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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