These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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PLEDGING
MY LOVE
Abide
with me for fast closes the day.
Darkness
deepens with alacrity, Nothing
halts the night.
Stay
with me while time permits. Although
other comforts flee, Accept
I mean the best, Spare
your soul from bottom and regret.
In
every deed, and in my every word, I
want to be true, do right by you.
Though
many things to tell, But
just one sums it right,
One
thing huge, deep and great, With
ocean of delight,
My
heart embraces you.
You,
my love, are all my life today.
I
wish to assure, let it be known,
Though
you in mortal moment seem, Great
Light, Infinity, blesses you.
Happy
outcome, whatever your secret dreams,
God’s
will be done. May
you be granted the strength to carry it out.
And
I add,
I
hold belief, whose strength No
public fire, no coliseum of wild, angry beasts, No
awful rendition, torture in far-off land,
Might
ever shake, nothing my faith dissuade.
Yes!
Certain, as I write,
For
you awaits the greatest gift -- That
at the hour when you awake, No
matter the season,
Whether
you are happy or sad,
You
will have learned the simple prayer, And
with all your heart you will have come to believe, ‘Thank
You. Thank You, Lord, for life, And
yet all You do for me.’
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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 those long-tall 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, All infussed with hues of gold and orange. With that said, It seems as though I have written myself into a predicament. How do I dare still to proclaim that Those roses never flowered like you. No! They never looked the way, The way you looked tonight, darling. Sure! No doubt about it. Many might find this kind of talk Coy, no more than borrowed phrase and imagery, Notions common in the language of the heart. So here’s the twist. I swear to it. I tell the truth, The whole truth and nothing but 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 are honest and sincere.
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HARVEST FESTIVAL, Skördefest, September 2013 Would you but bale the hay, darling, And then put the pumpkin atop So that I might end my search And have signpost to a loving heart. Or better yet! Why not erect a pumpaguben? Tie upon its giant metal frame All the pumpkins and gourds, All the color you can find, Then set its hands and arms askew, And on its uppermost pole Mount a great-big autumn squash as its head With beets for eyes and a carrot for a nose, And fix some purple harvest corn for its teeth. Be sure to arrange straws of hay across the crown So the guben has some hair. Then surely I would have right direction, Know where your table’s set. And having had Ready advertisement to your dishes, baskets and trays I would proceed straight ahead; And once at that place I would have sample of your plenty stores: The pies, the stews and casseroles, The jars of pickled herring, Your cured salmon and your delicately minced whitefish balls, The many kinds of sausages, and patties Made from every kind of meat, domestic and wild, The gooseberry and cherry and the other bottled fruit, The lingonberry jams and the sandwich-style jelly cookies, The kaffebröds and your loaves of breads, bakes Which range from seeded, creamy rye to dark pumpernickel.
And
there before the display of your harvest and kitchen I
might have hope to savor the bounty of your beauty, And
to fill myself with the nourishment of your love,
Feasting
upon this sustenance For
however many the days of my life remain.
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WELL! WELL! WELL! Well, well, well! It won’t be long now, Our love writes out the lines, records its final story, And as in all things possessing world’s glory Ends and soon vanishes without a trace. Perhaps we never meet again. We learn the awful ache, What separation means, Once time runs out, and we see, It’s too late to mend a heart -- Let’s make it plain -- A heart now rendered and torn apart. Right now I feel it’s true, We shall never meet again, while Yet we remain this side of heaven, while We still abide on earth’s shore of the river. Strange, yeah, how fragile my hope (Really quite ridiculous!) That you stop it with your forked tongue, Abandon your bad habit, and proclaim, Just admit it; you broke the deal! And, as for me, you know the story, Surrender, otherwise, forget it. Just tell all, say to one and all, I am gone, you’ve done me wrong. I swear, I don’t care, I don’t care. I am gone, gone, gone, gone! The hurt is bad, real bad. I am through with you in my face. Remember when I begged you, Had to implore, time after time, and again. You had your tickets booked in advance. You always knew when and where you were traveling. It was an easy request; I wanted a few months' itinerary. You pretended not to know the meaning, The meaning of the common, English word, itinerary. And when you had finally answered my supplication, And sent me your plans, you had fabricated a calender. Awful! None of your timings proved true.
Actually, and here speaks the truth of the matter, It was sad, so very sad, After all the time we had spent together, And that we were well-suited in so many ways. Treachery, simplest poetic conceit sums it, It was a game; you played me. You had a pack of lies. I’ve had it! I’m really gone! Moved on, Because you have done me wrong!
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COUNT SLOBENDORF’S MISFORTUNE
He was unable to recall When last he had seen the words, “I love you,” form upon her lips. Still he had trouble facing the truth -- The woman had not cared for him. She sought only his fortune. She wanted his titles, home, and money. Then one day he began to feel that time spent with her The same as the thought of life sentence in prison.
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HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS? In Imitation of Rumi Listen, listen, whoever you are,
Nomad, idolater, worshiper of the flesh, However you may be labeled, Junkie, drunk, nasty son of a dog, You who have suffered in prison, or at the torturer's hand, Or have no home now, reduced to life on the dirt of the road, Listen, listen the news is good. Though you have sworn a thousand false vows, And have blasphemed, Though today your enemies delight in seeing you bleed, And the ravages of disease removes you from Every help of medicine and the comfort of your fellow man,
Remember, God enters us through our wounds. Ours is the audacity of hope.
