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Monday, November 12, 2007



How about some love poetry?

Right now I am so desperate for your touch
That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing.

I could walk out the door into the hallway
And scream with such ferocity
the neighbors might think
I have taken leave of my senses.

When I think of food,
Nothing compares
to how I savor you.

When I contemplate delightful vision,
You are the only vision in eyes.

I love all music,
But there is no sound better than your voice.
I await every telephone call,
And lead you
with questions,
Just to hear
the timbre of your talk, which I adore.

Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection.

Oh! Baby! I love your smell.
Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed,
And fluff the pillows.

I do so expecting the redolence of you.
When you are gone,
Even after a day or two,
And your aroma is lost I am lost, too.

At wits end, I circle the bed,
And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet
Whose master has not returned home,

I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.



Well! Was sagst du?
I think I know better, but it is God Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

But, sweetheart, Hej! I tell you now.
Forget it! Fly straight! Think of the Frick,
with its fabulous El Greco,
Small though the painting is, it amply captures the fury
When Jesus castigates the money changers,
Das wort ist klar!

No man may serve two masters.
God loves the prisoner, the downcast, the lame.
He loves the lilies of the field.
Grass need not care how it may clothe itself.

Though great it may be to be King, what profit in it,
When the first shall be last and those with least,
Most, and beggars shall inherit the earth,
And children be fountains of wisdom,
And rabbis know not the Lord
when He stands before them?


A Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey

An impossibly large bed
Stretched sideways across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle ran the length
From the front door entrance
To the back of the room.

And you, there, in your underwear
Standing up against a cantilever table,
A vanity, half the room's width, with over-head,
Recessed lamps and a mirror mounted to the wall.
You were brushing your hair,
And with each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms so my hands
might clasp both your legs at the ankles.
Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center between
your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin touched on
the right back of your knee.

I was squatting and each of my hands was wrapped
around one of your respective ankles,

When I told you
That I had never personally encountered a woman
Who looked so much the better
naked than clothed.

'Wow!' Burst out. And you admitted
That I sure knew how to compliment a girl.

Woman! Trust my veracity.
For though dumb struck,
In my heart I recited the poet's
immortal words,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all
You know on earth, and all you need to know'.

Thursday, November 8, 2007



Another Sunday early evening has arrived.

You, you are gone abroad,
I sit all alone at Starbucks and drink a coffee.
Instead of us sharing our diner,
I write about missing you.

The notion how absence makes
The heart grow fonder is nonsense,
No more than a hill of beans in my book!

I am no fonder of you than I was
Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.
I am no fonder of you than I was yesterday,
Than I was last week, than I was
Three weeks ago before you had departed
on your business trip.

Tonight I am simply sad.
I am very lonely.
I feel terrible without you.

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