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Tuesday, February 15, 2011

STARBUCKS LOVE POEM, Early Sunday Evening Sorrow

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Early Sunday Evening Sorrow

Another early Sunday evening has arrived.

You, you are gone, abroad;
I sit by myself at Starbucks, and drink coffee.

Instead of us sharing our dinner together tonight,
I write verse about how much I miss you.

The notion, that adage about absence making
The heart grow fonder, is nonsense,
To me no more than a hill of beans!*

I am no fonder, no fonder of you than I was
Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.

I am no fonder of you today than yesterday,
Than last week, than weeks ago,
When you departed on business,
Left me in this big, old town, alone,
During that time, since then, my love,
My love for you has not an iota grown.

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

*A colloquial American expression as in “it ain’t worth a hill of beans”, Humphrey Bogart says it to Ingrid Bergman at the end of the film Casablanca, which brings the phrase into world-wide notice. “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”.

Monday, February 14, 2011

TIME FLIES, A Valentine's Day Version, 2011

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A Valentine's Day Version, 2011

Tempus fugit,
So the ancient adage goes.
But it prompts me to say,
Hey Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because for me at home alone
The clock has stopped.

Then, when I take another glance,
I realize from the timepiece's face
That I had been mistaken, my impression wrong,
There has been some movement,
That the clock’s hands have apparently moved.

Yet far from time fleeting,
The hours drag, even the second hand --
Its motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When you are gone and
Day and night must be faced alone.

And you write to me and say that before long
You will return home. You declare that
Less than three weeks remain,
Soon, you add, your absence this day turns to memory,

And confidently note that time really does fly!

But for me, however you may try to comfort me,
Your consolation, why it does nothing to hasten the hours!
When I hear the clock, note the spaces
Between its regular tick-to-tock, those intervals,
They appear as if they 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,
These separations, 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 had told your inner self that
He will be home before you know it.

I can hear you and your mother practicing the phrase,
When dad was gone and you two sat at home alone,
“Oh the days go by so fast!”

The electronic image of time before me
(to the bottom-right on the computer screen)
It reads 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.

Friday, February 11, 2011


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Dash it, Baby!
Is this really the best we can manage?
Here's the key, there's my desk,
You have my heart,
You can come and go, whenever you please.
If you can find a spare penny,
Keep it, please, and use it to wish us well.
I take my hat off to you.
Don't be hard on me old girl;
We have had a run of bad luck.
Things are bound to get better.

Well, are you happy?
I did say? I promised you, did I not, that
I would make you queen of my poetry.
Haven't I? Well, who of us is happy?
You take pleasure in your business.
You have your list of details,
All the very many, important things to do,
And now with your father gone,
You have the legal consequence, and its paper work.
I realize that you are accustomed to international travel,
Heavy baggage means little to you.
Then there is the situation with your mother,
I shall leave that to another poem.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
The company I seek
Requires more than the filling of physical space.

Oh, I shall survive, no need to worry.
But I am probably the gloomier of the two of us,
Yet I wonder how you push through the day,
How you manage a smile or roam open and free.

Dash it, Baby!
I am still caught up in the bondage of what once was us,
Tied to the time we worked to solve,
The intricacies that destiny seemed to hand to us.

It is hard to imagine you remain remote,
That now, and what seems forever,
You have become unavailable to me.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

REMAINS OF THE DAY, Passion Play, February 2011

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Passion Play,
February, 2011


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 empty bed and heart ache,
The awful pain of my regret.

My face is foul with weeping.

Oh, how I hate the resolve,
Never to see you, again,
Have nothing more to do with you,
No matter how long the length of my days,
I swear to it and mean it!

Yet I want you. Wish to see you, once more,
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 the Roman soldiers, who had torn off the purple,
Returned Him again to everyday garment,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
Yea, 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.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011


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I come to laugh the past away.
I have come to live day by day..
I know the Word, what the Bible says,
That whichever way one’s pleasure tends,
If you plant ice you harvest the wind.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

LEDA, After Rainer Maria Rilke (c. 1910), Rewrite

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After Rainer Maria Rilke (c. 1910),


History tells us that
Zeus was a very randy god,
Many celebrated him the worst of the characters,
The chief of that very bad bunch
Who once populated Mount Olympus.

He loved beautiful earth maidens,
And he had a bag full of tricks.
He would use any ploy that came to mind,
Anything to satisfy his desire for sex.

The god wanted Leda,
He wanted her real bad.

Yet when he became swan,
The guise he adopted for this one, particular encounter,
The landscape of his attire, the white,
It blinded him, and for the moment,
The god stopped, he had to orient himself.

And she, she knew what was in store.
I want to tell you, she relished in her loveliness.

She was some gal! No question about it.
She desired the experience,
She always sought a role in history.

Her vanity, big time,
She lived in era before acknowledgment,
She had no idea, the seven deadly sins.

Then suddenly the swan returned to his purpose.

He lowered his neck.
He ran his head right through her inviting arms
– No resistance there – and his bill,
After it kissed her breast,
It easily reached underneath her hair
All the way around the back side of her head
Until it could whisper into the drum of her ear.

His wings encased both her arms to the shoulders.

Once he entered her,
When he released himself,
He recognized oh how delightful
The feathers, the feel of his feathers,
And verily he became swan in her loins.

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