SUGAREE

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SUGAREE

Yes, Darling, Yes!
That’s how it went,
How I saw it back in the day.

I stood up before the stage at the Fillmore East,
And the girls in the crowd, they were dancing,
And those up front, next to and behind the band,
They were sashaying, and Jerry,
He was up there playing, it was as if,
Apollo had handed him the lyre.

Phil ran the bass.
Mercy! He carried us far.
Hitting those four wires, tight,
Landing atop the frets, fingers enchanting, abracadabra,
A bewitching up and down the instrument's neck.

And I saw two drummers, and the other guitarist.
Out the corner of my eye, I caught it,
The whole rhythm section was a purple gang.
Pig Pen keyed the B52, and with that organ sounding,
Yeah! We might as well have been in church.

And though inside, we were within the concert hall,
It felt -- I wondered, could it be -- had we been caught,
All of us seemed standing in the pouring rain.
How else? I know no other way to say it.

Against a back wall, a shape shift of kaleidoscopic liquid light,
Suddenly two pulsing blobs of psychedelic dazzle morphed.
Now we have South Sea romance upon the screen,
Then the black and white of yesteryear's cartoon matinee.

I saw Betty Boop, I swear it. She was dancing,
A lay of white flowers swayed along her breasts.
Dressed in a grass skirt, she posed Hawaiian.
I was happy for the wink she gave me.

             

There were other women, too,
On the beach, barefoot, their hands beckoning.
Their wrists looked to be doing some kind of talking.
And their hips, bedecked in Betty's grass attire,
Played to the rhythms, pretended they danced the hula.
Waving motions invited me closer.
Heaven, was I in heaven?

My heart beating fast, I could no longer think,
I seemed to find all the happiness a man could seek,

And we turned to one another, and smiled,
Yet the lyrics, the words were unkind,
The song about some gal,
Who had done her Daddy wrong,
And through the music we learned, sadly true,
This poor guy had but one request, just one more thing,
Oh, that Sugar please forget his name.

We sang the old folksong.
We were whistling and clapping,Its refrain carried our souls.
We were cheering.

“Shake it, Shake it, Sugaree”

How else? I know no other way to say it!
All of us were standing, dancing,
We were singing in the pouring rain.

PROCLAMATION

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PROCLAMATION


I read here and inform the world,

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 reminded of King David.

My verse belongs to heart,
I sing of love, and 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.

HOME

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HOME


Be not troubled.
Believe in me, in the dwelling, here, for you,
Not only in the physical space,
Upon whose floor our hearts' drama plays,
But in my soul where I have built a mansion,
Set a great kitchen wherein sits every proper appliance,
A refrigerator to keep perishables fresh,
An oven and range to cook and warm our meals.

I have built a pantry,
Super store of food and upon its shelves.
Your Quaker Oats for breakfast, and packages of flour,
Every kind of flour, spices and herbs, and then,
Special for you, I have a blue enamel colander
Which I have used to fill with apples and bananas.
We have a kitchen table, our chairs are modern and swivel;
They have a stainless footrest and a pedestal for a base.

In these rooms, not only plenty daily sustenance,
But also you will you find
Great store of ardor and emotional well being.

Our parlor has a sofa and two comfortable armchairs.
Off to the right, lies a dinning room with a hardwood table,
Its edge reverse-beveled; its surface has extension leaves
That our family might comfortably sit for a harvest feast,
Mark the other days of holiday celebration,
Or that we might offer
Our every-day thanksgiving prayer in the best setting.



From the ceiling of our halls and foyer
I have hung crystal chandeliers,
Light, so that our feet not stumble
Should we awake before sunrise
To begin our daily chores.

Darling, our bedroom windows have eastern exposure,
And are fit with drapes and liners, and our bed has
A comfortable mattress and high-thread-count sheets.
Two down pillows, one on each side, fluffed for our repose.

We shall have porcelain and silver vases for fresh flowers.

I continue to refurbish our home,
I have pledged my word.
My verse attests to my sincerity.
I demonstrate my readiness to receive you;
Happy domicile awaits your presence.

The Lord abides, proclaims a presence
For length of days, and assures health and long life.
Our peace shall fill the chests and the closets;
And our rooms shall appear to glow warmly,
Not from some decorator, designer expertise,
But because His grace, the abundance of Holy Spirit.

Where I am, I pray, there may you also be.
-- I know you will keep your promise --
And wherever, should it happen that I must go,
I ask that you prove yourself true,
And follow me to that same place, too.

DIANA AND ACTAEON

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DIANA AND ACTAEON


The man was exhausted from the hunt.
During much of the day he had run furiously.
Now even his dogs welcomed the rest.

His bag was empty. He had not caught a thing.
Worse yet, his family expected bounty upon his return.

He stopped at a grove, and saw that within it
There was a pond and at its nearest edge
 A bed of turf and some shade. He sat.

He was sorry for himself, piqued,
Wondered how he failed, that he had no game.
Absentmindedly plucking single blades of grass,
Now half-asleep, he reclined,
Hoping time would restore his breath.

The splash, the Naiad, she startled him,
When he refocused his eyes, he saw her green helmet,
And a moment later he spied two more, sister-divinities.

It seemed that they joined together
In order to preside over the waters.

He thought that he heard their laughter.
He perceived from somewhere in the distance
The playing of a well-piped tune;
The magic of the scene overcame him.

Then all at once another marvel befell him. 
He witnessed a bright, white light,
A radiance at the opposite side of the pond.

Although forced to shade his eyes,
He soon discerned maidens at the bath, who,
With pail after pail of water, showered a naked woman.
She and her servant companions stood in the shallows.
Her tresses had been released.
Her hair dropped to her waist.

From his vantage he enjoyed an unobstructed view. 
He could measure her exact physical proportions,
And was able to consider for his delight
What are usually a woman's secret places.

He gazed upon the absolute symmetry of her face,
A skin without fault, and he noted the way
She diverted her eyes,
Seeming to look upon the world askance .

She was posed to her left side. 
Her hip was slightly raised.
Her knee was bent and she had her elbow set
Akimbo with her palm pressed at the waist.

He sensed that before him was immortal beauty.

The air carried a soft scent of rose.

He was ravenous.  He did not chew his food,
Rather he wildly stuffed his mouth.
His eyes devoured the meal.

In a fantasy run of his hands,
He tore at the meat of the feast.
He saw upset tankards of red wine,
Whose contents stained the top of the table,
And on the ground were silver bowls,
Which had fallen and were smashed,
Ice and fruit were scattered about the earthen floor.

His feet wildly tapped to the airy music.

His sense of smell had left him.
It nestled in the flowers that now floated about
Her ankles at the other end of the pool.

 

He paid no heed to his hounds,
He did not notice that their slumber turned to ferocity.

Not until after the first dog had bit,
When he recognized that his flesh was hide,
That his head had horns,
Only after he heard his torment,
That his screams, his cries transformed into
Awful, narrow screech over his out-stretched tongue,
And he saw that blood ran
Within the snorts which claimed his nostrils,
That were once his limbs, his feet and hands,
Cloven hooves vainly kicking and thrashing, wild thumps,
The mad noise of his dogs snapping and snarling,
Then he realized that he was prey,
That he was feast and being eaten alive.

And within the glory at the other end of the pond,
Nothing closed upon the rapture.

The mad dash, the cacophony, the every noise,
All that terrible frenzy of ravenous dogs at their meal,
The wild within every heart beat in the animal kingdom,
Complemented the harmony of the goddess at her bath.

And, as if it were a signal of Zeus's approbation,
The pleasure of the Olympian king
That justice had been done,
– The virtue of his daughter preserved --
A great, lone wolf appeared behind the woodland regalia.
For a while he ran along the shore,
Occasionally lapping upon the waters of the pond,
Then the creature abruptly stopped, 
Stretched his neck towards the heavens and howled,

The entire scene seemed basked in a silvery moon,
All of nature bore a feel of triumphant delight.

By the way, the hunter's family and friends,
His whole community had searched for weeks,
Yet neither the place of the man's demise,
Nor was one scintilla of his remains ever found.

LOVE, LOVELY, LOVE, Rewrite

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LOVE, LOVELY, LOVE, 
Rewrite


When it comes to love
We are all in the dark.
No scientist
Has ever been able to measure its quality,
Figure affection using calculus.

No high-powered lens,
Though we see the architecture,
The starry clouds which make the heavens,
And, what if, electronics power our sight
So to reckon the slightest parts of elemental makeup,
Still no common tool exists whereby
The deep-spin upon my heart and soul,
Or the breath of my every pore
Becomes explicable to vision or mathematics.

 
I know it would be no easy task.
Yet now how I wish we could be together,
Go back to the farm-land fields
And pick strawberries from the rows,
Return to the way things were last summer.

SERENDIPITY

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SERENDIPITY

I know it's cosmic!

It's like, heavy, man!

Mystery inscrutable to regular analytical tools,

A Logic whose outcome sits beyond

Scope of rational, academic exercise!

Even if I had my desk in library stacks

And with it ready reference to twenty, one-foot-thick

Ancient texts, I doubt any human learning might lead me

(However diligent my application) to fathom what

Great Luck had brought you into my arms,

And yet tonight sustains my rapture.

Perhaps I unduly vex myself?

Nonetheless I wonder how had it come to be

That in a parking garage, a great space,

Which on weekends became a swap meet,

A regular New York City in-door, flea market,

Offering all kinds of old and colorful goods for sale,

A jam-packed scene, row after row of tables and stalls,

Set against both sides of wide aisles,

Here's the question,

Had love found its way through all the material clutter?

Too, I ask, what Providence had prompted Johnny,

My friend, and my helper, a man,

Who always had kept to his own counsel,

-- This, the one time, for he never, never

Interfered, ventured opinion on any other matter! --

He interrupted the normal, business routine,

The booth’s weekly setup.

He used all the resolve he could muster,

And reiterated to me, not once,

But on at least, half-dozen, separate occasions,

A notion that you and I were right,

Good, one for the other, in every special way.

Johnny said you wanted me.

You later objected,

Said no such thought had ever entered your head,

That his estimation about your feelings toward me

Was wrong, simply mistaken, yet, you also confided,

Women frequently flirt to their business advantage.

I had noticed you, to be sure!

You were a regular customer.

A tall woman, and skinny, you had long brown hair,

And a nice face with a quick smile.

I shall always remember

The way you hurried through your purchases

With attentive eyes and lengthy fingers,

How sprite your manner and step!

Still no thought of romance had entered my mind.

I had not imagined us a suitable couple.

No! Not at all,

Until that one, the one, very early morning, when,

During a heavy rainstorm, I drove across Brooklyn

To collect you from the hostel.

We were going antiquing.

It was to be our first daylong excursion,

And in what seemed a proper gesture at the time,

I stopped at an all-night shop, and bought you

A single, exotic flower in a clear glass vase.

You, sister, limestone island, Baltic woman,

I, who had sprung from the land-locked plains of Illinois,

Across countless markets and through

All the many wares we had examined for purchase,

For the decades, the year after year,

We had been searching,

Searching and searching, hoping for treasure,

Now there it lay before us, a worth whose value matched

The highest dollar bid at an Old-Master auction.

Consider it, the millions-to-one odds

Stacked against our favor, I... I, I mean, really!

I trust you have come to believe that

This thing of ours bespeaks no ordinary human convention.

Let us remember,

Whomsoever the divine designates together,

No mortal may draw asunder.

This is it! I do! I do love you!

Tonight the pilot naps in the back seat.

I sit in front, before the wheel in the cockpit,

Yet I do not fly the aircraft. The bright,

Rollover arrows signal the glide path.

And over the wire direct to my ear,

Ten thousand watts propel the voice.

It says, “You do! You do love her!”

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

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 LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

Where are you, my lovely?

How is it that you stay away?

What strangeness drives you,

Twists love into disappointment and woe?

I imagine that you must have your reasons.

Yet do not suppose a simple story!

Do not count yourself as chief player, the subject,

And, me, the writer, who writes a conventional,

Everyday tale about love won and lost,

The common drama which depicts us flying

To marvelous heights and then dropping

To a hard, low-bottom sorrow.

For us there is no play-book script,

No beginning, no end.

The story stays; it remains the same.

Unlike all other sublunary things, it does not change.

 

You shine, darling, you shine.

Tonight I saw you in the East;

You are bright and eternal.

And every morning you arise steadfast.

Your light brightens the bedroom.

Your warmth gladdens my heart.

YET ANOTHER LOVE POEM

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YET ANOTHER LOVE POEM


Who do you love the best
Me or one of the other boys,
The others who have been part of your life?

I believe you love me for my poems,
And the other guys because of their good looks.

Excuse me! I am sure that I know
How those former lovers write.
I would wager, their compositions stink!

They are schoolboys at their lessons.
Their vocabulary weak and grammar amiss.
Their voice never amounts to truth
For they have not learned,
They are not practiced in language of the heart.

A girl like you would never fall,
Never give herself over to some inconsequential chap,
Even were his house rich in goods,
Or he had. a ton of money in the bank.
Honestly, I doubt that it would be worth
Any man's while to court you, useless, I would say,
Unless he had verse at his command. 

You will have poetry in your life, and soulful adventure.

You will have love, above all else, love!  No!
Not artful, not postures of love, but absolute love,
All-out, heedless, besotted, running a muck,
Head over heels, love, as if, you were God-struck.

You will have an ardency whose heart-beat mirrors
The atomic steady of electrons about a nucleus,
An affection which possesses an endurance
Beyond any artifact of marble, any work of bronze,
And puts to shame the pretense of those,                
The ancient pyramids of Egypt or the other monuments,
Heights and circles of stone and rock,
Which seek to stake their own claim to victory over time.

The love you will have, its heart has a color and brightness,
A beacon from the farthest reaches of space-time,
A light by which all other lights are measured.

 
Too bad, honey!  Too bad for you!
You must know, and would you, please,
Tell the other suitors, oh just think on it a bit,
Who is the man, who may compare, or even place
A reasonable second in the ultimate competition,
Who but me might win the race for your heart? 

Sorry!  But it’s over, no choice,
It is just the luck, the fate which has befallen you.
Its story line, no earthly origin, not an everyday script,
The author knows when the sparrow falls,
He has count of the hairs upon your head,
Understand, accept, and embrace wisdom,
Let me call it, Destiny, and proclaim,
You have won the election.
A bright new day floods the horizon.

Mercy on whom mercy has has been granted, and
Compassion on whom compassion has been bestowed,
Not by any human will or its exertion,

But by the power of heaven and its justice.

JUNIOR SAYS

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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

Whenever she referred to him,

In what amounted to a peculiarity of her despair,

She called him,

Instead of using his own real name,

She nicknamed him “boy”.

Sadness had run her down.

Your friend confessed that

She could not imagine world without him,

That that "boy" was all she ever wanted.

I told you, then, were you to leave,

Quit our home, break your solemn vow,

And go into world without me that

I too would desire sobriquet. I said,

Darling, might you now call me Junior?

I can no longer imagine life

Under my own given name.

My first name, the one you used to call me,

The one which formed upon your lips

Every early morning, and then later

When you wished me good night.

Now, whenever I hear it,

Can you imagine, yes, my own forename,

It only serves to increase my anguish.

Junior says,

He is lonesome.

He misses you terribly.

He awaits your return to his arms.

He knows your love is right.

You remain his heart.

He can not feel a thing without you.

That you had once called him “dear”

Makes him think himself

One of the luckiest men alive!

You alone possess his soul.

You rule his mind.

You trigger his every emotion.

You, his goddess,

You center his prayers.

He sees you as dream come true.

You are the love of his life.

STORM

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STORM

I laugh the past away.

I have come to live day by day.

I have heard The Word,

Learned what the First Canon says,

That whichever way our pleasure tends,

As we come, so we go,

And should we within the moment gain,

Every triumph shows, we labor for the wind.

CATULLUS POEM 11, An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Poem

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CATULLUS POEM 11,
An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Poem

Billy, Steven,

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

Tell her, he is afoot upon Indian Ocean shores,
And this time he has a consort, a glory maiden,
A girl who owns a midriff which possesses
Such a tight exacting, tiny measure
That it focuses her form into a symmetry well-nigh perfect.
Why it brings joy to any man when he spies it!

And she, stepping out before the white-top crisps,
The ever-breaking presentation of wave after wave,

Her joyously springing through the spray,
Her tiptoeing along the sweep of the ceaseless waters,
Yes, my gentlemen friends, I tell you true,
She complements the paradise of the beach.
Her gait carries hint of the everlasting;
It lulls the mind's eye into rapture, and all who see her,
This woman, who now walks upon the beach with me,
Are transported, her breaking, her turning, her dancing,
The rhythm of her movement carries the beach away.

Hey guys, try to make it work, play her,
See if you can get her jealous.

Or if you feel that this story too convenient,
A tale she might not believe, why then tell her,
Stanley goes alone into the Ganges plain, and
Seeks to follow the time line of empire and civilization,
Or, maybe better yet, that he has turned
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 running against
The half-submerged rocks and boulders,
Uplifts such awesome scintillating, incandescent spray
That pilgrims must rub their eyes and wonder,
They must assure themselves that they are awake,
And have not fallen into magic of a dreamland slumber.

Billy, Steven, my friends, let her know,
Let that woman know, 
How close to heaven is the mouth of the river,
How great God's gift whose flow begins
At ice-bound, cavern source in the Himalayas!

Tell her that Stanley is gone,
Tell her what you will,
That he has discovered new love and spends his time
With wondrous companion on East-Indian, ocean shore,
Or that he retires to a mountain cave, and lives alone.

But, should it be, and Stanley must run even farther,
As if, he must find more distant refuge
In order to escape her haunt, her awful memory,
Here's a good one,
See if this story strikes a spark in the devil lady's eyes.
Run the tale that Stanley 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. It's a secret!

Stanley escapes to Australia,
First to the city, Perth, to acclimate himself to life,
Where under influence of the Southern Cross
Astrology may chart his sign 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 burgeons,
And it makes its great roll onto the white of Surf Beach.

Billy, Steven, tell her he has found a way to cope
With her turning everything in his world upside down.


 
3.

Oh his friends, his buddies, Billy, Steven!
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 that

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 had departed that he left these words?

No need temper his comment, my good comrades.

Do not beg 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 Stanley cleaves unto the words of Catullus,
When, once upon a time, and so long ago,
The ancient poet had come to realize the term, whore,
Was a word he meant to stand for her insatiable lying.

As for Stanley, and his love,
All that love of his which had been hers for the embracing,
His deep regard is gone and in this, our pagan world,
No forgiveness, no promise of the resurrection,
No flower, no plant, once the farmer’s passing plow
Deracinates and mangles it,
No flower may hope to live and flourish,
It has no future and never blooms, again.