SUNFLOWER - Kean University
Late night fog hung over the field
and obscured the wood
like a veil of ancient mist
from which the earth
had not yet emerged.
I heard the midnight train
brood slowly down the track.
I packed up my dreams
and sent them ahead,
somewhere,
intending to follow them,
later.
********************************************************
I am smitten
by your charms
and wonder do you know
how thorougly your eyes
so bright and dark disguise
your thoughts
and shroud your feelings,
yet your beauty shines
like the stars.
********************************************************
Our love shone warm and bright, memorable
as sunshine that washed over us and sang
like a soft sea breeze as we lay silent,
still, together on the beach in July.
Our love disappeared slowly, more slowly
Than the sun that day when dark, angry clouds
Obscured the blue sky, banished the sun, and
Poured torrential rain into an impervious sea.
Our love faded slowly when summer
Slipped into a colorful fall and died
Away leaving these cold, snow white winter
Nights that we now spend alone and lonely.
*****************************************************************
Her heart
(showed in her eyes
with her every smile
and she liked to smile;
she glowed when she spoke of her children
and her grandchildren,
one a college graduate,
another a graduate student,
one a late surprise,
a boy, of whom she was very proud.
She deferred,
toward the end,
to her husband who could still hear
and she leaned toward him
to see what she might have missed,
and they beamed together
as they stood side by side
In their eighties now)
Gave out at the last after 83 years,
and he said,
“I close my eyes and look down fifty years
and the best I can do is cry.”
********************************************************
Fuzzy Chaos
Stripped of old illusions
I sat in a corner of myself
Looking out on my confusion:
my thoughts shown like shards
of fractured light strewn about the street:
I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening
to recall—a rundown sandstone dwelling
with mirrors on narrow walls.
Each spoken word re-echoed
like shrill screams at night.
A woman, a cat, a baby cried
out loud with random shrieks of fright.
If not monks with quills, surely
Silent Renaissance sculpture
standing deftly in long corridors
with thick carpet to lure
old men in black velvet gowns, grown
impervious to the echo of age-old folly.
Grim, aging, in long vestments, Father
Wicker stood outside his church
and extended a hand, his large wide hand
with thick fingers, like the fingers
of the milkman whose hand
I have shaken once or twice--
what a large handful of wide fingers.
Can these be the fingers of a rogue priest?
********************************************************
The Rose
The rose is perfect in its fluid scent
And blossoms with plush contours
In elegant shades of yellow, red,
Pink, silver, though never blue;
Yet beneath the bloom grows a thicket,
Thorns that will draw blood
From the embrace of the inexperienced
Or the naïve.
********************************************************
Eden
Now it’s eat the apples and fear the animals
(Too numerous to name);
Grow your own and bear up under
The entropic orbit of body
And chaotic movement of soul.
It’s mystery over wonder, time,
The elements: we’re not safe;
If the earth’s faults don’t a tornado
Will, or a parching drought sun, or forty
Days of rain, high winds, treacherous
Snow, tidal seas, Cain killing Abel, fire,
Garbage and seagulls, deadly sins
To trample beatitudes gone slack
To platitudes: “the meek shall eat
Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homeless
Through dark allies as if in frantic
Search of someone.” The morning
Sun rose white hot, a perfectly round,
Platinum ball that burned through dense,
Floating fog, looking small, like a roving moon.
The Yucca bush sent up long snakes of buds
To bloom sudden white flowers that struck
The first burning strokes of summer; in the evening,
Fire flies sparked golden lights that twinkled
Briefly above tall broad grasses in the field
That sloped from the road to the low land
Near the brook and the woods. We found a crow’s
Feather in the garden near the house, and Joe
Returned with cantaloupes, a hand made serape,
And his smile. We brewed coffee and laughed
About the crows that ate all the bright red cherries
In the tree top and spit the pits to the sidewalk
Where they left red stains. The moon rose full
Just before dark and shone that bright yellowish
White some say promises a hot day, but I reveled
In the warm, silent stillness, compelled by all
The summer moon inspires, conceals and reveals.
********************************************************
Mystery
Mysteries abound. Consider:
“Give Unto Caesar Those Things That Are Caesar’s.”
Who better deserves Caesar’s things?
There are joyful mysteries of annunciation,
Visitation, and nativity, mysterious mysteries,
Illiterate mysteries, long-legged mysteries,
Glorious mysteries, astronomical mysteries
Of politics, economy, religion, psychology,
Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance,
Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.
What things does Caesar want?
One rather glorious mystery
Is the perfectly proportioned
Symmetrical mons delicately carved
In the stone of Stella’s marble belly.
Even dry, it looks slick enough.
Who might want Caesar’s things?
A short, round cleric in black cassock
And cloak topped with an egg-shaped head
Gone bald, his lips pursed and oyster
Eyes magnified behind thick glasses
Walked by ignoring his students.
He taught mythical mysteries: Circe
And her Sirens, who touch the magic wand
To pleasure or distress the hunter, the thief,
The juror, the milkman, the witness,
The carpenter, the writer, the priest . . .
Father Hennessy walked with eyes downcast
His head bent to one side as he picked
An unencumbered path through clusters
Of laughing boys.
One young girl, a teenager wakes
To find herself pregnant. Who will believe
She is a virgin? Joseph? An angel told her,
She said—quite a mystery, that.
Je vous salut, Marie . . . Amen.
Suicide is a sorrowful mystery.
Ernest Hemingway shot himself.
I felt the cut. He was dead on page
One in large, bold, black, dark thick print.
I read his books. Now he’s dead.
He took dead aim and shot himself: quite a good
shot, too, but he was a hunter.
A mad scramble for Hemingway’s things ensued.
I looked the other way. It was all right to read Huck Finn:
Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s gone
A long time, but Hemingway just shot himself
and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself;
He had to rely on someone else.
Lazarus died and Jesus cried
When he arrived. Lazarus, alive
Walked forth and sighed, “Oh, well.”
Father Hennessy liked the old fish story:
Jesus told his men to pass round their fish
And bread. All were amazed that so few
loaves of bread and so little sushi fed so many.
A dry affair. No grill. No talk of beer or wine.
He reserved spirits for weddings.
Cold water over ice;
A drag from the exhaust of a clean
Carburetor white with smoke
Suddenly gone. Sit back to rock;
Maybe have a red wine.
Too much is too much
Even when it’s just enough.
********************************************************
Your fear scares me
Most; not your moods,
nor their swings:
It is your fear
That scares me most.
********************************************************
When you feel awful
I feel awful too.
I cannot help it
Anymore than you
Can help feeling so
Awful when you do,
But it worries me
When you feel awful
On our one day off.
********************************************************
Highly polished verse
Reflects what it observes,
like a large sphere,
an oversized mirroring
Ornament on a Christmas tree
That distorts what it reflects
********************************************************
Fall 1992
Those were the days—before the launch, yes-
Terday or the day before, when books
Were read, and songs were sung—radio;
Before television. Now it looks
Antique, like a chair in need of glue;
They spoke of Modern then, and they thought
Modern meant new: Avant-garde, Dada
Surreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They fought
Over a word, an idea, a turn
Of image to make better prufrock.
We’ve brightened up Michelangelo—
Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clock
Either back or forward or around.
Turned up a stone age corpse kept on ice
These five thousand years. Someone knocked
Off his scrotum, took his boots—a nice
Welcome to this nameless age of rap.
Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts
First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’s
Imagination, a myth that cuts
The road to Rome and the scrotum, too.
Beware the aged prophet whose hands
Reach toward your pocket: feeble fingers
Quick as a humming bird that darts, lands
Its feed and disappears all in one
Sudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist,
And politics!
Rhetoric gave way
To the coy, segment-sensitive twist.
Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,
Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots.
Lipstick girls in slender undress beg
Less disbelief than “VOTE FOR ME” spots.
We’ve had George’s war, and Ronnie’s naps,
Jimmie’s piles, Gerald jokes, Richard’s crooks,
Lyndon’s spooks, Jack’s back, Ike’s golf, Harry’s
Bomb, Franklin’s wheel chair—history books
Will call the game with retrospective
Calm: a slow curve (the deep recession),
A black-door slider (pretty Flowers),
The inside fast ball (a concession
To incumbent powers): fall chaos
Played out like the World Series’ last game.
These are the days of commercial spin,
Cosmetic tucks, uninspired name
Calling, shrewd strategies, cynical
Calculations designed to sell Hope.
Better were the days before the launch—
Before the Enola Gay cut loose
the rope that moored today to the sturdy
dock of yesterday and the day before.
********************************************************
Sometimes it is hard to be amused
Or even crack a smile.
********************************************************
She was hard,
Pure hard
Like stone,
Like crystal,
Like lightning,
Like diamonds.
********************************************************
More than the sunrise
More than the mountains
More than the thinnest crescent moon
More than the blue light of dusk
More than the spring’s first rain
More than the faint light of dawn
More than the willow’s first yellow
More than the daffodil’s first blossom
More than the ocean
More than the summer’s first rose
More than the pink gladiola
More than the autumn’s riot of color
More than the early setting sun
More than the winter’s first soft snow
I love you more
and our love is endless.
Our love transcends time.
********************************************************
The poet felt the ocean
And praised the ocean’s purity.
He saw the moon spread
A wide beam on the water
And stop at the surface
As if the black depth
Of the ocean at night
Were impenetrable, discrete.
He rode the tide
And his blood took
Its rhythm and his ship
Rolled at once with the ocean.
The ocean heaves pure and blind,
Faithful only to the moon:
It casts its song to every wind
And sings its airs like the witch
That conjures life.
And the ocean is untrammeled.
********************************************************
There are two distinguished "T's"
in "Literature,"
and like stanchions in a bridge,
they uphold their suspended
"era,"
but never have "T's"
held forth with such sway
as those two tipsy "T's"
in "Tits."
Love Poem
You're the milk in my oatmeal!
(I hate love poems).
You're the sun in my heart
(But I will persist).
You're the rain on my garden,
The bloom on the rose.
You're the crease in my trousers.
You're the stars at night
When the moon is new;
You're the morning breeze
(One metaphor is good as another
To a reluctant poet).
You're the blue in my skies,
The colors of fall,
The white on the snow.
You're my recurring dream.
********************************************************
Consternation
Every now and again
to my complete surprise
I find myself behind
the not so mythic rock.
Never have I envied
Sisyphus' aerobic
lot. Up that hill he'd go:
strong legs, strong back, and will
for the climb. He'd not be
undone by hill, his rock,
fate, or the gods. Atop
the mountain he'd look out
over the fields and watch
as his work came to naught:
did he sigh as his rock, let
loose, rolled down the mountain?
Or did the spectacle
of a huge rock jumping
and bounding, gathering
speed as it fell down hill
please him, make the journey
worth his while? Did the gods
laugh at him? Or did they
too, in time, grow weary
of the repetitious
spectacle of a man
pushing a rock uphill
to watch it fall back down
to the bottom where he
began. At least he knew
where to push his mythic
rock. I have no idea
what to do with my own.
********************************************************
Once it was an issue
between the lady and the man;
who held the sway domestic
was said to wear the pants;
In time, the clothes designers
put the ladies into slacks,
to which the fashion factory
for skirts needs must fight back;
Thus in this age of woman's right,
in this the age of rockets,
the skirt designers taught us all
it's not the pants, it's pockets!
********************************************************
Whatever happened, the trees would not tell
though they whispered softly to a passing
breeze, nor would say the chipped concrete sidewalk
and curb that lamented disfigurement
in stoical silence, nor the shallow
brook that flowed slowly in hushed ripples past
a wooden bridge, round curved banks, cascading
quietly toward the dam it had ruined,
and the gorge it cut in turbulent times
when the winds blew and clouds fled hurriedly,
oblivious, as if summoned away
suddenly to answer a cry for help
like the police cars, and fire engines
and ambulances, that raced with flashing
red and blue and white lights and loud sirens
screaming, screaming, to the road by the stream
near the walk bridge late last night.
********************************************************
Ordinary Time
Simple grey boat
anchored, afloat
on still water;
a grey perfect sky
merged with tree tops'
rich subdued green;
white grey lake fog
risen;
an old wood dock
gone black
with age,
we sat alone,
at peace,
away.
********************************************************
Never Knew A Hooker
Never knew a Hooker
didn't say that she was clean;
never struck a worker
didn't lose more than his gain;
never blew a blow-hard
didn't blow the final scene;
never grew a garden
didn't get some heavy rain;
never sat the juror
wasn't guilty of some crime;
never lived the poet
wouldn't kill to make a rhyme.
********************************************************
I forget where I’m from
I’ve been here so long.
Life can be sad sometimes:
What you forget, and
What you can’t forget;
What you remember and
What you can’t recall:
There are places I’ve been
And people, more people
Than places, whose names
I forget. Some people
Made me angry and some
Made me smile. Sometimes
I see a familiar face but can’t
Remember the name. Now and then
I meet someone who knows me
but can’t recall my name—
I’m perfectly happy then
to let the forgotten past
trouble someone else.
********************************************************
Some motives run deep--
unfathomable
as oceans, decep-
tive as keen edged seas
that cut the sky
along distinct horizon lines.
********************************************************
Steering By The Meteors
Everyone ought to have heart, lips, sox, soul, one dominant trait;,
a rifle, baseball cards, gas, fingers, feelings, tulips, spacemen,
a beach ball, toes, lake front property, sex, snow, grandparents,
luck, candles, "it'sneverbeenlikethisbefore," at least once; shoes,
shoulders, strawberries in June, a fancy car, moods, no need to care
for one full hour, Irish Whiskey, felt-tip pens, birthdays, luxurious
lamb skin now and again, a flat tire, Lenox, a nice carpet,
remote control, peace of mind, one pink rose, elders,
a full portion of fish, God, cabbage, an adjustable wrench,
rest, style, hair to last a life-time, daffodils, cheese-cake,
an elegant guitar, birds, sea air, children, a light drizzle,
autumn leaves, grass, a wooden bat, Ice skates, one long
slope to ski, Ovaltine, annoyance, soft hands, a bookcase,
cherries, neighbors, cash, a dog, split infinitives, good teeth
to chew a steak, a walk along the brook, no sense of time,
a long coat, wine, feet, Ds in math, a waltz, pain, boots,
chocolate, jeans, Waterford, fountain pens, rocks, dreams,
tennis, good legs, cognac, books, ghosts, sunshine, ties,
an understanding of James Joyce, a rosary, video tapes,
a bike, trash, paintings, one chain saw, memories, a cell phone,
remorse, a good baseball glove, a little fear, Knicks tickets,
bank hours, purpose, silver dollars, Halloween candy, one gold
ring, true love, warm nights, sound sleep, and a good laugh!
********************************************************
I saw you on the street last night;
although we've not met for a long time,
your face was pretty
as ever it was, and you saw
me, too. I caught your eye and yours
met mine, but I could neither stop
to say hello, nor remember
your name. I walked quickly away
to my next appointed chore.
I tried to conjure your name.
I dressed you in a white uniform,
placed you behind a store counter
to no avail; I sketched your face
and searched for your name like one
walking through dark library stacks
searching for a familiar title,
but I could not find your name,
and today, your look of recognition,
your brief look of disappointment
when I failed to acknowledge you,
whose smile so easily comes
to mind, trouble me still.
********************************************************
Late Winter
Sometimes we endure,
without joy,
without pleasure,
though the sun shines bright
from blue skies,
and crocuses
tempt cold march winds
to bloom white,
blue and yellow,
and daffodils bud
and flower
yellow beside
purple hyacinths.
Sometimes we endure
without joy,
without pleasure,
though love shines constant
as the sun
from cloudless skies,
and we endure like
the dormant rose
in winter,
awaiting the spark
that will bring
us back to life.
********************************************************
Meticulous fish, schooled in the arts;
no word from Fathom who studied the stars
to chart his course between Venus and Mars.
Who knows the scent of fishing boats,
the slippery feel of live bait?
Who knows the endless hours afloat
on oil-slicked bays in hopeful wait
for the subtle bite that rarely came?
The Bookend Diner's thin chicken soup
tasted like puddles, but it was worth
Fathom's dollar to be out of the rain,
a tranquil summer day's shocking turn
with sudden lightning, thunder,
and wind to make the city howl!
No rest for the weary, thought Fathom,
hearing Sandra's scorn blasting the sun
from bright blue skies with torrents
of bitter invective spit like this wind driven
rain against the Bookend's glass facade.
Some things still make sense, he thought,
sipping weak Red Rose tea. There's nothing
under heaven like a pale blue fifty-seven
Chevy. You could trust Ted Williams to hit.
Count on Ray Charles, Henry Fielding, Portia,
Marilyn Monroe, Little Richard, John
Lennon, Davie Crockett, Constance Reid,
and Premium Saltines in cellophane wrappers
to kill the taste of thin, bitter red tea.
Fathom watched an old man, fresh
from the sea, the scent of fish
on his hands, he sipped the Bookend's
tea, and listed to one side and then to the other
like an old boat rocking gently on still waters.
He seemed not to notice the storm.
Fathom bailed out his shallow
soup bowl with quick scoops
as if to keep his ship afloat.
The Lone Ranger did not ride alone,
Fathom thought, chewing his saltines.
Things are not always as they seem--
there was Tonto always near, and Cisco
had Pancho, Don Quixote had his Panza,
and who knows what went on between
Beatrice and George, Tom and Sophie,
Rochester and Bertha, Les Paul and Mary
Ford? Well, there's always Natty Bumppo
Abbey Road, Saint John's Gospel: it may
be so for all I know, he thought, as he pushed
hard to open the Bookend's glass door
and walked out into the wind blown rain.
********************************************************
Early Spring
The new year bounded along like a rock
jumping, bouncing down a severe incline.
The sun seemed to lose its way; it settled
in the south west sky as if gone astray.
By March the Sun eclipsed the moon and Hale-
Bopp's comet appeared like a misguided
star, too bright, too close; it forcibly stepped
on the brakes and kicked up enormous clouds
of trailing star dust as it skid across
the sky. Crocuses bloomed, and then came wild
yellow daffodils and forsythia, purple
and white hyacinths. Magnolia trees
blossomed pink and the dogwoods flowered white.
Easter rushed up like an over-eager
child in pursuit of chocolate, and then
Vas died, as he said he would, on Easter
Sunday. with overcast hearts and tearful
smiles, we walked with him to his bright,
Spring Grave beneath a blue sky and a brilliant sun
on Friday, a little numb, a little stunned,
sad and lonely to be without him.
********************************************************
a blank sheet of paper
has marvelous potential
possibilities abound
like the stars on a clear night
when a new moon
tugs at the tides from
invisible heights
********************************************************
Nothing dries
sooner than tears
not the rain
not the dew
not the first
frost of fall
********************************************************
Hypocrisy’s
blinding glare too
often obscures
the hypocrite
whose face appears
In the mirror.
********************************************************
Love
Too close for words
to say what we mean;
too close to mean
what words can say:
is that love,
or is that love's
ghost: the old cherry
tree that failed
to blossom,
or the recurring echo
of a rose?
********************************************************
Evening Song
Twilight descends like a delicate threat;
the silent breeze whispers an ageless tale
of darkest night--harmonious discord
evoking quivers of unremembered
fear. Between the moon and night runs Venus
dripping sea-brine, the brightest star, astray
like an errant diamond, rife with cosmic
sentiment. There's magic in the echo
of the Jimson lily's silent song--sung
like the sirens' symphony to enchant
the moon. The ocean rushes a high tide
to soothe the weary shore: wave after white
wave smooths its face worn with foot prints and sand
castles: fleeting dreams wash away like bright
clouds blown on late night winds. Faceless figures
of sleepless dreams emerge from within tall
ancient oaks to cast deep spells and weave old
yarns of joyful days and estrous nights when
Brigid danced and Patrick sang and Hope rode
a brilliant white stallion from North to South
across white lily fields and rainbows arched
the land from sea to sea and happy were
we then, yes, for one brief, lasting moment.
********************************************************
Sunset
burned gold
without glare;
spring and such
a dry spell.
The lawn
turned earth's best green
but sparsly;
rain came,
light, fine;
half-a rainbow--
formed
then faded
slowly
imperceptibly;
a sheer cloud
hung before
a perfect
round, pale,
setting sun;
we watched
with wonder,
near fear,
to see the sun
look so like
the perfect
placid, dead
full moon.
********************************************************
The Salem Witch
Once I'd
seen the witch
it was difficult
ever more
to find
the comely
young woman
in fur and plume
who first caught
my eye.
********************************************************
Long standing
intolerance
begins to look
like patience,
in time.
Conflict and
contention,
the ritual
argument,
create one sort
of intimacy,
but a smile,
a kind word,
an uncalculated
kiss will do
as well if
what you want
is intimacy.
********************************************************
Christine and cookies,
Oh, Margaret a lot,
Hester’s green tea and
The morning was shot.
Breathless Virginia
Crammed plans into plans,
Fifteen for dinner
All stuffed in three vans.
Clara rode donkey
In boots with her smiles
While Bob kissed the princess
In back of the files.
Stale chocolate cake
Was what we all got.
Jane cried out loud:
“This coffee’s too hot.”
********************************************************
Gallery
The curator paced--window to counter,
counter to office, office to window . . . .
Brassy, old, imperious, a woman set on thin
legs waked an aged strut, impervious,
her look pursed in thin-lipped wrinkles:
"Tell me how I can assist you."
I could not tell, had no idea, wondered . . .
and smiled.
The curator paced--window to counter,
counter to office, office to window . . . .
The far wall was full canvas: clouds.
White and blue, tops of clouds:
deep contrast: bright to one side, dark
to the other. More clouds to the right.
Two walls of clouds, tops of clouds
"It's like being in a plane," said
an elderly woman with a happy, bright smile,
as she felt her way along the clouds
to find a door.
The curator slouched in his chair,
worn down with his rounds.
His tough-barked hostess had vanished,
leaving the room still as its thick carpet.
Alone above the clouds, I wandered
and was startled to find two long poles
with rocks tied to their tops, leaning
precariously against the clouds:
ancient missiles from a simple time
when we threw rocks.
I found myself pacing from window to cloud,
cloud to window, window to an overlooked
wall with a small canvas: two beetles
on daffodil, one atop the other, in "Yellow,
Magenta, Cyan."
Catherine came to mind: she liked to grit
her teeth in pleasure. Her eyes alight,
her front teeth slanted forward, her jaw
set, tense, triumphant. There was something
unseemly about Catherine's mouth when
she grit her teeth in pleasure.
Like an apparition among the clouds
the thin-lipped woman reappeared,
"Would you like a champagne?"
she urged with her head slightly tilted
toward the right, her thin lips pursed
shut with wrinkles, her dim eyes narrow,
estimating, calculating.
"Thank you, no."
The curator paced--window to counter,
counter to office, office to window . . . .
I felt my way along the clouds
and followed the path of the bright-eyed
woman whose ageless smile shone
like the sun above the clouds,
until I found the open door.
********************************************************
At times the dead are real,
Their presence
Palpable as music to the deaf,
Color to the blind,
Song to the mute.
The dead are real
And incomprehensible
As death.
********************************************************
We agonized along hot city side-
Walks in summer and picked a careful way
Over ice in bitterly cold winter
Winds to find tea and scones while we studied
Ways to explore, perfect, perhaps justify
Intimacy. Were we intimate
Then when we wondered aloud if this con-
Fusion were love or what might it be if
Not and why such fascination, why such
Urgent desire, why the desire
To check desire, why the concentration
On one another when we were apart?
Why the cautious first moments each time we met?
When we were together,
Sensitive to one another
Protective of ourselves—
We saw ourselves as if in an odd
Light that shone in two directions
At once and revealed one thing to you
And another to me.
********************************************************
The stone behind the dark glasses
On the snow cone is the King
The queen is in her pantry
Eating pies.
Crawling down the hallway
Past the butter, past the sink,
The prince is having visions
With his eyes.
The Joker traded motley
For a pin striped vested suit;
His wife puffed out her cheeks and
Picked his ties.
The priest is running groceries
To the revels in the hills.
The nuns are painting checkers
On the skies.
Princess Carolina dressed
In crinoline contrives
To raise her skirt and wink at
All the guys.
Robin Hood lit Marion’s
Dessert while the friar
Drank a punch that blackened
Both his eyes.
********************************************************
The inevitable,
Always comes
As a shock.
********************************************************
I have arrived at that point
In my life
When the need to be polite,
Diplomatic,
Inoffensive to prevailing sensitivities,
Sensibilities,
Is exceeded only
By the inveterate need
To have my say
Right or wrong.
****************************************************************************
Random, random, random in tandem
A coke can rolled down the road.
The circus train crept past the park
Heavy, like a tanker sitting low
In the water, inching up river
Exhausted, on the last leg of its long journey.
The phone rang. I woke. Lost.
Where am I? What time is it?
Dream merged with waking:
I was in Cincinnati when the phone
Rang and I ran to answer and woke
From my dream more real than
The ringing phone.
“Tending bar is not respectable.
He should not tend bar.”
She spoke with disgust on her face.
Disgust easily found its way to her face.
A smile struggled with her ready-made
Lines of disgust. She could not distort
Those lines to make a smile, so deeply carved
Into her face were the aged lines of constant disgust.
The paperboy walked stiffly, his back to the wind,
His cap pulled down to cover his face.
The wind cut through his blue jeans and iced
The front of his legs till they were numb and stung.
The wind sliced sharply across lawns buried beneath
Snow that obliterated boundaries and hid concrete
Walkways and curbs and streets. Snow drifts rounded
White by the wind peaked and sloped as if they covered
A long, plush meadow that rolled uphill from the brook
But the heavy snow could not disguise the small,
Uniform houses that shot up suddenly like patches
Of corn that divided the field into barren lots
Where greedy men planted cinder blocks.
Christmas came like a winter storm
Of wrapping and bows and boxes
And it went in light black plastic bags
With empty wine bottles clinking together.
********************************************************
Conversation with the Wall
In mocking hesitation,
old Whiskers bowed his head:
"It's mostly of this era
to live in fear and dread
the push along the subway,
the stranger with a gun,
the organized militia
armed and having fun,
the nuclear reactors,
the IRS, and more,
the nagging threat of living
through the very last world war.
No telling what they're thinking,
down there in Washington's Mall,
but everyone who goes there
sits on Humpty's wall.
So fare you well this fun house,
wisely choose your way:
we'll know you by those things you do.
Not by those you say."
******************************************************************
Whiskers and The Victorian
She was a shallow stream,
a wader's dream,
and he liked fishing
up minnows.
Hers was a fetching gleam:
the moon's full beam
conjuring a steady
under-tow.
He splashed on self-esteem,
to an extreme,
and thought to give her
a good row,
but, t'was her secret scheme
to reign supreme
whilst he was bathing
his ego.
Their puddle sure teemed
and raged, till it seemed
like oceans about
to overflow.
********************************************************
Vietnam is a memory now:
remote as Korea,
World War II.
Once Nam was everything:
once,
for a long, long painful time.
"A brief war, as wars go,"
will say the books.
Hard to face then,
Harder now:
men, grown from boys,
eighteen, haunt
street corners like lost souls,
they beg in frayed uniforms:
spare change can not change
a life spared in war, doomed
to haunt lost souls,
victims themselves
of private wars,
wounded, scarred, numbed,
their own horror
haunting them,
they cannot hear
the anguished voice:
"Spare some change
for a vet, friend?”
*********************************************************************
Ordinary Time
Week Six
Have you seen that homeless
man shuffle off to bed:
cardboard on a subway grate
his hands around his head?
Have you seen that tunnel
lady advertise her breast:
she winks a blackened, swollen
eye that says she needs some rest.
Have you seen that drunken
man talking to the wall?
Have the windshield raggers
scared you with their drawl:
"May the good Lord bless you, Mister.
Merry Christmas one and all.”
***************************************************************
Apocalypse
In the end
it's over.
Done.
If it starts
up again
as something
new,
it's not
over and
done.
In the end
it's done.
Over.
................
................
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