FISH STORY, A Whopper of a Tale

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FISH STORY,
A Whopper of a Tale

I imagine that I must have surprised you,
What with your waiting game, your sport.
You exhausted me with your angler's skill.
You had me hooked, long on the line,
It was the lure, you;
I swallowed you whole.

I had not seen the great barb nestled in the fly;
Your beauty, I had become prey to it.
You must have realized, you must have known, 
How beautiful you seemed to me,
How you dazzled, your shimmer, it fooled me,
And I ate you right to the lead sinker.

I was your catch.

I believed every thing you said.

Who might have divined it?
Given the great tensile strength of your nylon-reel wire,
Hard to phantom that I could break it;
But I took a deep dive toward bottom,
Then I broke surface with a five-foot leap above water.
A loud snap announced how taut had grown the tension. 
All at once boat and bait had lost all connection.


Who would have envisioned it?

I swim with that hook still puncturing my mouth.
Your fisherman's string, its segment, 
It still runs along side me for at least a yard. 

My injury, it hurt me, and I shall have to bear 
Its scar, the remnants of this encounter for life.
Yet I have set myself at liberty, yes,
Free to travel world's grand and open ocean seas.

And may I ask, again, take a moment, please, consider, 
Who would ever believe my, this fish story! 

But it is true; I broke the line. 
I have broken from you.  

WINTER LOVE MELANCHOLY

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WINTER LOVE MELANCHOLY
 

The seabirds cry at the harbor,

And in the distance a fog horn,
It, too, sounds a plaintive note;
All refrains freight my melancholy,
Repeatedly reminding me of my sorrow.

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

My jacket seems too thin.

No matter how hard I pull down upon it, 

My stocking cap falls short of cover for my ears.

The nights remain very long;

I find no comfort in the memory --

Once a summer sun had warmed the day.

And now another woe besets me, 

I dread that I might never kiss you again!

THE WORD

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THE WORD, A Lover’s Exhortation
                                           

Well!   What do you say, honey?
I believe that I say it right.
It is God alone Who knows
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

Only He can quell the hunger, quench the thirst.

But, sweetheart, hey!  I tell you now.
Forget it!  Fly straight!
Think of the Frick with its fabulous El Greco,
Small though that one painting is, it amply captures the fury,
When Jesus castigates the money changers.

The Word is clear.

 

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 clothes 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?

We have seen the sorry example, what terrible precept!

Celebrated priests and magistrates have not known the Lord,
Yet once He had stood right there before them.

FOR YOU, ETTA

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FOR YOU, ETTA


How the couch swells, then sinks,
As if its cushions meaningfully form to bring your body
Still closer to mine.

Twelve years float through our conversation.
Stray notes air from the web radio,
Now and then punctuating our sentences.

Why ask about our history?
What vanity possesses you to make sense of the world,
And try to figure God's will?

We met, we loved, what time before,
Is it dejavu, do we relive a previous encounter?
And where's the place I first saw you?
Do we return to it,
And gain another chance to do life over?


Or have we hope to live hereafter?
Shall we be rejoined,
And hand-in-hand walk the night
Forever young and through those fields
On the other side of the river?

The streaming-music player stops.

You lie before me and seem no more tangible
Than a thought, a dream within a dream,
Emerging within an instant then vanishing without a trace.
I just hold on, and try to grasp you.

I hear the whisper of your breath, its sound,
Though all the other voices cease, your voice remains.

A POEM AFTER RUMI

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A POEM AFTER RUMI


I see the light coming out from your eyes.
What sacred wonder illuminates your face?.
Wish I had nothing else to do,
But to spend the hours adoring you.