MY VOICES

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MY VOICES



They wake me, I beg their advice.

I place my right, open palm on my left wrist,
I place them both upon my chest. I tuck my head.
I assume this posture flat on my back.
Although I am in my bed, I mimic the stance of a bird,
Which stands with its wings folded tight upon its sides,
When it sleeps at night within a tree on a limb.



The leaves of a giant holly bush shelter me
Beneath its evergreen.

My voices urge me to repeat their verse once more,
To rehearse the words they reveal to me,
To write them that I might better recall my reverie,
And share it with my audience.

How many times, darling,
How many thousand times,
Have I told you that I am yours?

Oh love may I tell you one more time!

How many pens have I used to declare our love?

Surely to discard their emptied bodies would require
The space of many trashcans and barrels.

And how many oceans of ink and electronic script
Have flowed and been posted in our love's name?

Oh. love allow me to spill you oceans more,
And wildly post till my days are done.

How many worlds of hearts
Have burned and bled in love's cause?

Oh, love, I offer you one more.

How many tears over the eons and years
Have spilled past the brim of love's beakers?

Oh love might I ever stop my crying!

How many children in destiny's starry heavens of love
Have called your name
And have missed opportunity for life and form?

Oh love take me unto to you!

SEEKING A MUSE, Personal Classified Advertisement

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SEEKING A MUSE,
Personal Classified Advertisement



I know what to do!
I am not at a loss, despondent, nor down and out,
Not at all! I’ve got plenty of options.
I’ll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free Weeklies.

Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!

I’ll write, Single, White, Male,
Looking for a muse,
A girl to inflame my verse,
Make my heart sing a wondrous refrain.

I’ll say she must be educated and smart,
Tall, slim, and good with money,
A brunet, who has a pleasant smile,
And whose buttocks own an exquisite form.

I’ll require her voice to possess subtle timbre,
Her smell to be sweet and, above all,
I’ll demand that she be
Disciplined in work and habit,
Someone to put me to bed early,
And early to arise, a woman who might
Qualify suitable mother for a child or two.

Oh! Did I forget to mention?
I want large brown eyes and an olive complexion.

So don’t think, don’t believe for a moment,
That you are elemental, like some sustenance crucial
To happiness and breathe, for you are not. Ha!
You see how easily you can be replaced!

Get it straight! I know what to do.
Honest! It's not that big of a deal.
I’ll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free Weeklies.

Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!

WALTER GOMULKA,* Rewrite, December 2010

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WALTER GOMULKA,*
Rewrite, December 2010

I imagine the children hated to see him go.
What a Grandfather!
Talk. Talk. Talk.
They could skip their prayers.
He never forced them to eat.
He loved when they whispered secrets in his ear,
And as for his telling of fairy tales, no end!

*From his post, First Secretary of the Polish Communist Party, he ruled Russian occupied Poland from October 1956 to December 1970.

BAD GIRL

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BAD GIRL


Her disease, it said,
‘Dark around and within,
But outside, far outside, it’s all light.’

It said,
‘I’m a beggar,
My richness, my excitement, my genital,
All that shines outside,
I am empty.’

A DREAM OF YOU, A Poem in Five Parts, Edited

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A DREAM OF YOU,Desert Vision, A Poem in Five Parts,
Edited




Sweetheart, I know you love me.

I know you appreciate the poetry.

For three years now I have struggled,
Wanting to write an epic,
A great, big, love poem about us,

I sought to post the way this thing of ours went
How it went right from the start,
All banners unfurled,
How time marshals forces
Though we go about our daily business,
And children are born, and as they grow up, think,
Believe fervently that they are meant for one thing
To discover later, underneath it all,
A new world order sweeps away the old,
And learn that the fulfillment of prophecy
Remains unknown, until the actual event transpires.

The Word takes on meaning after the fact.

Headlines acclaim events;
Yet history proves otherwise,
Often something other than bold type might suggest.
Although the finite first meet the eye,
Spirit alights, it writes the script,
The real storyline often lies well beyond
First-glance tales of human endeavor …

We intend to do one thing, but, many times, later,
Discover, unwittingly we do another.



2.


Today I write, declare the moment
Yes, I say that is the way,
The way, it had actually had happened.

Now consider, I dedicate this verse to you;
Yet allow, if you please, that it records events,
Prior to our acquaintance,
Events which had transpired years before we met,
Years before either of us heard each others' name.

Where do I get the nerve?
-- The actual gall of me, hey! --
To affirm that this poem part of our story,

And that I include you in geography,
In a place on this planet you had not experienced,
An earth, whereupon your feet had never trod.

In truth, the matter propels me, no choice,
I do what destiny would have me do.

I found these words;
I had inked them once,
On lined, yellow, perforated sheet,

‘I sit at the desk, night after night,
And sometimes, it's even day and night,
Often I write on topics, quotidian and small,
On matters of no special interest,
Issues, which critics in essays declare,
Lack propriety and moment,
And do not belong to sphere of poetic ambition.

'Now years have passed,
And choice less still, I write.’

Earlier today, I had packed up your mail,
Readied the address to Coral Gables,
And when you later called and asked
How I was doing, me, under compulsion’s demand,
Lonely, slave to love and ardent desire,
I answered 'pathetic.'

No one else will have me.

It as though I have some terrible pox;
Other women see it and shun me.

My mirror image, however, it reminds me of you.
Same as you, I cram my schedule, always insufficient time,
The day wants the hours,
I have endless lists ‘To Do’.

I isolate terribly, talk to no one for the week,
And when friends telephone call, I rush them off!
Honest! No time for idle talk, or chat.
.
No choice! I return to my desk.

I dread any date for lunch.

I pass on evening engagements.
Sorry! I want only you.

I just want to be with you.

Yet I have that other side,
More than everyday necessity and much more
Than simple expression of my love for you
A confidence I wish to share with you and world,
About how I always knew that you were the girl for me,
Though I came to comprehend it, my great love,
The singular fact, only after the event;

I believe I might say it right,
Watch me now, and let’s see if I say it right!



3.


I remember Central Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona,
Danny’s store packed with Native American silver,
Bracelets, necklaces and rings, properly displayed
On racks, in trays, locked within showcases,
And on clear shelves, velvet pads, the array of colors,
Turquoise, coral, black onyx and mother of pearl,
Abalone, agates mined and cut to display their fire,
And Alexander, my son, maybe eight,not more than ten,
His years of age, playing behind the counters,
Next to the shotguns, diagonally propped,
On the floor twelve-gauge shells in open boxes,
Ready, should there be an extended engagement.

I share with you the times when, flying in
From Dallas, the grand noise, engines’ reversal
To land at Sky Harbor, the ground crew,
How they scrambled, and then,
Wheeled up the staircase,
The platform for debarkation, and me, I would descend
The steps full-tilt straight onto the tarmac,
Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees in early morning,
A rental car awaited me, and I was off
Over to the parking lot at the Dog Track,
To the swap meet that was unfolding and I sought
The cowboy named, Roadrunner, who always had
Tons of loot, the goods, every Sunday’s hauls.

Though at his point, it, more dream than reality,
I recall the very special meeting, when traders
Lined up, raised hands, and one after the other,
Volunteered to say that jewelry great here and
Proclaimed that whosoever is welcomed into
The lounge camper, who greets the Navajo,
Both the man and wife, with eyes at slight, diverted,

And who knows that the children divine a pattern,
From their running across the gravel lot, left and right,
Up and down, then unto the asphalt sidewalk,

That person, who enjoys those moments
When the children stop to refresh themselves from
The water-cooled, stainless steel, floor-pedal fountain,
The bright sparkling, that eye of the desert,
The stream which gushed upward,
(It was next to the right side of the pari-mutuel windows)

Upon that person, who bore witness to the design,
Who abstracted anagram from within
All the children’s scurry, who traced,
Out upon the open parking space, meaning,
Who was brought to new vision,
Who was able to see within the minds’ eye, the dance,
The dance holy ones once danced in godly regalia,
That person, who heard within the youngsters' feet
The drums, the rhythms ancestors had orchestrated,
So to let go, leave this material world,
And find entrance to separate reality,
The traders at the meeting, in-order, one-by-one,
Both arms raised up on high, heads flung back,
Palms stretched and fingers spread wide apart,
As if they reached and pressed upon the sky,
Called upon Great Talking God to sanctify their wish,

It was at that moment
They bestowed their most precious title,
And between the ghosts and the human beings
The word rang and cemented the union, ‘Friend’.



4.


One Sunday afternoon, I felt good magic
When a child ran up behind me,
He quickly, then, touched the back of my hand.

Later I met a Mexican friend up on South Mountain.
His house was painted a bright, distinctive blue.
I bought more jewelry and got into my car,
I took the Express Way North, exited at Bell Road,
And headed to way out West of the city.

At one point, I passed the shopping mall,
I thought about Monday’s appointments,
How a salesman's lot means he sits,
Marks time to wait his turn with buyers.

That night on the concrete patio, the one surrounding
The big swimming pool at the Community Center,
I buck-danced to the beat, which played
On the rock an’ roll, radio station.

Although it was already that Sunday’s dusk,
And the day’s high temperature had receded,
It still was ninety, over ninety degrees while I sat back
On the lounge chairs and watched Alexander,
Time and again, practice dives off the high board.



5.


Even then, it was long ago, and in Phoenix,
It was you! Darling, I had been waiting for you;
The desert air brought dream of you,
The shimmering, the uplifts, the vertical lines,
Up, upward, shafts of heat rising
Out across the desert vista,
Now I recognize it was a dream of you,
And this, my verse was racing,
I flashed on a fast and mighty steed,
I road atop a beast as if it galloped through my mind,
Yet I had command

Already galloping through my mind,
I managed to pull in the reins,
Then I hitched it up, tied it to the rail at the tip,
I hitched the reins at the tip of my tongue.

I was reciting poetry, not out loud, but to myself,
Though I knew not its power, no idea the prophecy,
I knew not the meaning of that woman,
Who I glimpsed,
Whose image I caught from from the corner of my eye,
Who walked out among the columns of earth fever,
And stood next to the Saguaros, in the twilight,
Who appeared in an instance out on the horizon,
Seemingly, over and against the floor of the desert,
Before she disappeared and let me to these lines,
The cadences I repeat from once upon a time
And now so long ago, today at key board,
These words I use to describe a dream of you.

Long before I had ever made your actual acquaintance,
A figure in landscape,
I saw you in time prior to when you were born.

At the airport, when security stopped me, I stood
In a booth whose sliding curtains dropped to the floor,
The jewelry I carried in my on-board luggage,
X ray showed a concentrated jumble of metal,
And as I awaited the woos and ahs of personnel,
When they opened my bags for inspection,
It was then that I began to wonder, and it remains
Fresh today, as if I describe events from yesterday,
It was then I began to wonder, when you,
When your love might saunter in, and make my life complete.

WINTER LOVE MELANCHOLY, Version Two, December 2010

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WINTER LOVE MELANCHOLY,
Version Two, December 2010



The seabirds cry by the sea,
Their songs are sad,
Their refrains freight my melancholy.

And in the distance a fog horn,
It, too, sounds a plaintive note;
It repeatedly revives my sorrow.



There is a damp, hard, winter wind.
It beats on me, causes terrible chill.

The nights remain very long;
I fear that I may have lost forever
The memory of how the summer sun warms.

And now my mind succumbs to a foreboding.

Oh the dread that I might never kiss you again!

PADMA, You May Laugh at Me*, A Poem Inspired by T. Wijaya

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PADMA,
You May Laugh At Me*,
A Poem Inspired by T. Wijaya,






Padma, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.

Sometimes from out in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes,
Look from our second-story flat,
And I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the youngsters are students,
Who hurry, hasten, not to be late for school.

The sound runs major then quiets to minor,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.

Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within the clamors' swirling expansion and contraction,
Underneath it all, I swear to it, darling, I swear,
I very clearly perceive,
Throughout the commotion, a young, collective voice.

In my mind the cacophony
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.

It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.

I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.

Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines.



2.


Padma, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when
These self-same students learn in classroom,
And study day-long the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds;
It stands against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.

No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or tutorial reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.

I am reminded of how hapless the task,
Attempting to find reason, to understand
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, the bounty which freely befalls us.

Padma, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or I imagine that I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, and that you have called to tell me
You are safe and have arrived home.

My emotions flutter when I hear your vocal timbre.

Padma, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.



3.


Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would anyone accept this tale?

Suppose we were to search the whole wide world,
Would we find one, one single person,
Who concludes, who believes,
If even for a moment, that I am a happy man?

Padma, I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments in which you had sworn
And ardently acclaimed your love for me,
My remembrance of them, carry me to joy,
To boundless fervor and contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye.

Padma, a big smile inhabits my face.



4.


Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think over our life,
The every instance we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
As if enthralled by some faery power and driven,
Hoping to explain how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.

Padma, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to the great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.

Padma, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I rise again in that blue room,
That blue bedroom, where we started the day,
Each day I wake to the same blue sky,
Which houses our Lord, to Him I pray.
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.

Padma, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.



5.


Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.

Padma, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.

You know that is not the case.

Padma, I write in the moment,
And, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.

Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel
For loving you and and having made your acquaintance!


*The Indonesian Poet, T. Wijaya's original title for this poem was RATNA, You May Laugh at Me. I kept the subtitle, but changed the name of the woman to whom the poem is addressed to PADMA. The name RATNA unfortunately conjures unfortunate associations for an English speaking audiences. I imagine my poem, though inspired by Wijaya's reading of his verse, has little to do with the sense and meaning of the poem. I do not know the Indonesian language and have relied solely on a rough translation into English provided in the original reading of the poem. I have used his verse as a launch pad for my own.

CATULLUS POEM 11, An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Verse, Rewrite

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CATULLUS POEM 11,
An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Verse,
Rewrite



Christopher, Billy,

Hey guys! Do Stanley the favor, and tell her,
Please, convey the message.

Tell her, whether he is afoot upon Indian Ocean shores,
And this time with his consort,
Glory maiden, whose girdle exacts a proportion,
Which brings great joy to any man who spies it,
His new love, a love as beautiful, and thunderous
As waves which hammer across white beach,
And her voice, it echoes the sound of the sea,
And like the woman, herself, is magnificent,
She, how else might he describe her,
Another sensual gift born of the fruitful palms,

Or if he goes alone into the Ganges plain, and seeks
To follow the time line of empire and civilization,
Or turns to sign post pointing north
To the glacier’s cave, the river’s mouth,
Where sky animates the waters in spectrum of colors,
Which, when uplifted in awesome spray
Among the half-submerged rocks and boulders,
Causes pilgrims to rub their eyes and wonder,
Assure themselves that they have not fallen to slumber,
And are awake, Billy, Christopher,
Close to heaven are the Himalayas!

Tell her he is gone, that he has discovered new love,
Or that he lives in a mountain cave, alone

But, should it be, and Stanley must run even farther,
As if, he must vanish
So to escape her haunt, her awful memory,
And he sets blanket on sand in old Siam,
Where lovely Buddha women administer,
His every physical need, and teach religious tenets
That might bring soul to calm
And show person path to new knowledge,

Tell her, he travels to the Far East.



2.


And should you hear that she still follows him,
You may note, but do not share with others.

Keep this destination to yourselves.

He escapes to Australia,
First to the city, Perth, to acclimate himself to life,
Where under influence of the Southern Cross
Astrology may chart a better course of life.

And should he not find peace.
On that island-continent’s western shore,
Know he treks the long, highway east,
Traveling from mile post to mile post
Out from Bunbury toward the Outback,
Past roads with names like Starvation and Reptile,
‘Crossing the Nullarbor’, and then down south
To Port Adelaide and across the eight hundred miles
To the docks and wharfs of Melbourne, and once there,
In Victoria, he turns to the North and East,
Beyond Eden and Milton on Highway 1,
To find Gulburra, where he meets his Australia,
A bathing beauty, a blond and tall, true love,
A maid known for her moral character,
It happens while he walks out upon the sand,
Against bright, bright sky as South Pacific swells,
And it makes its great roll onto shore of Surf Beach.



3.


Oh his friends, his buddies, Billy, Christopher!
Though you are ready and might wish to hurry,
To travel and visit, to join him in this remote geography,
-- We all live according to Destiny’s will --
You may believe him when he declares
Happiness comes to all good men as do the rays,
The bright that comes to souls with summer’s sun,

Announce, would you please, would you let her know,
Yet before he departed, he had left these words?

No need temper his assessment, good comrades.

Do not bother to ask that she forgive his unkindness.

Tell her, he tired of living beneath her continued deceit,
Her stubborn refusal ever to admit the truth,
Her lie upon lie, until her and his own head spin,
No real memory, no living history,
All concoction, each and every personal event,
She not remembering a word she said.

And let her live and love,
May she have three hundred lovers or more,
And disappoint whomever her unhappiness encounter,
That her self hatred destroys whatever hopes some
Good and noble might have,
Cursed are those who fail to discern her treachery!

Here he cleaves unto the words of Catullus,
When, once upon a time, and so long ago,
He realized the term, whore,
A word he meant to stand for her insatiable lying.

As for him, the love,
All that love which had been hers for the embracing,
His deep regard is gone and in this, our pagan world,
No forgiveness, no hope of the resurrection,
Any more than the flower,
Which farmer’s passing plow deracinates and cuts,
It has no future and never blooms, again.

A SONG FOR YOU

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A SONG FOR YOU



You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

You have lived for years and years.
Yet your life seemed to have awaited me.
I wonder the truth, could some sweet destiny
Have intervened bringing you to me,
Along with a book, which contained these lines,
Insisted I copy them for you and world to hear

Up and down the country roads,
Along this big ol’ city’s streets,
You have had some tears and smiles,
And your plenty share of dreams and wish come true,
Yearnings never go out of style.

Do you ever cry when you‘re alone,
When I am absent, gone from your side?

Do you silently wait for me?

Once I cease to live,
Someone else will appear, I suppose.

I know you have had some lucky breaks,
Found fair quota of goodly things.
You can not be blamed, many were my own mistakes.
You have lived your life as your own.

I write this song so you might know,
When you might happen upon trouble,
Times of fear and woe,
When you loose your course and fail,
You have this verse, my love for you,
And I trust you remember the times I sat behind
The wheel, and steered you safely home.

You are not mine to keep.
I just take care of you for a while.
You’ve been around for years and years.
Yet your life seems to await me,
That I might find these words to write.

BLACK WATER, An Adaptation of a Fassbinder Theme

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BLACK WATER,
An Adaptation of a Fassbinder Theme



Water in the forest, terrible black water,
A pond over rot and dead leaves,
You lie silent, quiet, you, you stay still,
Unmoving, yet the storm rages around the wood,
In the groves pines lean and nets of spiders,
They are torn apart, and then splintering begins.

You, in the hollow, you, you rest, black water.
Branches fall, leaves scatter,
Bark peals from trees and flies all directions at once.
The wind rips all that stands, the grove succumbs.

But nothing reaches you down there, black water.

BIRTHDAY CHANT, For Jocelyn on Her Thirty-Second Year

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BIRTHDAY CHANT,
For Jocelyn on Her Thirty-Second Year





“Horse and hattock, horse and go,
And pellatis, Ho! Ho! Ho!”
There’s time for nothing, then we’re cold.
May Jocelyn never grow old!

Today she counts another year (as she must)
As if forced to note, none may escape the dust.
Why then repeat it, scream with lust,
Let it be known, we have cause that’s just!

“Horse and hattock, horse and go,
And pellatis, Ho! Ho! Ho!”
There’s time for nothing, so soon we’re cold.
Lairds and ladies say it bold.

May Jocelyn never grow old!

ANCIENT WISDOM, Seize the Day

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ANCIENT WISDOM,
Seize the Day






Heed the day, today!
The day is all we have.
It is the very breath of life.

In its brief, twenty-four-hour course,
From sunrise to sunrise next,
Dawn the real and the true,
The absolute of existence,
The bliss of growth,
The splendor of action,
And the glory of power --

For history is over and closed,
The past is gone, finished.

The future, no more than vision,
A dream concoction,
Our own mind fantasies our continuance,
That notion we have another day,
What guarantee next moment exists?

But today, well lived,
Best endeavor, minute by minute,
Makes every yesterday, dream of happiness,
And then should tomorrow dawn,
Future becomes abundant;
We may expect fulfillment of every hope,

Seize the day!

Live here and now.
Mind this very instance.
Give your best regard to the moment.

THE WORD, A Lover's Exhortation, Rewrite

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THE WORD,
A Lover’s Exhortation,
Rewrite




Well! Was sagst du?
I believe I say it right.
Still it is only God, Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.


But, sweetheart, Hey! 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 priests and magistrates know not the Lord
When He stands before them?

RATNA, You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite, November 2010

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RATNA,
You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite,
An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya,
November 2010





Ratna, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.

Sometimes from out in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes,
Look from our second-story flat,
And I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the youngsters are students,
Who hurry, hasten, not to be late for school.

The sound runs major then quiets,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.

Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within the clamors' swirling expansion and contraction,
Underneath it all, I swear to it, darling, I swear,
I very clearly perceive,
Throughout the commotion, a young, collective voice.

In my mind the cacophony
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.

It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.

I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.

Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines.



2.


Ratna, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when,
These self-same students learn in classroom,
Study the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds
Against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.

No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or study reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.

I am reminded of how hapless the task, trying to reason
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, the bounty which freely befalls us.

Ratna, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or I imagine that I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, and that you have called to tell me
You are safe and have arrived home.

My emotions flutter when I hear your timbre.

Ratna, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.



3.


Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would anyone accept this tale,
(Suppose we search the whole wide world)
Would we find one, one single person,
Who concludes, who believes,
If even for a moment, that I am a happy man?

Ratna, I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments in which you had sworn
And ardently acclaimed your love for me,
My remembrance of them, carry me to joy,
To boundless fervor and contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye, and propel my being.

Ratna, a big smile inhabits my face.



4.


Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think it over,
Our life, the every instance we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
As if enthralled some faery power driven,
Hoping to explain how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.

Ratna, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to the great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.

Ratna, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I rise again in that blue room,
That blue bedroom, where we started the day,
Each day I wake to the same blue sky,
Which houses our Lord, to Him I pray.
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.

Ratna, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.



5.


Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.

Ratna, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.

You know that is not the case.

Ratna, I write in the moment, and, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.

Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel for having
Loved you and having made your acquaintance!

TERMS OF ENDEARMENT, Sweet Talk

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TERMS OF ENDEARMENT,
Sweet Talk



Out in Arizona my Dad,
He grew roses.
He embraced the great merit,
Loved to say,
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 never looked the way
You looked tonight, darling.

Though this verse be trivia,
Fitting definition, thing of small importance,
It swears truth,
The whole truth and nothing but the truth,

You may count it among my terms of endearment.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER



Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns love into disappointment and woe?

I imagine, you might very well understand.

Yet do not suppose a simple story.
Do not figure you, role playing the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The drama which accompanies its marvelous heights
And then the drop to low-bottom sorrow.

There is no script with a beginning and an end.

The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all sublunary it does not change.

You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light makes the seasons of my heart.

POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE, Rewrite

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POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE,
Rewrite




The man was quite mad.
He enjoyed writing in code.
He invented a special kind of shorthand
And kept business records in a language,
Comprehensible only to himself and those
To whom he had revealed the secrets of his ciphers.

Cryptic labels marked the boxes,
The boxes of all the things he possessed.

But when it came to life's basics,
Though, technically speaking,
He bordered yet on insanity,
Some have said he was quite mad,
Yet his manner of speech was straightforward.

He wrote in the King's English.
He said, ‘I love you’.

And he proclaimed for all that care to hear,
‘I worship the ground upon which you walk’.

MIDNIGHT RECAP, 19 August 1976, Second Version

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MIDNIGHT RECAP,
19 August 1976,
Second Version




Gad! It's Nancy Lake of North Carolina,

“Chairman, Richard Rosenblum of the Great,
The Oh-so-Great, Delegation from the State of New York”

Representatives proclaim their diverse cultures,
Highlight separate geographies, timed to a moment,
Tied to one central theme,
Arizona, Washington, Indiana, Illinois…
Texas, Alaska…, Chinese, Blacks,
Chicanos and I-talo-Americans,
All expected to take twenty-five seconds or less:

“I am honored to second the nomination…

“The man the American people can trust!

“It is with my great pleasure…

“We are proud to place the name --

“Miss Perez has set a record -- under fifteen seconds!

“Aloha!

“The miracle of Joseph’s coat of many colors…

“A head and a heart! A living legend!

“The last line of defense…

Blrrrrwrrwrrwwwwr.

“Gerald R. Ford for President!”

ALPHA AND OMEGA, Yet Another Love Poem, Third Version

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ALPHA AND OMEGA,
Yet Another Love Poem,
Third Version



Etta, what do you want from me?

I fell in love with you.
What can I do?
I care for you; you’re beautiful.
No explanation, it’s not rational.

I’m older, you’re younger.
I’m an American, you’re European.
I was raised on the Great Plains.
You grew up on the thin soil of a limestone island.

The matter reduces itself to the basic.
Try as hard as I can, I can not end my love for you.

To me, this love continues as though it folds onto itself,
Looking more like one of those new images,
Drawn from highest theoretic of current cosmology,
Space-time systems overlapped, bestraddled,
Universes within multiple universes,
Dimension upon dimension,
Inexplicable, unimaginable paradox,
Beginning and ending all at once,
At one point, all to one point, no sides, no dimensions,
Alpha and omega, and ultimately
Sine qua non of my existence.

What else do you want me to say?

I’m at a loss. Right this moment,
No one else, no one else but you!

Darling, I want only the best for you.
Would you, would you, please forgive,

Condone my presumption, since yet,
It seems, the same holds true for you, too.

KNOCK OUT, Your Absence Floors Me, 2010, Rewrite

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KNOCK OUT,
Your Absence Floors Me,
2010, Rewrite




Describing the awful upset, the melancholy,
Which has struck me with such force,
That I have seemingly loss consciousness,
And all capacity for good reason,
Requires that I contradict tradition,
And posit the existence of a physical soul.

Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being by my side, has floored my spirit.
I fear my heart might stop.

I struggle to arise before the ten-count.

I bleed, darling, I bleed.

Your blow has opened a cut above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.

They will not let me face another round.

The bell keeps clanging,
I hear the terrible roar of the crowd.

I have lost the fight.

BEAT IT, Canal Street Lessons, Second Version

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BEAT IT!
Canal Street Lessons,
Second Version



Let me comment on our Western tradition;
Money talks, every other thing walks.

Now, in this, mine, particular scene,
Sam is key.
He’s the boss, the king to the thing.
He figures himself -- only a fool might doubt it --
As one of the chiefs in a band of good brothers.

Yet propriety, also, counts.
Affirm “Hello! Good mornin’ Sir!"
Do not forget, “Hey babe, how you doing?”
And behind this deportment, be doctrinaire,
Remember to talk three things in one person:

Pussy, the weather and always include
A word or two about sports,
Otherwise masculinity might open to question.

And let us say what things soever the law says,
Get an invoice,
And make sure to write it all in carbon.

Fair and square, it’s hard to trick in duplicate.

I believe, was it not, Saint Simon, who teaches?
“To each according to his need, and
From each get a copy, every transaction.”

Careful with Leo; he is hooked up,
High as a kite and looking for trouble.
He may not remember
How he spoke one day or the other.

And Bernie, he’s the intellectual type,
With him always best to clarify your position,
Try to explain your course of action, point out
What's good for today and possible tomorrow.

That basement desk with the single light bulb above it,
A hanging one-switch receptacle on a wire,
No shade, why adorn it?
Send the lawsuits down the wooden, threadbare steps,
To bottom, the barely paved, beaten concrete floor,
And have a laugh at process servers’ expense,
What a notion Bernie authored!

And should you go out for a drink,
Keep an eye on Bob whose favorite fun,
Slip you a Mickey and laugh while you fall,
Knock your head on the barroom floor.

And Stanley, why he carries a box blade,
He might act to settle a score,
Good Lawd, what a whore!

Sell! Sell! Keep ends tight! And sell!

Today we have diamonds, tomorrow the world!

Say hey, Willie Mays, you’re the greatest,
And now the world knows it!

CRAZY LOVE, Sorry Interlude

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CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude,
November 2010, Version




I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…

You yourself proclaimed our special bond.

One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.

The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.

“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, and said “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.

My soul took flight; my love ran to ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.

Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
Bit more than a month and one half.

I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.

For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.

And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breathe and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.

Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.

And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.

I feel you woman. I have the telepathic gift
To hear when you think of me, and you know it!
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, whose loudness
Would awake you and disturb your sleep to dawn.

I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.

Can’t you fall in love with someone else?

I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.

Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running to distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.

My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.

I may believe to love you, but the love has gone.

HE LOVES YOU, Junior Says

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HE LOVES YOU,
Junior Says





Honey, remember,
Remember that girl friend of yours?
She was the one, who, you said,
Had abandoned all hope of love.
A boyfriend had ditched her;
He had dropped her hard.

She felt awful, bitter, and
When ever she referred to him,
Instead of his name, she called him “boy”.
She fell to despair,
And claimed, she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.

I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,
You might call me Junior!

Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.

That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!

You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.

You are the love of his life.

MILO

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MILO



How do I say it?
He has no regard for the norms of citizenry.
Oh how the people's values slide, down, down, down,
Every year, a new low, no idea of equanimity,
Those days are gone; they will never return.

I saved his sleeping family from robbery.
And more than once,
I safely delivered him from assassination.

Yet when I stand here in the dock,
Charged with a capital crime,
The jury fixed to render judgment against me,
Milo, he just cackles with brutal laughter,
He delights in the prospect of my exile.

He seems ready to plot my murder.

I blame the times.
No man's morality survives when chaos rules the byways.
Who remains upright when arson an arm of politics?

And what hope have we for ethical compass,
When gold rules the body politic.

REMAINS OF THE DAY, Passion Play, November 2010

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REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play,
November 2010



Yaaaaaaaaaoooowwwww!

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, I want you out,
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 on boat 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.

HER GRANDMOTHER, Early Morning Refrain, November 2010

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HER GRANDMOTHER,
Early Morning Refrain,
November 2010




Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise,
No one ever said she was the smartest,
But she painted well, an artist,
Today her family treasures and enjoys,
Landscapes and still lifes,
Wonderful evidence of her output and skill.

She applied the oil heavily, used both trowel and brush,
And captured wood and river, and rural architecture
All around her North New Jersey home;
She also rendered, remarkably, the wonder of
Atlantic Waves lapping upon her state’s South shore.

And following the common adage,
Different time and place, who knows the fame,
The renown she might have attained?

She dressed her grandchild, a girl, in pricey sets,
And family and neighbors seem to appreciate it,
“Oh isn’t Elsie wonderful!” They often said.

For all intents and purposes, the child was orphaned.
Her Mother was sick,
And had long-time stay in sanatorium,
Dad was gone;
He had run off and started another family.

Two other girls, her sisters, older, likewise deserted,
They stayed with paternal father and mother.
And she, the baby girl, was cast off, separate,
She went to her Mother’s Mother and Father.

Hard to explain the cause, yet jealousy reigned.
The new wife kept their father away,
He hardly ever saw the previous wife,
Or bothered to visit the three girls he abandoned.

Grandma's girl was tall, naturally curly, blonde hair,
And cheek bones high enough to make for real beauty.
Possessing natural, happy disposition,
Her eyes beamed, and when all-dressed-up,
She looked as though,
She might model for children’s fashion magazines.



2.


But Elsie, she did have her ways,
(Really, I am told to put it nicely!)
She paid no heed to underwear,
Only interested in outward appearance,
Think on this a moment, for who could see it?

Though it might be tattered and dirty,
And Lord knows should have been replaced,
Especially when one consider the expense,
She cared not the dollar amount of 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 at LUNA PARK,
And, all who knew her swear,
She practiced kicks, over head, when
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, he was respected and adored by all.

Sure he was a hard-nosed guy.
He had his trouble with the Schuberts and the mob,
No easy matter getting a salary for men,
Who changed the bulbs on marquee boards
Who hauled wire, and painted sets,
And whose days involved going up and down ladders.
Her grandpa made sure there was a decent wage
For the man whose job it was
To clean and bag after circus elephants.

Over the years, testimony holds,
-- Here we have no mean feat --
They fostered twenty-five kids, adopted four,
And then wound up having a girl of their own.

But something went amiss;
Grandpa went upstairs to bed,
Grandma slathered in wintergreen, and liniment
Slept on living-room couch at night,
Hard to believe,
How long a time they spent their lives that way.

And after her Mom was finally released from hospital,
Grandmother balked when time came to return
The girl to whom she had grown attached,
The girl she helped to educate and rear.
She pretended the child were her own.
She used every kind of conceivable excuse;
Grandma tied to keep the her real daughter away.

And then I heard,
I heard the granddaughter say,
We sat at kitchen table,
It was very late; sun had begun to signal new day.
I heard her wax, granddaughter waxed on the refrain,
Though she said it quiet and was ashamed,
‘I can not wish she were here.’

‘I do not wish she were here today.’

CONFIDENCE, A Lover's Revelation

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CONFIDENCE,
A Lover’s Revelation




I hear a voice, and it commands,
It tells me to rise, and stand.
It says that I have been made a minister,
And am witness both of these things,
Which you have seen,
And those things in the which
This confidence shall have appeared unto you.

I have a direct communication.

In my dreams your fathers have told me.
Exactly what to expect.
I have tomorrow’s news today.

Allow me to dwell upon their message.
Do not hesitate. Give your love without delay.
All go unto one place;
All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.

Surely you were meant to be mine.

SMITTEN

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SMITTEN



Six years have passed,
Since I first made your acquaintance.
Yet it's only during recent days
That I've learned I love you.

And how the excitement mounts!
Surely we have so much of our lives to share.

I no longer need await the Spring
To bring back steady warmth
For love heats the place
No matter the cold outside.

CHICAGO THEME

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CHICAGO THEME




Hey! She can't do this to me!
I'm an American!
I was born and raised in Illinois.
History taught me about Lincoln's Volunteers,
They were the ones who burned Old Dixie down.

I'm the Pepsodent kid,
I have hung out on the skin of my teeth.

My uncle was a dog catcher.
From him, I learned to capture animals in heat.

Where I come from -- there is no foolin' around.

Where does she get the nerve?
She leaves me home alone for months on end.

I've known speeds, man, faster than Flash Gordon,
I can fly from planet to planet,
Find and live amongst a whole new breed,

What do I need her for?

Got to be kidding!
I mean... she can't do this to me!

I have studied how the West was won.

DEAD BURTON

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DEAD BURTON




It would not be right to say he kicked the bucket.

First the surgeon clipped a couple of toes.
But before too long he took a foot,
The doctor cut it off almost at the ankle.

Yes, it was a very dreary business.
Burton was chopped down.

His disease had brought the big man down,
Burton, down, and of him the adage reads:

Above life itself, he loved his drink.

The genie was in the bottle,
Her spirit, more to him than family and friends,
He held her close,
And fondled her, until death did them part.

NOD, On the East of Eden

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NOD,
On the East of Eden


Hey girlfriend,
There are things about me that you do not know.
There are things which you might not understand.
Sorry to say, yet let me tell you,
There are things that you could never understand,
And sadly, the terrible corollary,
You should not understand.

I run with the pack.
Its dens sit in the land of Nod.

I dwell in a place on the east of Eden.

POET, The Gift, November 2010, Rewrite

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POET,
The Gift,
November 2010, Rewrite



He was a boy who sang Ave Maria
With clarity and perfect pitch,
It was as if angels had arranged his vocal chords,
And his lungs filled with a breathe, so resolute and full,
Many felt his voice must have come from Heaven.
His gift transported those who heard him,
It seemed to have opened a door to celestial level.



One night in early winter,
He walked home after church.
About him was hoarfrost,
And world enveloped, everything bent and drooping,
It was laden by the weight of ice from freezing rain.

Yet the cold, that cold, Chicago weather,
It could not withstand the heat,
Nothing was greater than the warmth of his singing.

And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
The visions which accompanied the joy of his voice,
The joy of his voice in exultation,
When later he came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.

The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion;
The narrative had to be heard,
It compelled the choosing of sides,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!

And when he read from his verses
His voice was the same, the same
That marveled all as when he began his singing,
Awestruck reverence fell upon those who heard it,
It reverberated, and rang like the bells of the steeples,
The crystalline delight, the tintinnabulation,
Euphony voluminously welled, a music, which
Lifted ordinary mind to outsized conception,
It increased devotion, and advanced praise to rapture,
Why it brought grown women to their knees!

And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
When he later came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.

The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion;
The narrative had to be heard,
It compelled the choosing of sides,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!

JAMES EARL RAY* November 2010, Rewirte

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JAMES EARL RAY*
November 2010, Rewrite


He was known to be the kind of guy,
Who studied every brick and crack,
And by sight alone, jailhouse legend claims,
He could spot a weak steel bar.

Escape was always on his mind.

He was a single-minded psychopath,
Always on the run, he loved disguises,
And had plenty of aliases and false IDs.
The man could hide in plain sight.



*He was convicted of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He confessed to the crime and passed on a jury trial. A habitual criminal, Ray was sentenced to 99 years in prison. Later he recanted his confession and unsuccessfully tried to gain a trial. He died in prison in 1998

HEART’S ON FIRE! Lunch at Panera

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HEART’S ON FIRE!
Lunch at Panera




The streets are joyous, full of fun.
I hear laughter wherever I go.

I could not ask for more.
I walk to the door of our home,
Then, before I enter,
I picture you and hear your warm, ‘Hello!’

With racing mind and energetic flesh –
I can not believe it, the joy!
I burn intensely! Heart’s on fire!
Something here inside can not be denied.

You want to stay, to be my friend.

When we sit down for sandwiches
And the simple glass of water,
Two washed apples for desert,
We note that future ages will write,
Record that our table talk had grandeur;
More and more I am beginning to feel
That our words at lunchtime may attain immortality.

Everything we do dissolves the difference,
We loose distinction between yours and mine.

I see out the window,
A bright light illuminates the scene.
I need no coin for the wishing well.
My goal is close at hand.

I have never witnessed
Such contentment on a woman’s face.
.
The web radio forecasts sunny days.
Now I learn the poet’s proclamation,
The meaning of new morning,
That though I, unworthy and lost, have grace,
Sufficient that I may delight in weakness,
Know triumph from hardship and failure,
That when I am weak, then I am strong,
And despite my want, lack of proper schooling,
The Lord grants me righteousness,
At my command vocabulary of redemption,
I am reborn,
The bounty of great love saved me.

No matter the physical distance between us.
A part of you, a part of me always stays with us.

I take you in my arms and hold you,
As I hold you in this verse of mine.
Let me take you in my arms and tell you
How much I have missed you,
I miss you so very much since we have been apart

.

POOR SHELL OF EARTH

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POOR SHELL OF EARTH



Within a day the whole matter sours,
We are left with nothing,
All that remains is what we wish to be rid of,
The thing to bury or burn from sight.


Oh, unsearchable way and counsel of God!

Oh, blindness of hope and expectation!