These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
I dreamed you were pulled From the bridal bed and out from the house screaming.
You were carried off through the pathless desert. It was night with little moon; Darkness hid the cacti, Making them all the more dangerous to life and limb.
The temperature had dropped to freezing in the Sonora.
I could hear you call my name.
I had been cheated at the moment when life’s promise Happiest, the fulfillment of holy, holy prophecy.
I had been assured children; One was to be monarch of new Golden Age, A child to whom future ages might do homage.
I did not hesitate, but marshaled my forces I frantically shouted with all my might 'Help!' I was hoping to rescue you, My beautiful wife, the love, the love of my life.
Still perfumed and boutonnière, Heady with the day's excitement, Like some native sorcerer, a shaman Whose vision had been magically enhanced Through ritual drink, I could see in the darkness. I ran headlong, inner light to guide me.
I chased the phantom that possessed you.
Your beauty, the allure of your physical self, Your large brown eyes and olive complexion, Your brunet tresses running down to your shoulders, -- drapery of oh-so-special, awesome pulchritude – The thought of your high intelligence, Its value to material success in my life, Your undeniable charm, your grace, The mercy, at core, inspiration of my poetic ambitions, Propelled me, you, the dream of you, It animated my heart and lungs with incredible vigor.
I and my comrades launched search after search, Soon the whole community joined to assist For eight days we scoured landscape, Reaching down the most perilous ravines, Walking the vast expanse for miles around In the heat people fell to the ground exhausted.
Old timers said that they had not witness such uproar, Since the days when war Yaqui stole settler women, Who never returned, rumor reported, because Squaws knew better treatment among the lodges and Tepees than in their own homes from first husbands.
We never found you.
I went to the priests and sought advice; I prayed to the Savior, but it was no avail.
You were gone; we felt you were no longer with us. I knew it, yet could not let you go. I pinned.
I learned time had never been a friend.
Because these, because all my efforts proved futile, I am now a broken man, dead unto myself, Unfit, and utterly homeless, my life over, Devastated, no other woman may ever have me.
Seven years ago, we started, friends, Acquaintances, commercially. Later, you worked With me, sorting jewelry. Jarek thought Us well suited, maybe a steady couple, Figured we might enjoy, complement each other.
He said he saw you eyeing me. I feared disaster, but he said, “Blame me, Stanley! You can always blame me for everything!”
Last Saturday at the Pizzeria, Ten AM in a very busy place, Despite our aversion to public affection, We lost ourselves in caress. It was prolonged and remarkably tender. We were standing up, Up from our table and chairs for all to see.
God! I love to kiss you!
Later, a counterman asked, were we dating? I heard him think, “Not bad!” His eyes declared your beauty! I wanted to agree, but answered, “No.”
Passion strong, I want you.
Our love went awry. You abandoned each, every solemn promise, Pulled up stakes, and left me home alone, miserable. Still wisdom counsels me to patience. A doctor reminds me breaking bonds, the ties Between lovers, not inconsequential, "It's not a change of shoes," she says.
I followed her order, made an inventory. I listed the virtues, the good qualities about us. I put them to paper twice. I started with our business acumen, noting, first, Our mutual attention to detail, (we never misplaced, Or lost a thing) then our discipline, we operated Like clockwork, yet we always had fun, Scouring tables and racks for hidden treasure, We loved to play games of show and tell. We were a team, and business profited.
Next, continuing doctor’s precept, I wrote, how We had worked out personal protocols, Settled on behaviors, and aimed daily To create wellbeing and household harmony, I marked our mutual hope, the promise, that Carnal and spiritual fat, years of it, we felt The dream of proverbial bounty, fantastic, was ours.
We were being brought unto a good land and a large, Not unlike fulfillment of the Biblical foretelling, When up from earth flowed milk and honey.
Reconsider the plus and the minus, love’s ledger, And your skill at cost accounting’s good, You must surmise how tiny the downside be, And know the total burden amount to no great sum.
Frugal, you never needlessly cast away a thing, Yet waste time. Squander the crafted continuum, The more than a year and a half, our life to date, Discard, wantonly, though you profess love,
And write of your ardor for me still.
Deaf to your beating bosom, Refusing when you already knew, You knew! Gott in Himmel! Ach der lieber! You deny your soul, your very passion for a man, Who would sacrifice his life for yours!
In early youth I learned love, I caught its lyric while I listened to music on the radio.
When I lived in Germany, half a life ago, American soldiers played it on the jukebox. And I heard it from Sweden on the web today, The youth channel, clear and loud, Singer and song, similar or the same, The moon, big and bright, in the Milky Way tonight, Oh, Yes! Its lyric hollers. Time’s a wasting, There are kisses not tasted, and the hook repeats Whole lot of living, whole lot of loving to do, The life, the love and kisses! No one Would I rather do it with than you.
You, that moon of song and yore, Your reflected image, I had it in my net. But when I went to pull it up, it sank, Not like a fish, but as a large, awesome, golden coin.
A fisherman, I set to sea and trawl above Muck and seaweed, and the debris of sunken vessels, I sought to net splendid satellite consort.
You ruin it, me being alone!
Overcome by yearning, Believing I can no longer go on, Face my life without you, I turn to this ritual. I try to make matters worse. It’s a mental trick, a maneuver whereby I practice the increase of my anguish, actually. I call scenes of happy times to mind, and Picture the wonders of our life together so far.
I recall the times I waited for you, When I sat on the bench under the gazebo In early sun at the Amish fairground in Columbus, My delight, carrying your purchases to our van, Hurrying off to the next market stall, There we chose fruit to last the week.
And then I hark back to the highway near Princeton, The late sunlight dappled through trees, And touched my arm at the window In such a magic way, that, I told you the moment,
This present instance… the happiest in my life.
Oh, how good! How good! I, wide-awake, Within eidetic dream, glimpsed the New Jerusalem, Gott in Himmel. Alles geht gut mit der Welt!
When these among my fondest day dreams Have truly knocked my spirits flat, I return, again, I recall one instance more, one more, Still another rapture and bring it to the fore, It is then! Then I know I can withstand anything!
I am not weeping, just weary with you in my mind. I weep when angry, and then I weep. Were I not completely drained, I would weep more.
I, I saw the situation was wrong right from the start, Though I thought things might be different between us. Over and over, again and again, every day’s a rerun, Countless slights, indignities, lack of common courtesy, Little or no gratitude, without faith in God’s abiding love.
I wrote you letters. I said your bad behavior hurt me. At the breaking point and wanting out, I was desperate, fearing I would lose you forever, I believed your plea and vow.
“Take me back and I’ll change. I’ll be good, I swear!”
I made you put it in writing, And for a short while things improved, Though, ultimately, what you wrote meant nothing.
You lead me on. Your rearing has not allowed veracity. About our relationship, you told no one, not even you.
The more you revealed to me, Once I learned your dark history, Became privy to your secret habit, The more, the more distant love grew The truth, your personal truth sundered us.
Help me, be my friend and Come back home and sleep with me again.
Take the key and open the door, See the beckoning path, It lies right there before you, Learn what countless generations know, Willingness to change brings us life that works. A small step prepares the leap.
Remember the sweet, sweet caresses. Wait not! So soon all opportunity vanishes! Consider the moment, the public affection, If not for you, please, for me.
The hurly-burly of time overwhelms us. No significance remains, boundless and bare, Darling, the lone and level sands stretch far away.
Out in Arizona my Dad, He grew roses; He embraced the great merit, Often proclaimed How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden.
That spot he tended along side the house, It was the love of his retirement.
I saw those roses disporting, Performing and they were real pretty, But I must say aloud, They never flowered, like you, They could never match your beauty, The way you look tonight, darling.
Though this verse be trivia, Fitting definition, thing of small importance, It swears truth, The whole truth and nothing but the truth,
Its my sweet talk. Its my seeking your endearment.
I miss you, honey. I miss going to dinner with you. Everywhere I look, up and down the streets, I keep thinking I see you. It’s the damnedest thing!
By the way, I’ve decided to discard, Throw out some of the poetry. Of course, you must know why. It has me loving you too much.
Oh! Those notes I took, The notes of all our telephone conversations, Sister, that’s a painful lot!
I documented all your promises, your assurances. I made you repeat them. I hoped thereby you might remember Just how many times you had given me your word.
I wrote them all down, my questions, your answers.
I can look back, should anyone have interest, And figure the exact dates of those, your pledges.
But the exercise would require work, Because in the record of those, Our long-distance dialogues, I reckoned time according to lunar calendar. They read, for instance, first, Monday, December.
Across one sheet I marked significant, You had telephoned me from Florida the day Directly following the second Harvest Moon, A moon whose rise the previous night I had sighted over Forest Avenue.
Upon those papers I sometimes drew Regular zodiac signs, pretending knowledge, Like some sorcerer of old, Who predicated life’s lot on planetary whirl, Who posited fortune from abstract, A conjunction of heavenly bodies within a starry belt, I was dream-wishing. It was make-believe, pathetic.
Might your last satellite communication, I wondered, Be housed on plane with moon in constellation, Leo?
It all gets very primitive when dealing with you.
When I concentrate, Concentrate on my abandon, on my love, Really examine the extent of my feelings, My heart wells, fills up like a balloon. It’s ready to burst, Overwhelmed, stretched to utmost circumference, Its membrane reaches thinnest extreme, It helps to explain Just how sensitive I am to your every desire.
If I remember to relax, Should I try and stop holding on, Just simply let you go, Then I can not help but feel gratitude, Give thanks for the time I had opportunity to spend with you.
At other times I fall to absolute delusion, And believe I write great poetry, The words I pen have immortality, Celebrate you and me for the ages, Carry real prophecy and moment, True vision when I reveal my dreams of you.
I guess I believe we are constantly being born. I go through all these thoughts, again – again, Hoping against hope, Seeking a glimmer, some glimmer, Fingers crossed for incredible stroke of luck, Trust your return to my arms once more.
I have a real problem; It’s when I look about. I see other couples, pairs, tight, Together for the afternoon, daylight upon their faces, All lovey-dovey, they walk along the avenues.
It bothers me seeing them; they sit in cafes and read Newspapers and books, and sip from bottles of water.
I envy them. I do not have you. World seems happier place When people have each other to depend on, And romance animates their bodies and faces.
I am sorry to conclude, you’re a mean person. You went away, my sole companion now my work.
Am I making this up as I go along?
But you did go and I am home alone. You left me all by myself with my freedom. I fear I’ve fallen prey to mine own emptiness.
Were you mine, I swear I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t share you with anybody, with anything. It would be just you and me. You’d be the center of it all! It would feel more like love, sweet love, Than me here sitting lost, Trying to figure the situation, or How I might say it proper, put it into this poem. Hope I haven’t upset you.
Maybe that’s the real difficulty, The source of us being driven apart, I am just too romantic You seek something other, Maybe you are simply more practical, reasonable. My flights of fancy and over-heated emotion, Not things you have in mind.
Do not worry! I have the capability of living with my beliefs.
But, darling, you must take pity, Open your heart -- for you say you still love me. Mercy please! Forgive me, I lack resolve. I am unable to start anew, to make life without you.
I am still not over this thing of ours.
I haven’t gotten over it, the beauty, All the wondrous times, I haven’t gotten over my being with you.
1 The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
It has me running in the semi-darkness I run with a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key, And has a single, protruding notch at its end, The kind of key used to wind an antique clock.
Next to the wall at the end of my run stands A giant, cartoon heart, painted, yet color so natural, It rivals the red of a Red Delicious apple. On the right at the top of this wondrous heart A gold metal strike plate sets up over against An aperture, the channel, does it lead To the lock that might open, release your heart?
Have I the key? Or do I dream only to wake, Awaken to nightmare day of awful longing and ache?
Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me? Do I confuse dream wish with reality?
Darling, answer me soon! Does deep desire Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease? And promise of new, peaceful kingdom be Fulfilled, here, in this query today?
Now I stand before you, You, my Higher Power, And the congregates sense the blasphemy; They whisper calumnies. They say that I am my father’s son,
‘He is the boy from the hardware store! By whose authority has he right to reveal, Who does he believe, who does he think, He is to inform us his midnight imaginings?’
And me, their belligerence does not concern me, Not a whit, though they rise up And ready to condemn me. I pray ... I might have definite answer, That I am prophet in this house, That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive, Carry hope for life anew, And have news extraordinary, good, for all to hear.
Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness, I run I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical, A single, protruding notch at its end, The kind used to wind an antique clock.
Darling, please, your answer! Have I the key to open your heart, Or do I dream the impossible dream?
Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise, No one ever said she was the smartest, But she painted well, an artist, And following the common adage, Different time and place, who knows the reputation, The renown she might have attained?
She dressed the girls in pricey sets, And every one appreciated it, For Dad was gone, Family, three girls abandoned, And Mother was sick, Had to stay long time in the sanatorium, But Grandma had her ways, Paid no heed to underwear, Think on this a moment, for who could see it?
Though it be tattered and dirty, And Lord knows should have been replaced, Especially when one consider the cash outlay, That she paid no heed to any outfit’s cost.
She favored subtle, flower prints, Nothing garish; she was master seamstress, A healthy woman, who loved her cats (Fed those both inside and outside the house) And took in every kind of stray, animal and human, A former dancer who partook of chorus, Had her training down at PARK, called LUNA, And, all who knew her swear, She practiced kicks, over head, when she had, She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.
Did she swap a place for her star on the walk, Take lead role in gilded cage instead?
No way, she was tough and worked hard, Created a wonderful home and with natural talent, She made a big garden, a green-thumb delight.
And guess what! To top it off, She married well, a union man, a good provider, A leader who was respected and adored by all.
And then I heard, Heard her granddaughter’s heart, it very clearly said, ‘How I wish, how I wish she were here’.
'Today', the specter says, ‘Before I appear in vision to you, A fierce fit seized my brain, and I took my sword And smashed it mightily against this stone Which our men had trundled from the moraine, A monument on whose face Inscribed characters memorialize my life.’
Wordlessly he hands me a leather roll to unfurl. It is a runic manuscript and though The writing was olden, Svenska, I could read it!
'My Darling Brunet,’ the salutation goes,
'I am your countryman, a remote ancestor, I tell you true, and whether you believe me or not, Or how you choose to act, The matter rests entirely with you. Nonetheless I urge you. Harken!
‘Death has deprived me of ability to speak, The poet’s verse, the dream It communicates to you, is channel, The vehicle this ghost employs, Without this medium no correspondence would exist.
‘You have heard of the hurried activity that Animates the point of embarkation, Note anticipation of mere material success, It dwarfs so much noble human endeavor. The business these ships portend had once been mine.
‘The business the ships portend had been mine.
‘And now voyager, you, like we before you, Pursue the world to bring it to your feet, You seek new riches and hope To bring them home to dazzle compatriots.
‘Yet, whatever the greatness now awaits you, Yours can not compare to ours, to our accomplishment. ‘Forgive the invidious note. Still mull it over, Allow me this moment. Imagine it!
‘The joy! We sat well in order And smote the sounding furrows, And sailed into the sunrise We headed toward the baths of the morning stars.
‘And when we landed, we crossed a vast, Unnamed landmass between Europe and Asia, Harnessed captives to forge the rivers, Fought numberless skirmishes, We used native allies to establish posts for trade.
‘And while we traveled we beseech Odin,
‘Oh Father! Oh Father of Fathers! Oh Allfather! Soak us in the blood of enemies, and let its Stenches increase our fury. Help us to violence! Oh Great God guide us to kill any whom defy us.
‘The greater bloody smell filled our nostrils, The more the madness drove us to fight and conquer.
‘And when we lit funeral pyres, Made from the ships of our current travel, And burned the bodies of our fallen comrades Into the heaven that awaits the warrior, Our hair became matted thick, We were crowned with the ash of the departed. In the smoke from those fires We breathed in the spirits of heroic conquest.
‘We were men of prayer and momentous belief, Utterly we turned our will and We turned our lives over to care of Father.
‘And I ask, again, how yours may compare to ours, How may yours compare to our conquest of the East.
‘We founded Kiev, established the thrones That became the Royal house of a great nation. ‘All the way from the soil of Stora Alvaret, We crossed the Bosphorus, And battled foes on the plains outside Byzantium, Our work was in the employ of oriental Emperors. ‘We had vanquished the expanse of land We ruled from Baltic to Black Sea.
‘And when we returned to homeland shores We had ships filled with slaves and honey. We brought woman companions North, Awesome beauties of the East were ours. We stole the horses of the Hungarians and the Czechs.
Our hulls bore bags upon bags of gold and silver coin, And were heaped with all variety of fruit, Our ships returned laden with pelts of fur for our winters.
We had returned home rich beyond measure.
‘Now I am but a shade, truly ghost of former self. No one need tell me how great the events How the gravestone script commemorates the Immortality of your ancestors’ deeds and mine.
‘Yet nothing matches the warmth, the memory, My dear wife’s body lay in bed, her sleeping next to me. ‘Once, and now so many years ago, I happened upon my wife while she lifted Our son to seat him on the front plank Of an oxcart parked in the front of our home.
‘I must convey that there be More lasting memory and real worth for me, In the way dappled sunlight Had illuminated my son's head, Than is upon all the runes in the homeland today.
‘Our paths emerge but for a while Then close forever within a dream.
‘Time cuts us a length so short only the moment May be savored, all else’s vanity, And once we recognize the transitory, The fleetingness of all we savor, We may seize the instance and know treasure.
‘I am a shade. My victories mean nothing.
‘Were I only able to spend An hour more in bed with my beloved, If I could only bear again my living witness To sun’s light across tree tops at height of day.
‘If only it possible to play, to tumble, To crawl along with my toddler son, Were we to have opportunity for knees and hands Upon this earth once more.
‘Goodbye! Sweet woman, Goodbye!
‘Farewell! Farewell! Remember me!’
He vanishes. The dreamscape turns green.
And the color now before me matches the color, The verdant, the summer green of those Preserves of forest that stretch For mile upon mile along the River Desplaines The green that equals the color, the wood, The forest which circles the cemetery stone, The burial ground of the Chippewa Chief Whose bravery saved the pale skins at Fort Dearborn.
The green is the color of the burial plot, The Indian Burial Ground where I played in my youth.
And out from this world of green voices declare,
‘Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
‘Time chases upon our heels, Before long it quickens its pace to furious gallop. All earthly stores succumb to this onslaught. In a wisp, like the language of our monuments, We cease, and we are remembered no more.’
And over and against this green A spectral chorus appears, And from amongst the ensemble, A single ghost figure steps to the fore, and says,
‘I am here to repeat ancient wisdom, What do we care what the joyless say? They should get lost, all of them! Once our tiny, brief light is pinched out, There be no night, like that everlasting night, When earth, it replaces heaven.
‘So let’s kiss, and let’s kiss again. Let’s kiss a thousand times, and, then, Let’s do it all over again, those kisses.
‘How many? How many? How many? How many, you say?
‘Let’s not number our kisses. There are people with evil eyes, Workers of black magic, Who would wish to bewitch us.
Were I a gentleman true, gallant, The kind if chap with plumage in his hat, Whose cape readies for damsel's distress, I would say let's end it now; you're Too young or, even better put,
I'm too old for love with a beauty your age.
But let’s face it! No two-bit convention possesses me.
Long ago, It was in the woods of Western Massachusetts, I saw time tunnel down the trail before me. I saw the nature of things, The whirl into which all we know disappears.
And tonight faces of the dead startle me awake. Family and friends float before me.
Oh the calamity! Death holds both young and old alike!
Darling, the air in my bedroom It drops to the temperature of ice.
I envision my aunt, Helene, and see her When she says to the child, who is me, 'Stanley! Go ahead! Touch her!' My cousin, Barbara, lies in her coffin Before the age of six, she was a year older than I.
My buddy, Burton, cut down well before prime; Thought of him occupies my every day.
Revelry brings me to Joey who cried 'Whitney's dead!' And right there On Fifth Avenue, opposite the Public Library, He placed his gun on the glass of the showcase Counter top. I was in the jewelry shop. I dream a slip back to former ways, the drinking life; I could taste the whiskey shots, the beverage Dispensed that afternoon, it was Johnnie Walker Black.
The haunting goes on; The dead, more of them parade before me.
Omar, tall, dark, forgive me here for I know No better than the honest truth, handsome, The child, Spencer, my son's best friend, My high-school sweethearts, Arlene and Lynn, All taken, all unwitting emblems, as if to prove, Life bears no promise of continuance.
Nightmare arms with disembodied hands, Wag imaginary fingers As if to demand I pick up pen and write.
But before one dream ceases another appears. I see the birds of the air keep still. Those who were eating did not eat, And those who were conveying material to make nest, Did not convey it, and before me opens a scene Of low surf beaches upon which are long ships, Vessels whose hulls have center masts With single, rectangular sails, blood red, And from gar boards up are stakes, broad-axed Hewed, each board a color its own, And each board nailed one upon the other, The sides of those ships appear
Like the bands of rainbows, red, orange, yellow, Green, blue, indigo and regal violet. Color upon color runs the length of keels, Which themselves are crowned gold Each has its own fierce, dragon-head prow.
Rudders are mounted at right, and within each craft Upon rows and rows of chests sit oars men.
The ships are set to sail, Yet the entire assembled host Seems as if stuck in stone, Like sculpture done in high relief. Nothing moves. The waves have stopped, they break not.
What a night! It is, It really is, what a remarkable night!
Never before have I beheld, Have I seen such Technicolor panorama. The closed world of family and friends It falls to vision from other time and place. My bedroom warms. And a seemingly true, But sixth sense intimates Spring, I seem to bear witness to a prelude, The dream carries me and I sense the long days, The glory of Scandinavian summer awakens before me.
Light, bright, bright day dawns, and it thrills me. I ready for adventure. I am happy, I am exhilarated beyond normal human confines.
And, then, a bearded visage looms before me. It is strange, it wears a helmet, The likes of which I had never before encountered, A four part iron dome with a sharp spike atop, A braided chain surrounds its eye sockets, It gives a spectacle-like appearance to the visor.
Down the back of this visage’s neck, Mounted from the edge of his helmet, A chain-mail curtain falls Directly to the shoulder of a thick, hide tunic. A strap from ear guard to ear guard Runs behind his beard, holds his helmet in place.
He says, 'Action! Please!' At once, as though My dream be some kind of cinematic construct, I hear birds of the air singing, those who were eating Eat, and those who were conveying material To nest, convey it.
The shipyard has come to life, the din now terrific. On horizon's plane I hear low thunder. I see the spray of waves sparkle in the daylight.
I am one who had been granted choice To have life of joy and great party, instead I embraced age and woe, and prophecy to bear.
I am like David, King, My verse belongs to heart, I sing of love, the bedroom, The nights when limbs fall askew, And lips of wide-open mouths lock, I write of events, whose chief renown, Rest upon time loosening its awful grasp.
My arm is mighty. I am keenly skilled at weaponry. Because my heart is pure, My strength has the strength of ten. A new kingdom animates my ambition, I plan to establish Zion.
On mountain top, Now sitting barren in the wilderness, The light of the ages shall flourish, The son of man, He will visit. The Lord commands I marshal my forces. My lyre sits on campaign table, My sling readies to outrage Philistines.
Warriors reel, they roll in clanging lists Trumpets shrill up high, shattering the sky, I walk to the fore, my bearing right, Munificence blesses me, my enemy, All his might now lay upon the ground, Surely goodness and mercy follow me.
And in the heat and noise of battle, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, Angels sing, and I fear no evil, I dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.
5 ¶ And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
6 But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. 7 ¶ But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. 8 Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him. 9 After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. 10 Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. 11 Give us this day our daily bread. 12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. 13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen 14 For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: 15 but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
Should I appear distracted, Look knocked out by the light. You make a very strong performance, A singularity round whose axis my mind spins.
I remember once, years ago, When I landed in New York, After living a year and half in Europe, How the neon of America Seemed so awesomely garish, and bright. Yet, when I close my eyes and picture it,
All seems pale before the radiance of your face.
Two people may meet for morning breakfast, Look out the café's window at the steady rain, Walk here and there along avenues of Inviting store fronts, and before the day is over Fall into hopeless passion one for the other, As though there be something in the air, Perhaps some electromagnetic charge. So the occasional electricity might overwhelm us.
Or cupid steals behind fixtures of thoroughfares. (That day I spied him crouched near a mailbox, When we began to walk main street in Point Pleasant!)
The winged child pulls from his quiver arrows. They drip wet with potion. Once he aims And shots them, grievously they tear mortal flesh Making for a ruckus extraordinaire And expectations suddenly become great.
This romance now so hard upon me, This love I must ardently profess is, if you please, Couched, subjunctive, a mood, A grammar I use so to temper My over-wrought affection and quiet The immodest verse and elevated parlance,
It provides relief for prophetic mantle I assume, The all too far-out attitude, the conceit Whose command animates this verse.
Were I not to employ this principle of language, One might believe that my love for you be shameless.
Understand. I solely express my own wish and desire, All I say remains contingent, Of a mind still hypothetical and dependent.
I do not use the imperative, I make no demand. I have no special outcome in mind.
I live in the fortress called Zion, And come from it in the Pilgrims' coat and hat. I look in the mirror and see their collar and tie. And, like those passengers on board the Mayflower, I know the Lord to be my helper. I fear not.
Who among your former friends has ever said it better?
And were you to live long and hearty life, As all actuaries predict, What future friend might ever say it better?
And should you for a moment consider,
This lyric arrive, transcending everyday concerns, That it join, Sentiment Supreme, Him, the real pilot,
When we drove in the white, Ford van and crossed Jersey's North shore highways, while the brown,
Oh that magic, gentle, dream-like, living, pale, ethereal,
And somewhat golden light accented the downpours, Whose constant unleashed falling, seemed more Like the storm the Lord had promised Noah, Than any explicable, temporary weather.
Wie es eigentlich gewesen war. 'The carriage held but just us -- and immortality.'
And since we first drove around together, Though it is months ago, It feels shorter than the day, I first surmised the engine's mounts Were tied to point, and we, too, were belted, Hurled straight ahead in covenant with eternity.
I seek. I crave the whiff, your body scent, Your fragrance, I remember, it’s as if, You’re in my arms right here at home today.
My resolve, it weakens, I want you back. I’m lonely, turn the covers, Find only bed empty and heart ache, The terrible pain of my regret, Oh how I hate the resolve, never to see you, Have nothing more to do with you, How ever long I may live, I swear to it and mean it!
Yet I want you. Wish to see you, your form Behind the shower curtain, ghost figure in the steam, The water running full throttle, the heat, The great comfort, I close my eyes, I fall to vision; it’s incredible, beyond belief, I fail in my recount, you, you, my darling,
I have come to believe you were heaven sent.
Can’t you see I’m at your feet!
I wish to witness your getting dressed, You, in the morning naked in our bedroom, and Naked in the room whose door opens Opposite to the foot of our bed, Hurrying to get on with the day,
And then the other part, morning, noon, Or night, when you are in our bed, And I hold you open to savor over and over again.
I want to see your smile, and utterly to embrace you. Were I to steal – now and forever – all your pain away!
I would be finished with you, But you, devil, trickster, you and your incantations, You practice arts you learned when young, When you and your mother spent all that time, Back and forth going to the Bahamas, You use high-tech, gigabyte millions, You work a black magic, Have you command of infectious virus? The computer’s screen beckons me, keeps me awake.
Believe me when I tell you, I hear your voice, your whispers, Behind the sounds, behind the hum of the circuitry, You’re calling, and then writing me notes, Hoping to fill, to close up the empty between us, And I am compelled to read, Though the letters do not include me, Of course, not word, nothing, Nothing about how things might be going for me.
Your only concern you, and how terrible you, How terrible you feel, and with those words, The wound reopens, my festering cut, the red hot, (Why do I care? Why do I even open your notes?) The pain surrounding the punctured, The ripped and torn, the awful marks of the lash, There has not been time enough, Will ever there be time enough, My flesh, properly, to heal?
And forgive me the blasphemy, forgive! Lord have mercy, save me!
I am reminded of Jesus after the beating, When they tore off the purple, Returning Him to everyday clothes, Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him, Before they nailed Him to the cross, They stripped him, once more, The pain of those wounds, opened and reopened, Inflicted, over and over, oh the burn, every time, Every time you write me, and I hear from you again.
Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise, No one ever said she was the smartest, But she painted well, an artist, And following the common adage, Different time and place, who knows the reputation, The renown she might have attained?
She dressed the girls in pricey sets, And every one appreciated it, For Dad was gone, Family, three girls abandoned, And Mother was sick, Had to stay long time in the sanatorium, But Grandma had her ways, Paid no heed to underwear, Think on this a moment, for who could see it?
Though it be tattered and dirty, And Lord knows should have been replaced, Especially when one consider the cash outlay, That she paid no heed to any outfit’s cost.
She favored subtle, flower prints, Nothing garish; she was master seamstress, A healthy woman, who loved her cats And took in every kind of stray, animal and human, A former dancer who partook of chorus, Had her training down at LUNA, And, all who knew her swear, She practiced kicks, over head, when she had, She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
