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Saturday, September 25, 2010


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Youth’s freshness notably declines.

We have embarked upon a long journey,
The stations where we might be ejected,
They are numerous and poorly lit.
Lodging will not be easy to find;
The chances of good fortune are slim.

Barbarity has brought us to ruin.
We flee for our lives, and sleep and happiness elude us.

Let's face it,
We are not in Rome.
I shall no more see Rome this Easter than you.
You and I are farther away from Rome
Than at any time since we have met.

Friday, September 17, 2010



I’ve got a happy heart. Yes, indeed!
I smack my lips at the prospect of life!

I’ve said it!
Knock me out,
Or knock me down!
Otherwise I would like to float around.
I want to be the one to fly in the sun,

Oh me, I just want to have some fun.

I would love to be a man about town,
Here and there, playing the field,
Like a butterfly, going from flower to flower.
Besides it would be fun.

And I am that type of guy,
Oh me, I just want to have some fun!

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

SAD, Following an Ancient Writer’s Reflection, September 2010

Following an Ancient Writer’s Reflection,*
September 2010

Etta, do you not care when I am ill?

Remember last week, when a pinched nerve
Kept me in bed for most of a day?
I could not walk,
I began to panic, and
Believed I might never be well again.

And your response, terrible, cold and unmoving,
Declaring what in my heart was apparent;
You told me that you had no aspirations,
That if I sought a Florence Nightingale,
I had enbarked upon the wrong alley.

It hurt most, when after a moment’s reflection,
I came to believe your response sounded rehearsed.

It had a tone, which seemed practiced more than once.

Yet when I had fallen,
Became lost to pain in an otherwise robust frame,
And you had shown no worry, commiserated not a bit.

You had actually precluded concern.

Now that my health returns,
I must wonder,
No matter the many times you have said you loved me,
If you, had you ever cared for me at all.

*The inspiration for this poem was Suplicia's POEM 5. She was a woman poet of the 1st century CE, and, as usually is the case, little about her life and work has survived the ages.

Estne tibi, Cerinthe, tuae pia cura puellae,
quod mea nunc vexat corpora fessa calor?
A! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
optarim, quam te si quoque velle putem.
At mihi quid prosit morbos evincere, si tu
nostra potes lento pectore ferre mala?


Afternoon Delight

It was just past mid summer's eve.
Market day show booth set up the usual way
With necklaces hanging, bazaar-like,
From chain strung over head to poles
From corner to corner,
Forming the appearance of arches
Under which you strolled,
You entered the booth, said 'Hello!'
We chatted, exchanging pleasantries,
Nothing of note, until the revelation
The shorts you sported bore the Diesel brand,
You bought them in Philly for only fifty cents.
You asked my thoughts on the matter.

My God in Heaven! Yow!
I saw the fit was swell, smashing, absolutely!

So, among the many things
Under mind's review, the last,
The label was the last, and the price,
How low the purchase price
Never occupied my mind.

Later you returned,
Modeling a vintage gown,
A few, quick twirls,
And you queried, again, my opinion.
You wonder what I thought about your dress.
My eyes were not on that garment;
I barely remember it.

Was the fabric chiffon, synthetic, cotton, silk?

The design was abstract,
There were splashes of green and yellow boldly set
Against light orange, diaphanous background, I believe.
But were my hand upon a Bible
In court of law, I could not swear to it!

Oh! The gorgeous way you looked!

Irrelevant to my delight,
Your choice of clothes,
The noon you stood before me,
As if you were framed by the gateways,
Under arches of necklaces
Strung from chain above you.

Sunday, September 12, 2010



Tempus fugit,
So the ancient adage goes.
But it prompts me to say,
Hey Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because for me at home
All the clocks have stopped.

Then, when I come back, take another glance,
I realize from the timepiece's face
That I had been mistaken, my impression wrong,
There has been some movement,
The clock’s hands have apparently moved,
Yet far from time fleeting,
It drags, even the second hand --
Its motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When you are gone and
Day and night must be faced alone.

And you write that soon
You return home, and note that
Less than three weeks remain,
Before your absence turns to memory,

And you say time really does fly!

But for me, whatever your consolation,
It does nothing to hasten the hours.
When I hear the clock,
The space between its regular tick-to-tock
Appears as if it were eternity, and your absence
-- Your face no longer upon your pillow,
Your body missing from your side of the bed --
You, you seem now to have been gone forever.

I know. I know. I exaggerate!
Yet I am not used to them,
These phenomena of your leaving,
Your terrible disappearances for the sake of business,
I may never become used to them.

You were reared different from me.

When you were still a child,
Your father was a frequent traveler;
You became habituated to the longing,
And you learned to practice
The ruse which told your inner self,
He will be home before you know it.

The electronic image of time,
Before me to the bottom-right
On the computer screen says 8:59PM.
It sits. It waits. My God, Darling!
My God! I hope you see the situation.

My condition is desperate.

The clock no longer runs.
For me here and languishing without you
Time stops.

I wish you were in my arms tonight.

Saturday, September 4, 2010


Peace Be With You

If God did not love you,
How could you have done
All the good that you have done?

May Peace be with you.
And joy remain your possession,
And may nothing disturb you,
Or ever frighten you again.

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