of course it's just a trash bag
caught in a plum tree, waving hello, waving goodbye.


Copyright ©2022 Robert Okaji