LOVE STORY, At the Hardware Store

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  LOVE STORY,                                                                            
At the Hardware Store

Dad!
Try as hard as I can,
I won’t be able to finish the inventory.

Count up the boxes of bolts and screws.
List them according to head type,
Length, and numbered thickness.
Then double check the tally. 

At this point I just don't have the wherewithal.
How could I possibly enter all those details.
Just one look at the lines and columns confuses me! 
        
Plus, exacting cost price and summing page totals,
Running entries from bookkeeping sheet to sheet,
Those kinds of computations demand a clear head.

My mind's a mess. I'm sick.

The accountant will have to wait.
Let's hope I feel better.



Blame Aphrodite,

Soft as she is
She has almost
Killed me with
Love for that girl.

ETTA, 1958

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ETTA, 1958


He had twisted his ankle.
His foot was swollen and it ached,
Hurt him to the degree that he could no longer concentrate.
He had lost the capacity to figure.
His mind no longer able to grasp even very simple things,
His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a trance.

He was young and he kissed the back of her hand,
He kissed her about the face,
He kissed her eyelids,
And he rested his lips at the base of her neck.

He had kissed the skin all-over both her shoulders.

He and she were minors, and their ardency,
Its possible consequence worried their parents.

There was no question about the boy being strong.

Within the warmth of a late August, summer night,
The couple walked hand in hand along a dirt path.
They followed a trail along side truck-farm fields,
Alternate tracts of cabbage and corn,
Which then became a shortcut,
A line through an expanse of crabgrass scrub.

The land rose a few inches,
Slightly above the counter-sunk, worn-earth channel,
Suggesting a beaten path, a safe passage,
Perhaps once a native American footway,
Of an age older than most would dream.

They headed toward an old Dutch Elm.
The tree grew beside the muddy bank of a creek,
Whose occasional flow emptied west into a river,
A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

They thought that they might sail away upon the waters.

The Milky Way seemed to stretch out across
The vault of deep space more like some
Will-o-wisp patch of terrestrial weather
Than the starry edge of our own galaxy.

Yet more, much more than the taste of salt --
The tiny sweat above her brows, more than how
Moisture had collected and now had formed
Fetchingly to glisten upon her shoulders,

It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity
Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak.
At its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky.

Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow.

The day's heat permeated the late summer evening.
They were standing before the great Dutch Elm,
The tree beside the muddy bank of the creek,
The small, occasional water emptying west into the river,
The river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

In a momentary all-over illumination,
The youths saw their silhouette.
They were merged as one.
They saw themselves fused into a single shade.

A snap of thunder followed, and, there, in the instant,
All of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace.



And when they turned and gazed upon each other,
Before either of them spoke a word,
They had come to believe that
In a book all their days had been written.
The verse which enfolds telling of this one moment
Had already been composed.

Though still no gathering of the waters into the seas,
Prior to Earth's becoming the name for dry land,
Likewise before the glory of first morning or first sun's set,
Even before the beginning when the Spirit of God
Announced light and illuminated the darkness,

They had been granted affection.

Before the beginning,
Before the Lord brought into being
The blazing brilliance across the infinite deep,
And called it good,
They had been blessed with ever grateful remembrance.
This one moment had already been written.

LET ME TELL YOU TRUE

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LET ME TELL YOU TRUE


As you must already know, I am quite over you.
I barely think of you more than twenty times a day.
Though I must confess that today,
When I went all about town in what had been
Just an incredibly gorgeous day – 89 degrees Fahrenheit,
Dry, even very dry, and absolutely sunny
With a ten mile-per-hour steady breeze --
My thoughts of you had crossed my mind
At more than twice the usual number-rate.

Seems every great weather day reminds me of you.
Otherwise I am fine and my recovery progresses.

OK!  I am not going to blame you for it.
I feel that I am congenitally distracted.
On Monday, now that was two days ago,
It rained and rained, the entire day was hot and stuffy.
Still my heart ran to you, I counted,
Ninety-two sparate times.

Then later during the selfsame day I stepped into a puddle.
 I dropped my umbrella, and soak and wet,
I became distracted, so wasn't it better,
Certainly more rigorously honest,
That I should start my addition all over.
Thus by bedtime, I had the new number, thirty-three,
Which, of course, must be added to my first subtotal.

 

I'm sure that you can compute my arithmetic here.

In my own defense -- you no doubt recall --
Low barometric pressure has always had a bad effect on me.

All right, let's get real! If we average out my daily count,
Say over the last 365 days,
One thing is abundantly clear, no mistake about it,
I no longer spend my days just thinking of you.
And let me tell you true, my thoughts turn to you
No more than thirty-six times a day.

BLEEDING LOVE

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BLEEDING LOVE

Somebody wrote me, 
It was in response to a YouTube video; 
He commented upon an up-load, 
One where I read some love lyrics of mine.

The writer said that a man my age should be content --
Say with a garden or maybe a grandchild or two;
He claimed that romance is 
A wild and an often fruitless labor,
Hardly worth the effort,
No matter how old the pursuer, 
Though at least youth has energy in its favor.

Then he laughingly added,
“No fool like the fool whose fate it is, 
Stuck in the rut of heart-ache verse.”  

Yeah! Sure, OK, but grant me my own life, and frankly
What do I care how purveyors of joylessness think?

My first thought here cries, get lost! Beat it!
Mister! Hey! Get a grip!  Anyways,

I thank the commentator for his time, 
Then I consider his remarks for a bit. 
Still I must insist, no fear, no worry of rebuke, 
That I am not troubled, and still do boldly proclaim,

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.


I take delight, 
Announce that more command of word,
More love’s vocabulary resides within my little finger,
Than occupies all the many heads,
Which march in the armies of negativity!

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

Once Son of Man lost life.
And when He rising from the dead, 
He fulfilled the Holy Writ and dies no more.
And we ourselves after Resurrection,
Shall be ‘Ever with the Lord.’
Remember the promise, we who love, 
Not necessarily wisely, but well,
We who give ourselves to the commandment,
Love, love, love.
Yes, that was the Word,
Today we shall be with Him in heaven.

I keep bleeding, keep bleeding in love.                                                                                                                                       

KNOCK OUT

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KNOCK OUT




Describing the awful upset, the melancholy,
The force which has struck me so hard
That I have seemingly become unconscious
And have lost all capacity for right direction,
Has me contradicting every principle of sacred philosophy.

I am forced to postulate the existence of a physical soul.

Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being part of my life, has floored my spirit.

I fear that my vitality has been stopped.
My training in prayer has failed me.
I lack the muscle strength and the great breath,
Despite my belief in the audacity to hope,
I want the stamina to continue the match.

I have been hit, and I am down.
I bleed, darling, I bleed.
I struggle to my feet, I stand just before the ten-count.

Your blow has opened a cut above my eye.
What salve, what ointment staunches the blood!
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.

The referee enters center ring. I have lost the fight.

SEEKING A MUSE

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SEEKING A MUSE,
Personal Classified Advertisement


I know what to do!
I am not at a loss, despondent, or 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!

IMPOSSIBLE DREAM, A Lover's Question

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IMPOSSIBLE DREAM,
A Lover’s Question        

I have an astounding dream to report.

It has me running down a long hall in the semi-darkness

With a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key,

And on its end it has a single, protruding notch,

The type of a key used to wind an antique clock.

Mounted to the wall at the end of my run stands

A giant, three-dimensional cartoon heart.

Although hand-painted, it has a natural color.

It seems the skin of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart

A gold-metal strike plate sets up over against

An aperture, the channel; I wonder if it leads

To the lock that might open, release your heart?

Have I the key? Or do I dream only to wake,

Awaken to nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?

Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does my deep desire

Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease?

The promise of a new, peaceful kingdom

Is it to be fulfilled, here, in the affirmative today?

Now I stand before you, You, Love, my higher power,

And the congregates sense the blasphemy;

They whisper calumnies.

They say that I am my father’s son,

“He is the boy from the hardware store!

By whose authority has he the right to reveal,

Who does he believe -- just who might he think he is

When he revels in his midnight imaginings?”

And me, their belligerence,

The hostility of the locals does not concern me,

Not a whit, though they rise up

And ready to condemn me.

I pray ... I might have definite answer,

That I am prophet in this house,

That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive,

Carry hope for life anew,

And have news extraordinary, good, for all to hear.

Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness, I run.

I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical;

A single notch protrudes at its end.

It seems the kind of key that winds an antique clock.

Darling, please, your answer!

Have I the key to open your heart,

Or do I dream the impossible dream?

SWEET TALK

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SWEET TALK


Out in Arizona my Dad 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,
Showing off their tightly petaled spiraling centers.
Seems they climbed the trellises just to flaunt,
Dazzle the onlooker with the grace of their towering ascent,
And what beauty in their many colors,
Their outfits boasting red, and pink,
And the truest bright of yellow,  
While others bore garb,
Which were infussed with hues of gold and orange.

With that said, and knowlingly I set to rivalry with nature,
What once for me had remained secret and unspoken,
This time I’ll express my feelings loud and clear,
Now one and all will hear.

Those roses never flowered like you.
No! They never looked the way,
The way you looked tonight, darling.

No doubt some may find this verse coy,
No more than borrowed phrase and imagery,
Notions common in the language of the heart,
Yet I swear to it. I tell the truth,
The same as if I stood in court of law
My right hand raised, the left upon the Holy Book.

By solemn oath I declare,
My flattery means to please your heart,
The same as would the wrappings on any special gift.

So help me, honey, know these words, 
My terms of endearment, honest and sincere.

ETTA, 1958

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 ETTA, 1958


He had twisted his ankle.
His foot was swollen and it ached.
It hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate.
He had lost the capacity to figure.
His mind no longer able to grasp even very simple things,
His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a trance.

He was young and he kissed the back of her hand,
He kissed her about the face,
He kissed her eyelids,
And he rested his lips at the base of her neck.

He had kissed the skin all-over both her shoulders.

He and she were minors, and their ardency,
Its possible consequence worried their parents.

There was no question about the boy being strong.

Within the warmth of a late August, summer night,
The couple walked hand in hand along a dirt path.
They followed a trail along side truck-farm fields,
Alternate tracts of cabbage and corn,
Which then became a shortcut,
A line through an expanse of crabgrass scrub.

The land rose a few inches,
Slightly above the counter-sunk, worn-earth channel,
Suggesting a beaten path, a safe passage,
Perhaps once a native American footway,
Of an age older than most would dream.

They headed toward an old Dutch Elm.
The tree grew beside the muddy bank of a creek,
Whose occasional flow emptied west into a river,
A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

They thought that they might sail away upon the waters.

The Milky Way seemed to stretch out across
The vault of deep space more like some
Will-o-wisp patch of terrestrial weather
Than the starry edge of our own galaxy.

Yet more, much more than the taste of salt --
The tiny sweat above her brows, more than how
Moisture had collected and now had formed
Fetchingly to glisten upon her shoulders,

It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity
Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak,
At its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky.

Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow.

The day's heat permeated the late summer evening.
They were standing before the great Dutch Elm,
The tree beside the muddy bank of the creek,
The small, occasional water emptying west into the river,
The river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

In a momentary all-over illumination,
The youths saw their silhouette.
They were merged as one.
They saw themselves fused into a single shade.

A snap of thunder followed, and, there, in the instant,
All of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace.

And when they turned and gazed upon each other,
Before either of them spoke a word,
They had come to believe that
In a book all their days had been written.
The verse which enfolds telling of this one moment
Had already been composed.

Though still no gathering of the waters into the seas,
Prior to Earth's becoming the name for dry land,
Likewise before the glory of first morning or first sun's set,
Even before the beginning when the Spirit of God
Announced light and illuminated the darkness,

They had been granted affection.

Before the beginning, 
Before the Lord brought into being 
The blazing brilliance across the infinite deep,
And called it good,
They had been blessed with ever grateful remembrance.

This one moment had already been written.

RENDEZVOUS

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RENDEZVOUS*


Though it seems that we have grown distant,
I am readily able to reach out and touch you.

My feelings steadfast, my heart apparent,
Even that this verse fails to mention your name.


Albeit we are housed in poor mortal frame,
Some one in a future time will think of us.

However history conspires to hush our story,
Destiny speaks and reveals to world
The book in which all our days were already written.



*A original love poem adapted from a verse by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, and more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi. He was a 13th-century Persian poet.



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SAD*

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SAD*

Etta,  you do not seem to care if I am ill.

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

And your response, terrible, cold and unmoving,
You declared what in my heart was already apparent;
You told me that you had no aspirations,
That if I sought a Florence Nightingale,
I had barked up the wrong tree.

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

It had a tone, which seemed practiced.

You had actually precluded any concern.

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

Now that my health returns, and I am totally recovered,
I must wonder, no matter how many times
You have claimed that you love me,
If my being ill had not worried you in the least,
What good is it to me to be well again.

*Following an ancient writer’s reflection
\

PEARL NECKLACE*

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PEARL NECKLACE


I shall travel to Hyderabad,
And there select for you the very best of pearls.

The stars have already wrought anklets to adore your feet.

I plan to use the power of my tears
To knot a strand of special luster to lay about your neck.

Wealth and fame will come from you;
These are things that Destiny has ordained.
Yet this my sorrow remains absolutely my own.

Behold the luminosity of the nacre, and appraise
How the space tied between each of the jewels conspires,
Enhances the subtlety of the array now falling upon your breasts.

Touch with your fingers the magic of the spherical splendor.
Walk to the mirror, look upon yourself -- what value,
What elegance yours at the expense of my misery!

 

I call upon you. Turn your heart about.
Hurry home!  Hurry back to my lips,

And let me hold you in my arms again.



*An Original Poem Adapted After Tagore’s “Chain of Pearls,”
Rabindranath Thakur, anglicised to Tagore, He sometimes is refered to by his nickname, Gurudev. An Inidian poet, Bengali,
he had been awarded the Noble Prize for Literature in 1913.