Stanley Pacion A BIG BOOK OF MY OWN

A LOVE POEM, Found Written on a Page in a Cooking Magazine

2012-02-01T01:17:00.000-08:00

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A LOVE POEM, Found Written on a Page
in a Cooking Magazine,
Fourth Version, 2012

The man had more than a few weird quirks.
Among them, he enjoyed writing in code.

He invented a special kind of shorthand,
Which allowed him to keep business records
In a language comprehensible only to himself
And the one friend to whom he had entrusted
The secret of how to read his cipher.

At the entrance to his apartment,
Within the middle of his foyer,
The man mounted a two-foot bronze of the god, Mercury.
He centered the statue upon a Corinthian-styled,
White marble pedestal.

The sculpture's left leg was horizontally extended.

In the air and at eye-level a winged, golden metal sandal
Passed beyond the boundary of the art work's stone base.

Mercury's right foot was firmly cemented at the tip of the toe;
The pose conveyed the messenger-god's typical post-haste.

Throughout the apartment the man used cryptic labels to mark
The boxes and folders of everything he possessed.

Visitors could readily see
Scores of items which bore his encryption.

Some have said he was quite mad!

In truth his peculiarities skirted insanity.
Yet when it came life's basics,
His manner of speech stayed straightforward.

And he wrote in the King's English.

He said, "I love you."

And he proclaimed for all that care to hear,
In script and voice alike,
"I worship the ground upon which you walk."

BLEEDING LOVE, How Divinity Empowers

2012-01-31T10:47:00.000-08:00

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BLEEDING LOVE,
How Divinity Empowers

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

The writer noted that a man my age should be content,
Say with gardening and maybe a grandchild or two;
He claims my time is misspent,
Wasted upon romance,
And no fool like the fool whose fate it is,
Stuck in the rut of heart-rendering verse.

Yea, sure, but grant me my own life, and frankly
What do I care how purveyors of joylessness think?

Hey! Anyways,

I thank the commentator for his time,
The time he took to compose his thought,
I give his response a consideration,
Yet then I must insist, no fear, no worry of rebuke,
I have no problem when I proclaim.

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

I take delight,
Announce that more command of Word,
That more love’s vocabulary resides within my little finger,
-- Audience, forgive the boast --
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,
He was crucified and nailed upon a cross,
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,’
And lo and behold he who loves,
Not necessarily wisely, but well,
Remember the promise,
He shall be with Him today in heaven.

I keep bleeding, keep bleeding in love.

SOUR GRAPES, A Love Poem Styled after the Verse of Catullus

2012-01-29T07:04:00.000-08:00

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SOUR GRAPES,
A Love Poem Styled after the Verse of Catullus,

Understand, I always liked that guy, Fred,
Let’s just say, I was fond of him.
I respected him as a colleague.

Yet now, it is decades later;
My once good feelings for him have nosedived.

I mean one thing, certain, I felt you were his gal.

Of course, I was attracted to you,
Hey, your allure, it tempted me!
The way you stood, it complemented your height,
Made you demure, such poise,left knee bent forward,
Your shoulders tilted,
You brought your right shoulder down to the side,
And that smile of yours, allow me to say it,
You were gorgeous, and I always favored a brunet.

Not to forget your intelligence, hands down,
You, why you were the smartest woman I had ever met!

Nonetheless, propriety required I not make a move.
I was Fred's friend,
How would you expect me to behave?

And you must recall.
You do remember, don't you,
That I had been otherwise engaged!
Let's just say, I was very busy.

You might not have realized my busyness's full extent;
Facts are, I had been occupied on too many fronts.

I know. I know. I missed the bus.
The train had left the station. I had my chance.
Passed on what very well might have been,
God, when I think about it, the splendid opportunity,

Allowed them all to go by, life and happiness, years of it!

Let’s get it straight, the facts are the facts.
It had not been my fault, I swear!
It was that Fred, he had blocked my way,
He puffed himself up and proudly took the stance,
Made it clear that for all intent and purpose you were his.

I do not really care for the fellow anymore,
Even the thought of him bothers me.
I do not like repeating his name,
Yet now it amounts -- how time flies --
It amounts to more than thirty years later!

I want it known, the world to know,
Now and forever, my regret,
That I had missed,
Oh the wonderful chance to have experienced,
Love and life with you, please,
Understand! It had not been my fault,
I swear! He stood in my way.

Though once a friend,
I do not really care for that guy anymore, no,
Not a bit. The thought of him gets my stomach sick.

I do not even wish to repeat his name.

VENUS, Rewrite, January 2012

2012-01-27T09:38:00.000-08:00

BLACK WATER, An Adaptation of a Theme from a German Movie

2012-01-24T10:40:00.000-08:00

WELL, WELL, WELL, Her Pretense, January 2012

2012-01-19T11:45:00.000-08:00

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WELL, WELL, WELL!
Her Pretense, January 2012

Well, well, well!

It won’t be long now,
Our love, how it plays its final story,
Like all else belonging to world’s glory,
Soon ends and will be no more.

Perhaps we never meet again.
We learn the awful ache,
What separation means,
When time runs out, and we see
It’s too late to mend a heart,
A heart which has been rendered, 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 the time when I begged,
Had to implore, time after time, and again.
Truth be known, it was an easy request;
I wanted a few month’s itinerary.

You pretended not to know the meaning,
You pretended not to know
The meaning of the common, English word, itinerary.
And when you had finally succumbed to my entreaties,
Sent me your plans,
Not a word of it proved true.

Awful, actually very sad,
After all the time we had spent together,
Treachery, simplest poetic conceit sums it,
It was game; you played me.
You had pack of lies.

I’ve had it! I’m really gone! Moved on,
Because you have done me wrong!

StanleyPacion's Channel - YouTube

2012-01-19T11:44:00.000-08:00

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WELL, WELL, WELL, Her Pretense

2012-01-01T12:08:00.000-08:00

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WELL, WELL, WELL,
Her Pretense

Well, well, well!

It won’t be long now,
Our love, how it plays its final story,
Like all else belonging to world’s glory,
Soon ends and will be no more.

Perhaps we never meet again.
We learn the awful ache,
What separation means,
When time runs out, and we see
It’s too late to mend a heart,
A heart that has been rendered, 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 earth’s shore of the river.

Strange, yeah, how fragile my hope
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 the time when I begged,
Had to ask, time after time, again.
It was an easy request,
I wanted a few month’s itinerary.

You pretended not to know the meaning,
You pretended not to know
The meaning of the common, English word,
And when you finally succumbed,
Sent me your plans,
Not a word of it proved true.

Awful, actually very sad,
After all the time we had spent together,
Treachery, simplest poetic conceit sums it,
It was game; you played me.
You had pack of lies.

I’ve had it! I’m really gone! Moved on,
Because you done me wrong!

FISH STORY

2011-10-20T22:52:00.000-07:00

DREAM CHILDREN, A Reverie

2011-10-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

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DREAM CHILDREN,
A Reverie,
Edited May 2011

I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,

And Mother,
Ever attentive to the moral order of the home,
Will have censored some details of the lovers’ delight,
Until the girl attains the appropriate age,
And she possesses the missives on her own.

Our son will study the photographs,
Taken while his parents' passion was young;
He will marvel at his Mother's beauty.

From her character and image he learns standards
That, when time comes, he might choose,
Among women, the one, suitable to marry,
Who, too, would be good mother.

And our children will cherish the memory of how,
Night after night and over the years,
We read from books to them until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
In tales of heroic deed and glorious adventure,
And the memories of wonderful day dreams,
Which twice-read stories of fantasy and magic create.

Their rooms teem with books;
These books form a collection, a magnificent library.
It remains today the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children recall the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode out on our shoulders
Their arms around our necks,
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint,
Bringing to soul warmth and calm,
And that happiness evident
From childhood spent in a good home.

ETTA, 1957

2011-09-25T01:11:00.000-07:00

ROUGH DRAFT

2011-08-03T21:16:00.000-07:00

NEW YORK CITY, Grapes of Wrath

2011-06-28T23:54:00.000-07:00

FISH STORY

2011-06-22T23:48:00.000-07:00

OH CHICAGO! Suite White City

2011-06-15T02:02:00.000-07:00

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OH CHICAGO!
Suite White City,
May 2011, Rewrite

Chicago, I see you,
Though to be there, I must recover scenes,
Which now are very long ago, and what I share, here,
May be more dream, fiction, than actual historical event.

My life enfolds in pictures,
And revelry takes me from present-day circumstance,
The computer's screen and the key pad, to,
To lake-front parking, a lover’s lane,
Way down at east end of Foster Avenue,
At the time, I date the mother of my future son,
(It was early evening)
That woman with me is to become my first,
My one, my only wife, though
From her today I count over two decades, divorced.

We heard a galloping, thrashing noise,
And when we looked over the dashboard
And out the windshield, we saw
A man, he came from within the bushes,
A stranger, his demeanor was wild
And mayhem seemed his intent.
Clenched by two fists,
He held a great length of metal rod, a gaffing hook,
Then, from a big, an over-the-shoulder swing, bang!
He punctured the hood on my Dad’s white Chevrolet,
Which was a brand-new,1960, four-door, hard-top.

We survived the attack,
Intact, secure behind the doors and car in reverse,
We were lucky, I guess.

2.

I remember the time in the high rise, near North Side,
Up on the 18th floor, where my buddy and I,
We knew this cop, yes, she was fine.
Oh my, Chicago, I remember her, the fond delight!
I liked the way she let her 9MM sleep with us.
(She placed it under the pillow.)
And her blues, her uniform with its badges,
And her leather belt and boots, whether she wore them,
Or when they were thrown, scattered and heaped.
A pile of clothes and accessories,
Her lengerie accented the top of the jumble;
I need not close my eyes to picture it.

The ensemble looked good at the bottom of the bed,
Piled-up on the rug of the bedroom floor.

Later, in the back seat of a Chicago,
Blue and white police cruiser,
I joined the convergence, while she drove,
And her partner sat shotgun, chasing the culprit,
All sirens and beacons blazing,
Down the back alleys, behind the bungalows, fast, 30mph,
Galvanized cans crashing, their lids off,
Flying, like saucers,
Garbage was everywhere all over the concrete.

3.

River View, the amusement park, sat down the block
From my first high school, its Ferris Wheel dominated
That side of the North Branch of the Chicago River.
Readers, please, excuse the free thinking.
I leap here and hope to attain an insight and meaning,
Back to the time in 1893,
The year my great grandfather, John,
Came the one hundred miles from La Salle, Illinois,
To Chicago, he wanted to see the lights, the World's Fair,
The white city, magic, and when he returned, home,
He told tales about the town on Lake Michigan,
How great its marvels twenty-years after the Fire.

He, my great grandfather, he returned home
To the dark of the Illinois Valley, to gas-lit streets,
And when he told the family about alternating current,
The city ablaze in the middle of the night,
He ignited in my grandmother lust, she wanted a part,
She sought the grandeur; She was no longer happy at home,
What darkness, the narrow, a woman’s common lot,
The drudgery of hand laundry, the knowledge that,
As she often had openly lamented,
“Yes, I was born too soon.”

No easy task, ironing the household’s attire
With an implement heated atop a wood-fired stove,
Early to bed, early to arise, the great bore,
Small town life, it was said she would bed the devil
-- And many claimed she had -- she wanted out, escape.
She married my grandfather, an itinerant painter,
Who went from town to town painting church murals.

And following the grand cliche,
Grandpa drank his liquor as others might milk from a jar.
And he added to his cocktail’s already heady mix,
The family’s romance says, he had bad habit,
He moistened the stylist between his lips;
And we know, the paint those days had lead for its base.

Her husband, my grandfather promised my grandmother
Life, incandescent, excitement, magic,
And the possibility of dreams come true,
Right there on the flat lands off the shore of the Lake.
Remember, the new town rose up from the old,
Up from the ashes, why, it was a resurrection!

Please, was there not real truth to the story of the Whites,
Had they not been rescued? Was it not a miracle?
They had escaped from the massacre at Fort Dearborn.

My grandmother sought energy, electric, the moment,
She wanted a big-time story, no small-town idyll.
She desired city burning, burning bright, resplendent.

Oh Chicago! It is from you that I have my life!

FOOLISH LOVE, Rewrite, June 2011

2011-06-10T23:53:00.000-07:00

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FOOLISH LOVE,
Rewrite, June 2011

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
You make me feel as if
I had drunk a gallon of Jack Daniels --
That I am powerless and my life unmanageable.

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
I fear that Grace might not restore my sanity.
I stay up nights and pine away;
Allow my will to run to self riot.

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
Where did I go wrong?
How was I not able to see that your allure,
Your devilish witchery, would ruin whatever
The chance I once had had
To check my faults of character.

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
My age, my length of years,
Was I too slow to figure the sum,
Had wisdom failed me, and rendered me prey
A hundred times to the same old line?

You have broken my heart,
Enfeebled my muscles,
And many bones in my body ache.
You have cut my life to the quick.

The pain you cause, I know, I know!

Oh love, oh love, hope now gone,
For me nothing more, there is nothing more,
But day after day of misery.

POEM WRITTTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE, Third Version

2011-05-29T23:48:00.000-07:00

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POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE,
Third Version, May 2011

The man had more than a few weird quirks.
Among them, he enjoyed writing in code.

He invented a special kind of shorthand,
Which allowed him to keep business records
In a language comprehensible only to himself
And the one friend to whom he had entrusted
The secret of how to read his cipher.

At the entrance to his apartment,
Within the middle of his foyer,
The man mounted a two-foot bronze of the god, Mercury.
He centered the statue upon a Corinthian-styled,
White marble pedestal.

The sculpture's left leg was horizontally extended.
In the air and at eye-level a winged sandal
Passed beyond the boundary of the art work's base.
Mercury's right foot was firmly cemented at the toe;
The pose conveyed the messenger's typical post-haste.

The man used cryptic labels to mark
The boxes and folders of everything he possessed.

Throughout the apartment visitors would see
The score of items which bore his encryption.

But when it came to life's basics,
Though, technically, he bordered on insanity,
(Some have said he was quite mad!)
His manner of speech remained straightforward.

And he wrote in the King's English.

He said, “I love you.”

And he proclaimed for all that care to hear,
In script and voice alike,
“I worship the ground upon which you walk.”

CHICAGO THEME

2011-05-28T23:26:00.000-07:00

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CHICAGO THEME

Hey! She can't do this to me!
I'm an American!
I was born and raised in Illinois.
History taught me about Lincoln's Volunteers,
They were the ones who burned Old Dixie down.

I'm the Pepsodent kid,
I have hung out on the skin of my teeth.

My uncle was a dog catcher.
From him, I learned to capture animals in heat.

Where I come from -- there is no foolin' around.

Where does she get the nerve?
She leaves me home alone for months on end.

I've known speeds, man, faster than Flash Gordon,
I can fly from planet to planet,
Find and live amongst a whole new breed,

What do I need her for?

Got to be kidding!
I mean... she can't do this to me!

I have studied how the West was won.

NEW MOOD, Morris

2011-05-11T00:20:00.000-07:00

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NEW MOOD,
Morris

After Etta had left him,
Morris was down and out,
In a very dark state and exceedingly lonely,
But then when he met Penny,
His world brightened again.

Of course, that Penny loves to cook
And night after night provides him
A mighty and delicious repast,
That she is pleasant towards him
And even solicitous about his being in good health
Did much to renew his sense of good fortune.
Once, again, Morris had come to believe,
Yes, yes, he is a lucky man, indeed!

And, after he had spent a few years with Penny,
Morris was able to smile again.

FOOLISH LOVE

2011-05-06T01:28:00.000-07:00

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FOOLISH LOVE

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
You make me feel as though
I had drunk a gallon of Jack Daniels --
That I am powerless and my life unmanageable.

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
I fear no Grace might restore my sanity.
I stay up nights and pine away;
Allow my will to run to self riot.

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
Where did I go wrong?
How was I not able to see that your allure,
Your devilish witchery, would lead to ruin,
Further corrupt my moral character?

Oh love, oh love, oh foolish love,
My age, my length of years,
Had it diminished my rational capacity?
Or have you simply broken my heart,
And impaired my physical well being?

The pain you cause, it dooms this life of mine.

A SONG FOR YOU, Etta

2011-04-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

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A SONG FOR YOU,
Etta

You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

You have lived for years and years.
Yet your life, you, you seem to have awaited me,
I wonder the truth, could it be,
Had a sweet fortune intervened
And destined us to share our heart and soul?

Had a book with these self-same lines,
Had it sat out time?
Then had it stood, raised itself and appeared before me,
Insisting I copy the words from its pages,
That I might make them known,
And have world to hear when I read them to you?

And within this moment, our time and place,
That I have these tools ready for me,
The instant reference to books and words
A starry heaven held aloft by billions of gigabytes,
Spheres within spheres of information, now and eternal,
A noosphere of electronic storage, at my command,
That utterance may be given unto me,
That I may open my mouth boldly,
Oh, the wonder of it all, this love,
The remembrance of things past, between us,
The foretold promise of happy future, laid before us,
The mystery of this love, this love.

Up and down the country roads,
Along this big ol’ city’s streets,
You have had some tears and smiles,
And your plenty share of dreams and wish come true.

Yearnings never go out of style.

Do you ever cry when you‘re alone
When I am not by your side?

Do you silently wait for me?

Do you ever consider how it is that you have abandoned
A person with whom you have had much in common?

Then, when once I cease to live,
Someone else will appear, I suppose.

I know you have had lucky breaks,
Found fair quota of goodly things.
You can not be blamed
– many were my mistakes.
You have lived your life putting on a happy face,
A stiff upper lip when presented with adversity

I write this song so you might know,
Should you happen upon trouble,
Times of fear and woe, or nightmare,
When past demons beset you,
If one day you loose your course and fail,
You have this verse, my love for you,
And I trust you remember the times I sat behind
The wheel, and steered you safely home.

You are not mine to keep.
I just take care of you for a while.

You have lived for years and years.
Yet your life, you, you seem to have awaited me,
I wonder the truth, could it be,
Had a sweet fortune intervened
And destined us to share our heart and soul?

SUMANGALAMATA

2011-04-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

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SUMANGALAMATA

Hard to believe she wrote such sentiments
Six centuries before the common era.
Legend claims she was a nun,
Who had had to flee from family and home.

Her father arranged a suitable man for her to marry,
But his choice horrified her.

Instead she ran to follow Lord Buddha.

On a tablet she noted,
“I am woman well set at liberty!
How free I am, how wonderful my story,
No more cooking pots and kitchen drudgery,
No more worry about the household going hungry!

“And free at last from having to bed
A man whose character I never cherished.
Whose face I found ugly and body abhorrent!”

Hard to believe she wrote such sentiments
Six centuries before the common era.
Legend claims she was a nun,
Who had had to flee from family and home.

IMPOSSIBLE DREAM, A Lover's Question

2011-04-24T20:09:00.001-07:00

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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, painted,
Yet with a color so natural,
It rivals the red 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, 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, who might he think
He is when he informs us 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 is 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?

THANK YOU, BACCHUS

2011-04-24T19:58:00.000-07:00

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THANK YOU, BACCHUS*

Thank you, Bacchus. You let me go,
Freed me from your treacherous hold.

The enemy's army caught our ranks unaware;
Our generals had failed to figure on all-out assault.

An awful panic ensued.
I had not the time to grab my boots.
I ran across the Sinai.
I hoped to survive and make it home.
It was early morning, yet the sand was hot.
Before long my feet were badly burned.
Snipers hid among the rocks and hills;
They shot and killed us, almost everyone.

Thank you Bacchus. You let me go,
Freed me from your treacherous hold.

I crossed the Nile and my injuries healed,
From death in the desert, abandoned and alone,
Your grace had saved me.
Now I share this marvelous tale;
The troops in rout and I had prevailed.

*Bacchus is the Roman god of wine; he has a number of darker associations, one of them is the disorder apparent when an army suffers a calamitous defeat.

RED ROOF INN, Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey, 2011 Edit

2011-04-21T00:15:00.000-07:00

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RED ROOF INN,
Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey,
Edited, April 2011

An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle traveled the length.
It ran from the front door to the back of the room.

And you, there, in your bikini briefs, in an alcove,
An enclosure directly opposite the bathroom;
It occupied half the suite’s entire width.

Your back to me,
You stood up against a cantilever table.
It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a mirror,
A mirror whose length matched the table’s surface,
And it covered the back wall up to the ceiling.
Recessed lamps provided light from overhead.

You brushed your hair, and
With each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms,
My hands reached both your legs at the ankles.

Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center,
It rested right between your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin found a niche,
It touched the back of your right knee.

I was squatting and each of my hands
Was wrapped around one of your ankles,

When I stood up, I told you,
I had never personally encountered a woman
Who looked so much the better naked than clothed.

“Wow!” Burst out. And you said,
“You sure know how to compliment a girl.”

‘Woman! Trust my veracity.
‘Do not confuse my honest praise with flattery.’

I spoke these words only to myself, my tongue was tied.

Yet, then pretending to further my defense,
I more or less recalled the poet’s immortal words,
Those lines about truth and beauty being one,
And is not response to beauty, truth?

I ran the maxim in my mind, I was dumbfounded,

“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’”

I dwelled in total awe of you.

And when old age our generation shall waste,
And time brings world to more and other woes,
We have had this moment and its sentiment remains –
‘Darling, that is all,’ I quoted the lines to myself,

I had not uttered a word aloud,

‘You know on earth, and all you need to know.’

DASH IT! Edited, April 2011

2011-04-19T23:18:00.000-07:00

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DASH IT!
Edited, April 2011

Dash it, Baby!
Is this the best we can do?

Don't tell me!
Have neither of us the sense,
Reason enough to know which way is up, or down?

Here's the key, there's my desk,
You already have my heart,
You can come and go, whenever you please.

Should you find a spare penny,
Lying anywhere about the house,
Keep it, please, and when you have the opportunity,
Use it, toss it into a fountain and 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.
Let's hope that things are bound to get better.

Are you happy?
I did say? I promised you, did I not, that
I would make you queen of my poetry.
Well, haven't I?
By the way, who of us is happier?

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,
Plus the obligation of those household matters,
Which once he used to do.

You seem enamored with your lengthy driving about.
I sometimes wonder where you go,
How you might disappear for days!

Not a word about your haunts, not a single line,
“No Internet connection,” you claim.
And when I ask about your goings,
Why the haste?
You answer, "Antique show on Saturday."
Of course, I have heard that one before.
Then I ask you, where?
You say, “Pennsylvania.”

Oh, how tedious the dialogue becomes.
Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state!
As I query,
I see the roll of your thinking plainly in your eyes,
Can you believe it?
Doesn't it look silly,
When in this verse I present it before you,
Your answer, the one word, “Allentown.”

2.

Years ago I learned the reality --
Buying and selling no easy enterprise.

I know you take every special delight,
And you have the ability for concentration,
At level it requires to be successful at your shopping.

Lord knows, you love a good deal.
I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price,
A markdown or a discount more than you.

Even your afternoon dessert, it appears, tastes better
When it comes at half-price.

I realize that you are accustomed to international travel,
Heavy baggage means little to you,
Except, of course, should the carrier's personnel notice
Your true luggage weight
And you must pay for the extra kilos.

Then there is the situation with your mother,
(All kinds of complexities there!)
A topic I shall have to postpone,
A subject to tackle in another poem, or two.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
I seek your company, can you blame me?

You combine intelligence, beauty and thrift.
I doubt I find your bounty's equal in any other.

I hope to fill the wee small hours of the morning,
Knowing that you sleep in our bed,
And, that though you travel,
You return and make a home with me.

Forget about it! I shall survive.
No need for undue concern,
Or worry that I am probably the gloomier of us two,
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 happy bondage;
I wonder if either of us will escape it,
What I have called this thing of ours,
And how your grandfather,
Our dreams of him and his appearance, ties us
To a Destiny, whose inklings, still animates our hearts.

“In the wee small hours of the morning,”

So the old song goes,
While whole, wide-world, deep asleep,
I'd be yours, if only you would stay,
Be in our bed and home with me.

I have difficulty believing that you remain remote.
Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate?
Have you now and forever become unavailable to me?

HATE AND LOVE, Odi et Amo, Catullus, Poem 85

2011-04-17T09:07:00.000-07:00

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HATE AND LOVE,
Odi et Amo,
Catullus, Poem 85

I hate and I love,
You might ask, how do I explain it?

I do not know,
But I feel it happening and
It tears me apart.

Odi et Amo,
Catullus, Carmen 85

Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

BLACK WATER, An Adaptation of a Fassbinder Theme

2011-04-16T01:02:00.000-07:00

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BLACK WATER,
An Adaptation of a Fassbinder Theme,
April 2011

Water in the forest, terrible black water,
A pond over rot and dead leaves,
You lie silent, quiet, you, you stay still,
Unmoving, yet the storm rages around the wood,
In the groves pines lean and nets of spiders,
They are torn apart, and then splintering begins.

You, in the hollow, you, you rest, black water.
Branches fall, leaves scatter,
Bark peals from trees and flies all directions at once.
The wind rips all that stands, the grove succumbs.

But nothing reaches you, down there, black water.

NOD, On the East of Eden, April 2011

2011-04-06T01:20:00.000-07:00

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NOD,
On the East of Eden,
April 2011

Hey, girlfriend,
There are things about me that you do not know.
There are things which you might not understand.
Sorry to say, yet let me tell you,
There are things which you could never understand,
And sadly, the terrible corollary,
You should not understand.

I run with the pack.
Its dens sit in the land of Nod.

I dwell in a place on the east of Eden.

MIDNIGHT RECAP, 19 August 1976, Edited

2011-04-03T00:57:00.000-07:00

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MIDNIGHT RECAP,
19 August 1976,
Edited

Gad! It's Nancy Lake of North Carolina,

“Chairman, Richard Rosenblum of the Great,
The Oh-so-Great, Delegation from the State of New York”

Representatives proclaim their diverse cultures,
Highlight separate geographies, timed to a moment,
Tied to one central theme,
Arizona, Washington, Indiana, Illinois…
Texas, Alaska…, Chinese, Blacks,
Chicanos and I-talo-Americans,
All expected to take twenty-five seconds or less:

“I am honored to second the nomination…

“The man the American people can trust!

“It is with my great pleasure…

“We are proud to place the name --

“Miss Perez has set a record -- under fifteen seconds!

“Aloha!

“The miracle of Joseph’s coat of many colors…

“A head and a heart! A living legend!

“The last line of defense…

Blrrrrwrrwrrwwwwrrrrr.

“Gerald R. Ford for President!”

ALPHA AND OMEGA, Yet Another Love Poem

2011-04-02T01:01:00.000-07:00

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ALPHA AND OMEGA,
Yet Another Love Poem,
April 2011

Etta, what do you want from me?

I fell in love with you.
What can I do?
I care for you; you’re beautiful.
No explanation, it’s not rational.

I’m older, you’re younger.
I’m an American, you’re European.
I was raised on the Great Plains.
You grew up on the thin soil of a limestone island.

The matter reduces itself to the basic.
Try as hard as I can, I can not end my love for you.

To me, this love continues as though it folds onto itself,
Looking more like one of those new images,
Drawn from highest theoretic of current cosmology,
Space-time systems overlapped, bestraddled,
Universes within multiple universes,
Dimension upon dimension,
Inexplicable, unimaginable paradox,
Beginning and ending all at once,
At one point, all to one point, no sides, no dimensions,
Alpha and omega, and ultimately
Sine qua non of my existence.

What else do you want me to say?

I’m at a loss. Right this moment,
No one else, no one else but you!

Darling, I want only the best for you.
Would you, would you, please forgive,

Condone my presumption, since yet,
It seems, the same holds true for you, too.

OH, CHICAGO! Suite White City, Rewrite. March 2011

2011-03-31T00:34:00.000-07:00

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OH, CHICAGO!
Suite White City,
Rewrite, March 2011

Chicago, I see you,
Though to be there, I must root out scenes,
Which now are very long ago, and what I share, here,
May be more dream, fiction, than actual historical event.

My life enfolds in pictures, and my mind, it sees
Lake-front parking, a lover’s lane,
Way down at east end of Foster,
At the time I and my son’s mother,
-- It was early evening --
A woman who in the future becomes my first,
The one, the only wife, and from whom, today, I count,
Over twenty years, divorced.

A man, he came from within the bushes,
A stranger with mayhem as his intent,
He held a great length of metal, a gaffing hook,
Then a big overhead swing, bang!
He punctured the hood on my Dad’s Chevrolet,
Which was a brand-new, 1960, four-door, hard-top, white.

We survived the attack,
Intact, secure behind the doors and car in reverse,
We were lucky, I guess.

2.

I remember the time in the high rise, near North Side,
Up on the 18th floor, where my buddy and I,
We knew this cop, yes, she was fine.
Oh my, Chicago, I remember her, the fond delight!

I liked the way she let her 9MM sleep with us,
(She placed it under the pillow)
And her blues, her uniform with its badges,
And her leather belt and boots, whether she wore them,
Or when they were thrown, scattered and heaped.
A pile of clothes and accessories,
Her undergarments accented the top of the jumble;
I need not close my eyes to picture it.

The ensemble looked good on the rug of the bedroom floor.

Later, in the back seat, police cruiser unit,
I joined the convergence, while she drove,
And her partner sat shotgun, chased the culprit,
All sirens and beacons blazing,
Down the back alleys, behind the bungalows, fast, 30mph,
Galvanized cans crashing, their lids off, flying,
Like saucers, garbage was everywhere all over the concrete.

3.

River View, the amusement park, sat down the block
From my first high school, its Ferris Wheel dominated
That side of the North Branch Chicago River.
Readers, please, excuse the free thinking.
I leap here and hope to insight and meaning,
Back to the time my great grandfather, John,
Came all the way from La Salle to see the lights,
The white city, magic, and when he returned, home,
Told tales about the town on Lake Michigan,
How great its marvels twenty-years after the Fire.

He, my great grandfather, he returned home,
And when he told the family about alternating current,
The city ablaze in the middle of the night,
He ignited in my grandmother lust, she wanted a part,
She sought the grandeur; she had to sell her soul,
What darkness, the narrow, a woman’s common lot,
The drudgery of hand laundry, the knowledge that,
As she often had lamented,
“Yes, I was born too soon.”

No easy task, ironing the household’s attire
With an implement heated atop a wood-fired stove,
Early to bed, early to arise, the great bore,
Small town life, it was said she would bed the devil
-- And many claimed she had -- she wanted out, escape,
When she married my grandfather, an itinerant painter,
Who went from town to town painting church murals,
And following the grand cliche,
He drank his liquor as others might milk from a jar,
And to add to his cocktail’s already heady mix,
The family’s romance says, he had bad habit,
To moistened the stylist between his lips;
And we know, the paint his day had lead for its base.

Her husband, he promised her life, incandescent,
A large role in Illinois history, remember,
The new town rose up from the old, up from the ashes,
And was there not real truth,
Behind the story, the Whites, the miracle,
How they had been rescued at Fort Dearborn?

She sought energy, electric, the moment
She wanted city burning, burning bright, resplendent.
Oh, Chicago! It is from you that I have my life!

DASH IT! Second Version, March 2011

2011-03-29T21:27:00.000-07:00

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DASH IT!
Second Version

Dash it, Baby!
Is this the best we can manage.

Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense,
Reason enough to know which way is up, or down?

Here's the key, there's my desk,
You already have my heart,
You can come and go, whenever you please.

Should you find a spare penny,
Lying anywhere about the house,
Keep it, please, and when you have the opportunity,
Use it, toss it into a fountain and 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.
Let's hope that 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.
Well, haven't I? Who of us is happier?

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,
Plus the obligation of those little household matters,
Which he once used to do.

You seem enamored with your lengthy driving about.
I sometimes wonder where you go,
How you might disappear for days!

Not a word about your haunts, not a single line,
No Internet connection, you claim.
And when I ask about your goings,
Why the haste?
You answer, "Antique show on Saturday."
Of course I have heard that one before.
When I ask you, where?
You say, “Pennsylvania.”

Oh, how tedious the dialogue becomes.
Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state!
As I press you.
I can see the roll of your thinking plainly in your eyes,
Can you believe it?
Doesn't it look silly
When I write it out in this verse before you
Your answer, “Allentown”?

2.

Years ago I learned the reality --
Buying and selling no easy enterprise.

I know you take every special delight,
And you have the ability for concentration,
At level it requires to be successful at your shopping.

Lord knows, you love a good deal.
I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price,
A markdown or a discount more than you.

Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better
When it comes at half-price.

I realize that you are accustomed to international travel,
Heavy baggage means little to you,
Except, of course, should the airline catch the weight
Of your carry-on and you must pay for the extra kilos.

Then there is the situation with your mother,
(All kinds of complexities there!)
A topic I shall have to postpone,
Perhaps I shall tackle it in another poem, or two.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
I seek company,
The way you combine intelligence, beauty and thrift.
I hope to fill the wee small hours of the morning,
Knowing that you sleep in our bed,
And, that though you travel,
You return and make a home with me.

Forget about it! I shall survive.
No need for undue concern,
Or worry that I am probably the gloomier of us two,
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 happy bondage;
I wonder if either of us will escape it,
What I have called this thing of ours,
And how your grandfather,
Our dreams of him and his appearance, ties us
To a Destiny, whose inklings, still animates our hearts.

“In the wee small hours of the morning,”

So the old song goes,
While whole, wide-world, deep asleep,
I'd be yours, if only you would stay,
Be in our bed and home with me.

I have difficulty believing that you remain remote.
Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate?
Have you now and forever become unavailable to me?

VENUS, 2011, Rewrite

2011-03-22T03:34:00.000-07:00

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VENUS,
2011, Rewrite

How are you to be a great poet,
When you've got no inspiration,
And you're tired, it's late, and
Night after night your mind runs blank?

How do you find yourself stuck,
Fixed in the old, worn-out malady, writer’s block?

Might you recall instead that glorious goddess,
Made into human form right before your eyes,
With whom you spent yesterday morning, talking,
On the grass, warmed all over, blessed by rays,
An eleven-o’clock summer sun?

And why not read aloud?
What harm is there in letting world to know?
No shame in the telling
That mind awakes, again, from midnights’ torpor.

She’s got it! Beauty, love, and
She’s fire, she’s my desire.

CRAZY LOVE, Sorry Interlude

2011-03-19T23:37:00.000-07:00

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CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude

I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…

You yourself proclaimed our special bond.
One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.

The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.

“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.

My soul took flight, my love, ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.

Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
A bit more than a month and one half.

I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.

For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.

And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breath and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.

Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.

And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.

I feel you woman. I have a telepathic gift:
I hear when you think of me, and you know it!
The vice-a-verse is true,
The communication goes both ways,
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, and its loudness
Would startle you and disturb your sleep to dawn.

I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh, had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.

Can’t you fall in love with someone else?

I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.

Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running toward distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.

My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.

I may believe, I may declare my love for you,
But can not find the reason,
No need for me to keep my holding on.

HE LOVES YOU, JUNIOR SAYS

2011-03-12T22:07:00.000-08:00

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HE LOVES YOU,
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,
Instead of using own real name,
She nicknamed him “boy”.

She fell to despair,
And claimed that she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.

I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,

You might call me Junior!

Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.

That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!

You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.

You are the love of his life.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, Version 2011

2011-03-08T01:14:00.000-08:00

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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER,
Version 2011

Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns our love into disappointment and woe?

I imagine, you might very well understand.

Yet do not suppose a simple story!

Do not figure you as the role player, the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts 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 script with a beginning and an end.

The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all things sublunary it does not change.

You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light warms my heart.

UNCLE TED

2011-03-07T01:01:00.000-08:00

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UNCLE TED

It's a conceit, I know.

A tear appears when I remember
How difficult it was for him to pursue his labor,
That it hurt him to type a single page.

Even when I was still a child,
I recognized that his arthritic fingers must have ached
Down in the cold and humid of his cellar flat!

Uncle Ted is dead.
He need no more raise those burdened hands to work.

My grandmother's brother no longer prays.
The painted Virgin icon does not hear
The murmur of his fondest dreams,
Or the chant of his many rosary's repetitions.

And the pages and pages of the manuscripts he typed?

Why they are burnt!

STARBUCKS LOVE POEM, Early Sunday Evening Sorrow

2011-02-15T22:45:00.000-08:00

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STARBUCKS LOVE POEM,
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”.

TIME FLIES, A Valentine's Day Version, 2011

2011-02-14T18:34:00.000-08:00

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< TIME FLIES,
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.

DASH IT!

2011-02-11T22:27:00.000-08:00

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DASH IT!

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.

REMAINS OF THE DAY, Passion Play, February 2011

2011-02-08T23:28:00.000-08:00

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REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play,
February, 2011

Yeeaaaaaaaoooowwwww!

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.

NOTION

2011-02-02T23:50:00.000-08:00

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NOTION

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.

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

2011-02-01T00:39:00.000-08:00

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

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.

SOAP OPERA LOVE, January, 2011

2011-01-26T23:01:00.000-08:00

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SOAP OPERA LOVE,
January, 2011

Piqued, the morning she moved out
I gave her back the photographs.
Let this thing of ours become distant memory.

A top-notch beauty, she's sensuous,
Smart, thrifty, and disciplined in her work habits.

But she does not keep her word.

After our first year together,
(With literally hundreds of communications then
Back and forth between us!)
In a call to voice mail,
She poured out her suffering heart,
And confessed that her former boyfriend,
He had physically abused her.

It was during the course of their longtime affair.

I remember Princess Diana explained
A third person had spoiled her chance for happy marriage,
With us, the same, this man’s specter, a constant presence.

I shall not forget she cowered,
Readying to walk out the door,
Childlike, fearful, shoulders slumped forward,
Eyes to the ground, she replayed,
I must guess a previous experience.

I did not raise my voice.

Were that not revelation enough,
She admitted, shortly thereafter
To eating disorder, 'a form of anorexia',
She called it. So at root of our affair
Lay poor self image, somewhat explaining both
Her being with me, a man twice her age,
And that other, five-year romance
With a beast, a criminal whose coercive
Words and deeds proved his love was true!

Later this week
From a spot above the head of our bed,
I'll take down her Grandfather's painting,
– A birthday gift from her to me --
Icon-like, it portrays the infant Jesus,
Who is held in his Mother Mary's arms.

I’ll return it with her gift of the Lord's Prayer,
A hand-colored photocopy of a document,
Though adopted from modern language and character,
The letters composing it
Mimic an old Swedish, Gothic script.

We have it tacked on the wall,
It occupies space directly next to the refrigerator.

Does she believe in God? I ask myself.
It's early morning and I am tired.
Yeah, but I still would like to know.
She's sick; she doesn't know what she believes.

I have a big blank spot in my schedule.
I feel bad all the time.
I don't know what to do.

What am I without her? I wonder.

Can't I – I mean... Is there
Any way I could make her better?

I feel like shit.

I want to get up from the keyboard
And go into the kitchen and weep.
I may never speak to her again.

I loved to sleep with her,
Hoped she would stand next to me,
Become loving companion, a wife.

Instead I got her boasts,
Sadly Pyrrhic confidences about her imminent victory,
She vanquishes the ghost of her former lover.

One day she came to me at work,
Asked me to step outside, and whispered
How at 4:00AM that same morning in our bed,
In our home, she recognized her failure,
The fact she could not give herself to sex, or love,
Would ultimately mean his deviltry triumphed.

In reality she had lost the fight.
The terror was ascendant;
He stood beside our bed.

But now a fool is talking.
I am the one, screw loose,
Who hoped we might write love songs,
Which themselves become legend,
Who wished the kind of love, no restrictions,
Limbs askew, monkey love, she and I
Bound up in a passion limitless, a universe,
A thrilling heaven, like some Islamic vision
Whose paradise has eternal, physical bliss.

By God! Given over to this physical ecstasy,
That happiness and children be our bounty,
That we might enjoy peace,
And our love attains power of example,
It brings cynosure, light for the ages.

No! Intimacy failed us.

She lives in drama,
Where terrible wound reopens, Fanelli's, Dojo's,
And the Tavern on Eighteenth Street,
Each a scene, time, time and time, again.
She enjoys the nightmare theatrics,
She eschews healthy flesh,
The pain of the past captivates her soul.

I am afraid. The demon drives her.
And now, when all is said and done,
He alone is her dream lover.

BY LOVE BEGUILED, In Mood, Subjunctive, January 2011

2011-01-24T13:44:00.000-08:00

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BY LOVE BEGUILED,
In Mood, Subjunctive,
January 2011,
Rewrite, edited.

Don't get me wrong.
If I appear distracted,
Look knocked out by the light,
You make a very strong performance,
A singularity round whose axis my mind spins.

I remember once, years ago,
When I landed in New York,
After living a year and half in Europe,
How the neon of America,
It appeared so awesomely garish, and bright.
Yet, when I close my eyes and picture it,

All seems pale before the radiance of your face.

That two people would meet for morning breakfast,
Look out the café's window at the steady rain,
Walk here and there along avenues of
Inviting store fronts, and before the day is over
Fall into grand attachment one for the other,
As though there were something in the air,
Perhaps some electromagnetic charge,
So the occasional electricity might overwhelm us.

Or that cupid would steal behind fixtures of thoroughfares,
(I spied him crouched near a mailbox,
At start of our walk on Main Street in Point Pleasant!)

That the winged child pull from his quiver, arrows,
Whose heads, dipped in love potion, that once he aim
And shoot them, grievously would they tear mortal flesh
To make for a ruckus extraordinaire
And expectations suddenly become great.

This romance presses hard upon me.
It’s an affection I am compelled to profess.

To gain your confidence,
To prove my mind sound, not at loss to reason,
I couch my verse in mood, subjunctive,
A grammar I use hoping to temper
My over-wrought affection and quiet,
Soften the immodest and elevated parlance.

Were I not to employ this principle of language,
One might believe my love for you be shameless.

The mood, also, provides proper relief
For the all, too-far-out attitude, the conceit,
Whose command animates my senses,
That I have come to possess a gift, as it were,
That Higher Power had granted me prophetic mantle.

Understand. I solely express my own wish and desire,
That all I say remain contingent,
Of mind still hypothetical and dependent.

I do not use the imperative, I make no demand.
I have no special outcome in mind.
I dwell in fortress called Zion,
And come from it in the Pilgrims' coat and hat.
I look in the mirror and see their collar and tie.
And, like those passengers on board the Mayflower,
I know the Lord to be my helper. I fear not.

Who among your former friends has ever said it better?

And were you to live a long and hearty life
As all actuaries predict, what future friend
Might ever phrase it near as well as I have put it?

And if you for a moment ask

That this lyric arrive, transcending everyday concerns,
That it join, Sentiment Supreme, Him, the real pilot,

That when we drove in the white, Ford van and crossed
Jersey's North shore highways, while the soft brown,

Oh that magic, dream-like, living, pale, ethereal,

And somewhat golden light accented the downpours,
Whose constant unleashed falling, more
Like rain the Lord had promised Noah,
Than any explicable, temporary weather.

Wie es eigentlich gewesen.

“The carriage held but just us -- and immortality.”

That when we traveled our first day together,
Though it is months ago, and now becomes the years,
All the time which has passed, I suggest
That it would feel shorter than the day, that day
I first surmised the engine's mounts
Were tied to point, and that we, too, were belted,
Hurled straight ahead in solemn league with Eternity.

Mercy, let it be known, Mercy freely bestowed,

Not for this, the one earthly moment,
But for our children’s children,
Drawn and signed, delivered,
A grant for us and them, settled in this verse,
Sure as Word once promised Abraham.

I hear the text my grandmother spoke.
I see her at work while she ironed and folded,
I watch her nod the affirmative nod,
Repeat to you what she said to me,

“And I will bless them that bless you,
And curse him that curses you:
And in you shall all families of the earth be blessed.”

RED ROOF INN, Love North of Trenton, NJ, January, 2011

2011-01-24T00:34:00.000-08:00

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RED ROOF INN,
Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey,
Version, January 2011

An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle traveled the length.
It ran from the front door to the back of the room.

And you, there, in your bikini briefs, in an alcove,
An enclosure directly opposite the bathroom;
It occupied half the suite’s entire width.

Your back to me,
You stood up against a cantilever table.
It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a mirror,
A mirror whose length matched the table’s surface,
And it covered the back wall up to the ceiling.
Recessed lamps provided light from overhead.

You brushed your hair, and
With each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms,
My hands reached both your legs at the ankles.

Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center,
It rested right between your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin found a niche,
It touched the back of your right knee.

I was squatting and each of my hands
Was wrapped around one of your ankles,

When I stood up, I told you,
I had never personally encountered a woman
Who looked so much the better naked than clothed.

“Wow!” Burst out. And you said,
“You sure know how to compliment a girl.”

‘Woman! Trust my veracity.
‘Do not confuse my honest praise with flattery.’

I spoke these words only to myself, my tongue was tied.

Yet, then pretending to further my defense,
I more or less recalled the poet’s immortal words,
Those lines about truth and beauty being one,
And is not response to beauty, truth?

I ran the maxim in my mind, I was dumbfounded,
“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’”

I dwelled in total awe of you.

And when old age our generation shall waste,
And time brings world to more and other woes,
We have had this moment and its sentiment remains –
‘Darling, that is all,’ I quoted the lines to myself,
I had not uttered a word aloud,

‘You know on earth, and all you need to know.’

SHABBAT SHALOM, Peace Be With You

2011-01-14T21:52:00.000-08:00

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SHABBAT SHALOM,
Peace Be With You

If God did not love you,
How could you have achieved
All the good that you have done?

May Peace be with you.
And joy remain your possession,
And may nothing disturb you,
Or ever frighten you again.

BLEEDING LOVE, How Divinity Empowers, Version January 2011

2011-01-13T21:08:00.000-08:00

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BLEEDING LOVE,
How Divinity Empowers,
Version January 2011

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

The writer noted that a man my age should be content --
Say with gardening and maybe a grandchild or two;
He claims my time is misspent,
Wasted upon romance,
And no fool like the fool whose fate it is
Stuck in the rut of heart-rendering verse.

Yea, sure, but grant me my own life, and frankly
What do I care how purveyors of joylessness think?

Hey! Anyways,

I thank the commentator for his time,
The time he took to compose his thought,
I give that response its due,
Yet I insist, no fear, no worry of rebuke,
I have no problem when I proclaim.

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

I take delight,
Announce that more command of Word,
That more love’s vocabulary resides within my little finger,
-- Audience, forgive the boast --
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,
He was crucified and nailed upon a cross,
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,’
And lo and behold he who loves,
Not necessarily wisely, but well,
Remember the promise,
He shall be with Him today in heaven.

I keep bleeding, keep bleeding in love.

A SONG FOR YOU, January 2011

2011-01-06T00:41:00.001-08:00

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A SONG FOR YOU,
January 2011

You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

You have lived for years and years;
Yet your presence,
You being in my life seems prefigured.

I wonder the truth.
Could some sweet destiny have intervened,
Brought you to me, along with the book,
Which contained these lines,
Insisted I copy them and then proclaim their content
At once to you and in time for world to hear?

You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

Up and down the country roads,
Along this big ol’ city’s streets,
You have had some tears and smiles,
And your plenty share of dreams and wish come true,
Yearnings may change,
Though the impulse never falls from style.

Do you ever cry when you‘re alone,
Think about me and wish that I were there,
Hope that we shall have come to share,
Might we enjoy the quick experience of passing days,
And celebrate the moments of our allotted time,
Having learned the terrible lesson that life is brief?

Do you silently wait for me,
Wish that we might have a chance
Once more to share our daily repasts?

Once I cease to live,
Someone else will appear, I suppose.

I know you have had some lucky breaks,
Found fair quota of goodly things.
You can not be blamed for how we had gone amiss;
Many were my own mistakes.

You have lived your life as your own.

I write this song so you might know,
Should you happen upon trouble,
Fall to times of fear and woe.
Should you loose your normal, steady course and fail,
You know, feel awful about something you have done,
Or maybe bad happens beyond your control.
You have this verse, my love for you,
And I trust you remember the times I sat behind
The wheel, and steered you safely home.

I wonder the truth.
Could some sweet destiny have intervened,
Brought you to me, along with the book,
Which contained these lines,
Insisted I copy them and then proclaim their content
At once to you and in time for world to hear?

ASS, Equus Africanus Asinus

2011-01-06T00:41:00.000-08:00

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ASS,
Equus Africanus Asinus

I once saw a man
Who, though he already sat upon his donkey,
Yet feverishly set upon
A search for his donkey.

FIRE IN THE BRAIN, Notice

2011-01-05T13:17:00.001-08:00

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FIRE IN THE BRAIN,
Notice

Children see me run through the streets,
And wonder, what is it all about, my hurrying.

My eyes push forward,
Cause me to squint,
And then I break into a smile.

Night after night in steady flow,
Feelings and ideas collect; press fierce,
Hard against my brow.

The pressure makes for heat, then fire in the brain.

I hear words march with noise
Akin to soldiers' boots slapping on pavement.

Then I see your face.
The beauty of your large brown eyes
Makes my brain run riot,
Engulfs my neural circuitry.

Oh I smell wheat grass!
It's being blended with fresh strawberries and oranges.

I love the juices' heady odor,
When ever I breathe it in --
I am reminded of you.

We looked out the window.
We sat upon stools at a Formica bar,
A long, plate-glass window provided unobstructed view,
And we people watched the intersection,
Corners at avenue and street, the sidewalk before us,
They became our theater, and we agreed;
It was pleasant evening’s entertainment.

Pressed, cardboard cartons contained our suppers.
We ate our meals with plastic forks and knives;
The napkins were brown, recycled paper.

Believe me, no irony intended. Honest!

Every memory, every instance
My being with you, every occasion was lovely!
I shall die a happy man.

Die a happy man?
Here's my defense.
However I may wonder,
Whether ultimately I write fact or fiction.

Do I possess truth or fall to illusion?

I know that two forces bind me,
As is the case with Siamese Twins,
Who are born to share common cerebrum.

MY VOICES

2010-12-30T23:53:00.000-08:00

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MY VOICES

They wake me, I beg their advice.

I place my right, open palm on my left wrist,
I place them both upon my chest. I tuck my head.
I assume this posture flat on my back.
Although I am in my bed, I mimic the stance of a bird,
Which stands with its wings folded tight upon its sides,
When it sleeps at night within a tree on a limb.

The leaves of a giant holly bush shelter me
Beneath its evergreen.

My voices urge me to repeat their verse once more,
To rehearse the words they reveal to me,
To write them that I might better recall my reverie,
And share it with my audience.

How many times, darling,
How many thousand times,
Have I told you that I am yours?

Oh love may I tell you one more time!

How many pens have I used to declare our love?

Surely to discard their emptied bodies would require
The space of many trashcans and barrels.

And how many oceans of ink and electronic script
Have flowed and been posted in our love's name?

Oh. love allow me to spill you oceans more,
And wildly post till my days are done.

How many worlds of hearts
Have burned and bled in love's cause?

Oh, love, I offer you one more.

How many tears over the eons and years
Have spilled past the brim of love's beakers?

Oh love might I ever stop my crying!

How many children in destiny's starry heavens of love
Have called your name
And have missed opportunity for life and form?

Oh love take me unto to you!

SEEKING A MUSE, Personal Classified Advertisement

2010-12-28T19:08:00.000-08:00

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SEEKING A MUSE,
Personal Classified Advertisement

I know what to do!
I am not at a loss, despondent, nor 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!

WALTER GOMULKA,* Rewrite, December 2010

2010-12-27T22:05:00.001-08:00

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WALTER GOMULKA,*
Rewrite, December 2010

I imagine the children hated to see him go.
What a Grandfather!
Talk. Talk. Talk.
They could skip their prayers.
He never forced them to eat.
He loved when they whispered secrets in his ear,
And as for his telling of fairy tales, no end!

*From his post, First Secretary of the Polish Communist Party, he ruled Russian occupied Poland from October 1956 to December 1970.

BAD GIRL

2010-12-23T00:14:00.000-08:00

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BAD GIRL

Her disease, it said,
‘Dark around and within,
But outside, far outside, it’s all light.’

It said,
‘I’m a beggar,
My richness, my excitement, my genital,
All that shines outside,
I am empty.’

A DREAM OF YOU, A Poem in Five Parts, Edited

2010-12-22T13:22:00.000-08:00

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A DREAM OF YOU,
Desert Vision, A Poem in Five Parts,
Edited

Sweetheart, I know you love me.

I know you appreciate the poetry.

For three years now I have struggled,
Wanting to write an epic,
A great, big, love poem about us,

I sought to post the way this thing of ours went
How it went right from the start,
All banners unfurled,
How time marshals forces
Though we go about our daily business,
And children are born, and as they grow up, think,
Believe fervently that they are meant for one thing
To discover later, underneath it all,
A new world order sweeps away the old,
And learn that the fulfillment of prophecy
Remains unknown, until the actual event transpires.

The Word takes on meaning after the fact.

Headlines acclaim events;
Yet history proves otherwise,
Often something other than bold type might suggest.
Although the finite first meet the eye,
Spirit alights, it writes the script,
The real storyline often lies well beyond
First-glance tales of human endeavor …

We intend to do one thing, but, many times, later,
Discover, unwittingly we do another.

2.

Today I write, declare the moment
Yes, I say that is the way,
The way, it had actually had happened.

Now consider, I dedicate this verse to you;
Yet allow, if you please, that it records events,
Prior to our acquaintance,
Events which had transpired years before we met,
Years before either of us heard each others' name.

Where do I get the nerve?
-- The actual gall of me, hey! --
To affirm that this poem part of our story,

And that I include you in geography,
In a place on this planet you had not experienced,
An earth, whereupon your feet had never trod.

In truth, the matter propels me, no choice,
I do what destiny would have me do.

I found these words;
I had inked them once,
On lined, yellow, perforated sheet,

‘I sit at the desk, night after night,
And sometimes, it's even day and night,
Often I write on topics, quotidian and small,
On matters of no special interest,
Issues, which critics in essays declare,
Lack propriety and moment,
And do not belong to sphere of poetic ambition.

'Now years have passed,
And choice less still, I write.’

Earlier today, I had packed up your mail,
Readied the address to Coral Gables,
And when you later called and asked
How I was doing, me, under compulsion’s demand,
Lonely, slave to love and ardent desire,
I answered 'pathetic.'

No one else will have me.

It as though I have some terrible pox;
Other women see it and shun me.

My mirror image, however, it reminds me of you.
Same as you, I cram my schedule, always insufficient time,
The day wants the hours,
I have endless lists ‘To Do’.

I isolate terribly, talk to no one for the week,
And when friends telephone call, I rush them off!
Honest! No time for idle talk, or chat.
.
No choice! I return to my desk.

I dread any date for lunch.

I pass on evening engagements.
Sorry! I want only you.

I just want to be with you.

Yet I have that other side,
More than everyday necessity and much more
Than simple expression of my love for you
A confidence I wish to share with you and world,
About how I always knew that you were the girl for me,
Though I came to comprehend it, my great love,
The singular fact, only after the event;

I believe I might say it right,
Watch me now, and let’s see if I say it right!

3.

I remember Central Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona,
Danny’s store packed with Native American silver,
Bracelets, necklaces and rings, properly displayed
On racks, in trays, locked within showcases,
And on clear shelves, velvet pads, the array of colors,
Turquoise, coral, black onyx and mother of pearl,
Abalone, agates mined and cut to display their fire,
And Alexander, my son, maybe eight,not more than ten,
His years of age, playing behind the counters,
Next to the shotguns, diagonally propped,
On the floor twelve-gauge shells in open boxes,
Ready, should there be an extended engagement.

I share with you the times when, flying in
From Dallas, the grand noise, engines’ reversal
To land at Sky Harbor, the ground crew,
How they scrambled, and then,
Wheeled up the staircase,
The platform for debarkation, and me, I would descend
The steps full-tilt straight onto the tarmac,
Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees in early morning,
A rental car awaited me, and I was off
Over to the parking lot at the Dog Track,
To the swap meet that was unfolding and I sought
The cowboy named, Roadrunner, who always had
Tons of loot, the goods, every Sunday’s hauls.

Though at his point, it, more dream than reality,
I recall the very special meeting, when traders
Lined up, raised hands, and one after the other,
Volunteered to say that jewelry great here and
Proclaimed that whosoever is welcomed into
The lounge camper, who greets the Navajo,
Both the man and wife, with eyes at slight, diverted,

And who knows that the children divine a pattern,
From their running across the gravel lot, left and right,
Up and down, then unto the asphalt sidewalk,

That person, who enjoys those moments
When the children stop to refresh themselves from
The water-cooled, stainless steel, floor-pedal fountain,
The bright sparkling, that eye of the desert,
The stream which gushed upward,
(It was next to the right side of the pari-mutuel windows)

Upon that person, who bore witness to the design,
Who abstracted anagram from within
All the children’s scurry, who traced,
Out upon the open parking space, meaning,
Who was brought to new vision,
Who was able to see within the minds’ eye, the dance,
The dance holy ones once danced in godly regalia,
That person, who heard within the youngsters' feet
The drums, the rhythms ancestors had orchestrated,
So to let go, leave this material world,
And find entrance to separate reality,
The traders at the meeting, in-order, one-by-one,
Both arms raised up on high, heads flung back,
Palms stretched and fingers spread wide apart,
As if they reached and pressed upon the sky,
Called upon Great Talking God to sanctify their wish,

It was at that moment
They bestowed their most precious title,
And between the ghosts and the human beings
The word rang and cemented the union, ‘Friend’.

4.

One Sunday afternoon, I felt good magic
When a child ran up behind me,
He quickly, then, touched the back of my hand.

Later I met a Mexican friend up on South Mountain.
His house was painted a bright, distinctive blue.
I bought more jewelry and got into my car,
I took the Express Way North, exited at Bell Road,
And headed to way out West of the city.

At one point, I passed the shopping mall,
I thought about Monday’s appointments,
How a salesman's lot means he sits,
Marks time to wait his turn with buyers.

That night on the concrete patio, the one surrounding
The big swimming pool at the Community Center,
I buck-danced to the beat, which played
On the rock an’ roll, radio station.

Although it was already that Sunday’s dusk,
And the day’s high temperature had receded,
It still was ninety, over ninety degrees while I sat back
On the lounge chairs and watched Alexander,
Time and again, practice dives off the high board.

5.

Even then, it was long ago, and in Phoenix,
It was you! Darling, I had been waiting for you;
The desert air brought dream of you,
The shimmering, the uplifts, the vertical lines,
Up, upward, shafts of heat rising
Out across the desert vista,
Now I recognize it was a dream of you,
And this, my verse was racing,
I flashed on a fast and mighty steed,
I road atop a beast as if it galloped through my mind,
Yet I had command

Already galloping through my mind,
I managed to pull in the reins,
Then I hitched it up, tied it to the rail at the tip,
I hitched the reins at the tip of my tongue.

I was reciting poetry, not out loud, but to myself,
Though I knew not its power, no idea the prophecy,
I knew not the meaning of that woman,
Who I glimpsed,
Whose image I caught from from the corner of my eye,
Who walked out among the columns of earth fever,
And stood next to the Saguaros, in the twilight,
Who appeared in an instance out on the horizon,
Seemingly, over and against the floor of the desert,
Before she disappeared and let me to these lines,
The cadences I repeat from once upon a time
And now so long ago, today at key board,
These words I use to describe a dream of you.

Long before I had ever made your actual acquaintance,
A figure in landscape,
I saw you in time prior to when you were born.

At the airport, when security stopped me, I stood
In a booth whose sliding curtains dropped to the floor,
The jewelry I carried in my on-board luggage,
X ray showed a concentrated jumble of metal,
And as I awaited the woos and ahs of personnel,
When they opened my bags for inspection,
It was then that I began to wonder, and it remains
Fresh today, as if I describe events from yesterday,
It was then I began to wonder, when you,
When your love might saunter in, and make my life complete.

WINTER LOVE MELANCHOLY, Version Two, December 2010

2010-12-16T01:09:00.000-08:00

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WINTER LOVE MELANCHOLY,
Version Two, December 2010

The seabirds cry by the sea,
Their songs are sad,
Their refrains freight my melancholy.

And in the distance a fog horn,
It, too, sounds a plaintive note;
It repeatedly revives my sorrow.

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

The nights remain very long;
I fear that I may have lost forever
The memory of how the summer sun warms.

And now my mind succumbs to a foreboding.

Oh the dread that I might never kiss you again!

PADMA, You May Laugh at Me*, A Poem Inspired by T. Wijaya

2010-12-15T00:50:00.000-08:00

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PADMA,
You May Laugh At Me*,
A Poem Inspired by T. Wijaya,

Padma, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.

Sometimes from out in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes,
Look from our second-story flat,
And I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the youngsters are students,
Who hurry, hasten, not to be late for school.

The sound runs major then quiets to minor,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.

Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within the clamors' swirling expansion and contraction,
Underneath it all, I swear to it, darling, I swear,
I very clearly perceive,
Throughout the commotion, a young, collective voice.

In my mind the cacophony
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.

It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.

I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.

Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines.

2.

Padma, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when
These self-same students learn in classroom,
And study day-long the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds;
It stands against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.

No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or tutorial reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.

I am reminded of how hapless the task,
Attempting to find reason, to understand
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, the bounty which freely befalls us.

Padma, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or I imagine that I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, and that you have called to tell me
You are safe and have arrived home.

My emotions flutter when I hear your vocal timbre.

Padma, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.

3.

Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would anyone accept this tale?

Suppose we were to search the whole wide world,
Would we find one, one single person,
Who concludes, who believes,
If even for a moment, that I am a happy man?

Padma, I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments in which you had sworn
And ardently acclaimed your love for me,
My remembrance of them, carry me to joy,
To boundless fervor and contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye.

Padma, a big smile inhabits my face.

4.

Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think over our life,
The every instance we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
As if enthralled by some faery power and driven,
Hoping to explain how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.

Padma, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to the great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.

Padma, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I rise again in that blue room,
That blue bedroom, where we started the day,
Each day I wake to the same blue sky,
Which houses our Lord, to Him I pray.
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.

Padma, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.

5.

Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.

Padma, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.

You know that is not the case.

Padma, I write in the moment,
And, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.

Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel
For loving you and and having made your acquaintance!

*The Indonesian Poet, T. Wijaya's original title for this poem was RATNA, You May Laugh at Me. I kept the subtitle, but changed the name of the woman to whom the poem is addressed to PADMA. The name RATNA unfortunately conjures unfortunate associations for an English speaking audiences. I imagine my poem, though inspired by Wijaya's reading of his verse, has little to do with the sense and meaning of the poem. I do not know the Indonesian language and have relied solely on a rough translation into English provided in the original reading of the poem. I have used his verse as a launch pad for my own.

CATULLUS POEM 11, An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Verse, Rewrite

2010-12-06T23:39:00.000-08:00

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CATULLUS POEM 11,
An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Verse,
Rewrite

Christopher, Billy,

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

Tell her, whether he is afoot upon Indian Ocean shores,
And this time with his consort,
Glory maiden, whose girdle exacts a proportion,
Which brings great joy to any man who spies it,
His new love, a love as beautiful, and thunderous
As waves which hammer across white beach,
And her voice, it echoes the sound of the sea,
And like the woman, herself, is magnificent,
She, how else might he describe her,
Another sensual gift born of the fruitful palms,

Or if he goes alone into the Ganges plain, and seeks
To follow the time line of empire and civilization,
Or turns 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 uplifted in awesome spray
Among the half-submerged rocks and boulders,
Causes pilgrims to rub their eyes and wonder,
Assure themselves that they have not fallen to slumber,
And are awake, Billy, Christopher,
Close to heaven are the Himalayas!

Tell her he is gone, that he has discovered new love,
Or that he lives in a mountain cave, alone

But, should it be, and Stanley must run even farther,
As if, he must vanish
So to escape her haunt, her awful memory,
And he 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.

He escapes to Australia,
First to the city, Perth, to acclimate himself to life,
Where under influence of the Southern Cross
Astrology may chart 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 swells,
And it makes its great roll onto shore of Surf Beach.

3.

Oh his friends, his buddies, Billy, Christopher!
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
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 departed, he had left these words?

No need temper his assessment, good comrades.

Do not bother to ask 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 he cleaves unto the words of Catullus,
When, once upon a time, and so long ago,
He realized the term, whore,
A word he meant to stand for her insatiable lying.

As for him, the love,
All that love which had been hers for the embracing,
His deep regard is gone and in this, our pagan world,
No forgiveness, no hope of the resurrection,
Any more than the flower,
Which farmer’s passing plow deracinates and cuts,
It has no future and never blooms, again.

A SONG FOR YOU

2010-12-06T00:43:00.000-08:00

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A SONG FOR YOU

You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

You have lived for years and years.
Yet your life seemed to have awaited me.
I wonder the truth, could some sweet destiny
Have intervened bringing you to me,
Along with a book, which contained these lines,
Insisted I copy them for you and world to hear

Up and down the country roads,
Along this big ol’ city’s streets,
You have had some tears and smiles,
And your plenty share of dreams and wish come true,
Yearnings never go out of style.

Do you ever cry when you‘re alone,
When I am absent, gone from your side?

Do you silently wait for me?

Once I cease to live,
Someone else will appear, I suppose.

I know you have had some lucky breaks,
Found fair quota of goodly things.
You can not be blamed, many were my own mistakes.
You have lived your life as your own.

I write this song so you might know,
When you might happen upon trouble,
Times of fear and woe,
When you loose your course and fail,
You have this verse, my love for you,
And I trust you remember the times I sat behind
The wheel, and steered you safely home.

You are not mine to keep.
I just take care of you for a while.
You’ve been around for years and years.
Yet your life seems to await me,
That I might find these words to write.

BLACK WATER, An Adaptation of a Fassbinder Theme

2010-12-04T00:02:00.000-08:00

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BLACK WATER,
An Adaptation of a Fassbinder Theme

Water in the forest, terrible black water,
A pond over rot and dead leaves,
You lie silent, quiet, you, you stay still,
Unmoving, yet the storm rages around the wood,
In the groves pines lean and nets of spiders,
They are torn apart, and then splintering begins.

You, in the hollow, you, you rest, black water.
Branches fall, leaves scatter,
Bark peals from trees and flies all directions at once.
The wind rips all that stands, the grove succumbs.

But nothing reaches you down there, black water.

BIRTHDAY CHANT, For Jocelyn on Her Thirty-Second Year

2010-12-03T23:51:00.000-08:00

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BIRTHDAY CHANT,
For Jocelyn on Her Thirty-Second Year

“Horse and hattock, horse and go,
And pellatis, Ho! Ho! Ho!”
There’s time for nothing, then we’re cold.
May Jocelyn never grow old!

Today she counts another year (as she must)
As if forced to note, none may escape the dust.
Why then repeat it, scream with lust,
Let it be known, we have cause that’s just!

“Horse and hattock, horse and go,
And pellatis, Ho! Ho! Ho!”
There’s time for nothing, so soon we’re cold.
Lairds and ladies say it bold.

May Jocelyn never grow old!

ANCIENT WISDOM, Seize the Day

2010-12-03T19:42:00.000-08:00

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ANCIENT WISDOM,
Seize the Day

Heed the day, today!
The day is all we have.
It is the very breath of life.

In its brief, twenty-four-hour course,
From sunrise to sunrise next,
Dawn the real and the true,
The absolute of existence,
The bliss of growth,
The splendor of action,
And the glory of power --

For history is over and closed,
The past is gone, finished.

The future, no more than vision,
A dream concoction,
Our own mind fantasies our continuance,
That notion we have another day,
What guarantee next moment exists?

But today, well lived,
Best endeavor, minute by minute,
Makes every yesterday, dream of happiness,
And then should tomorrow dawn,
Future becomes abundant;
We may expect fulfillment of every hope,

Seize the day!

Live here and now.
Mind this very instance.
Give your best regard to the moment.

THE WORD, A Lover's Exhortation, Rewrite

2010-11-29T21:45:00.000-08:00

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THE WORD,
A Lover’s Exhortation,
Rewrite

Well! Was sagst du?
I believe I say it right.
Still it is only God, Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

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

Das wort ist klar!

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 may clothe 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,
And priests and magistrates know not the Lord
When He stands before them?

RATNA, You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite, November 2010

2010-11-27T23:21:00.000-08:00

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RATNA,
You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite,
An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya,
November 2010

Ratna, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.

Sometimes from out in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes,
Look from our second-story flat,
And I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the youngsters are students,
Who hurry, hasten, not to be late for school.

The sound runs major then quiets,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.

Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within the clamors' swirling expansion and contraction,
Underneath it all, I swear to it, darling, I swear,
I very clearly perceive,
Throughout the commotion, a young, collective voice.

In my mind the cacophony
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.

It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.

I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.

Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines.

2.

Ratna, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when,
These self-same students learn in classroom,
Study the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds
Against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.

No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or study reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.

I am reminded of how hapless the task, trying to reason
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, the bounty which freely befalls us.

Ratna, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or I imagine that I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, and that you have called to tell me
You are safe and have arrived home.

My emotions flutter when I hear your timbre.

Ratna, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.

3.

Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would anyone accept this tale,
(Suppose we search the whole wide world)
Would we find one, one single person,
Who concludes, who believes,
If even for a moment, that I am a happy man?

Ratna, I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments in which you had sworn
And ardently acclaimed your love for me,
My remembrance of them, carry me to joy,
To boundless fervor and contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye, and propel my being.

Ratna, a big smile inhabits my face.

4.

Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think it over,
Our life, the every instance we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
As if enthralled some faery power driven,
Hoping to explain how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.

Ratna, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to the great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.

Ratna, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I rise again in that blue room,
That blue bedroom, where we started the day,
Each day I wake to the same blue sky,
Which houses our Lord, to Him I pray.
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.

Ratna, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.

5.

Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.

Ratna, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.

You know that is not the case.

Ratna, I write in the moment, and, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.

Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel for having
Loved you and having made your acquaintance!

TERMS OF ENDEARMENT, Sweet Talk

2010-11-27T22:26:00.000-08:00

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TERMS OF ENDEARMENT,
Sweet Talk

Out in Arizona my Dad,
He 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,
But I must say aloud,
They never flowered, like you.
They never looked the way
You looked tonight, darling.

Though this verse be trivia,
Fitting definition, thing of small importance,
It swears truth,
The whole truth and nothing but the truth,

You may count it among my terms of endearment.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

2010-11-27T13:48:00.000-08:00

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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns love into disappointment and woe?

I imagine, you might very well understand.

Yet do not suppose a simple story.
Do not figure you, role playing the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The drama which accompanies its marvelous heights
And then the drop to low-bottom sorrow.

There is no script with a beginning and an end.

The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all sublunary it does not change.

You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light makes the seasons of my heart.

POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE, Rewrite

2010-11-24T20:25:00.000-08:00

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POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE,
Rewrite

The man was quite mad.
He enjoyed writing in code.
He invented a special kind of shorthand
And kept business records in a language,
Comprehensible only to himself and those
To whom he had revealed the secrets of his ciphers.

Cryptic labels marked the boxes,
The boxes of all the things he possessed.

But when it came to life's basics,
Though, technically speaking,
He bordered yet on insanity,
Some have said he was quite mad,
Yet his manner of speech was straightforward.

He wrote in the King's English.
He said, ‘I love you’.

And he proclaimed for all that care to hear,
‘I worship the ground upon which you walk’.

MIDNIGHT RECAP, 19 August 1976, Second Version

2010-11-24T18:05:00.000-08:00

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MIDNIGHT RECAP,
19 August 1976,
Second Version

Gad! It's Nancy Lake of North Carolina,

“Chairman, Richard Rosenblum of the Great,
The Oh-so-Great, Delegation from the State of New York”

Representatives proclaim their diverse cultures,
Highlight separate geographies, timed to a moment,
Tied to one central theme,
Arizona, Washington, Indiana, Illinois…
Texas, Alaska…, Chinese, Blacks,
Chicanos and I-talo-Americans,
All expected to take twenty-five seconds or less:

“I am honored to second the nomination…

“The man the American people can trust!

“It is with my great pleasure…

“We are proud to place the name --

“Miss Perez has set a record -- under fifteen seconds!

“Aloha!

“The miracle of Joseph’s coat of many colors…

“A head and a heart! A living legend!

“The last line of defense…

Blrrrrwrrwrrwwwwr.

“Gerald R. Ford for President!”

ALPHA AND OMEGA, Yet Another Love Poem, Third Version

2010-11-24T00:39:00.000-08:00

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ALPHA AND OMEGA,
Yet Another Love Poem,
Third Version

Etta, what do you want from me?

I fell in love with you.
What can I do?
I care for you; you’re beautiful.
No explanation, it’s not rational.

I’m older, you’re younger.
I’m an American, you’re European.
I was raised on the Great Plains.
You grew up on the thin soil of a limestone island.

The matter reduces itself to the basic.
Try as hard as I can, I can not end my love for you.

To me, this love continues as though it folds onto itself,
Looking more like one of those new images,
Drawn from highest theoretic of current cosmology,
Space-time systems overlapped, bestraddled,
Universes within multiple universes,
Dimension upon dimension,
Inexplicable, unimaginable paradox,
Beginning and ending all at once,
At one point, all to one point, no sides, no dimensions,
Alpha and omega, and ultimately
Sine qua non of my existence.

What else do you want me to say?

I’m at a loss. Right this moment,
No one else, no one else but you!

Darling, I want only the best for you.
Would you, would you, please forgive,

Condone my presumption, since yet,
It seems, the same holds true for you, too.

KNOCK OUT, Your Absence Floors Me, 2010, Rewrite

2010-11-21T18:55:00.000-08:00

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KNOCK OUT,
Your Absence Floors Me,
2010, Rewrite

Describing the awful upset, the melancholy,
Which has struck me with such force,
That I have seemingly loss consciousness,
And all capacity for good reason,
Requires that I contradict tradition,
And posit the existence of a physical soul.

Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being by my side, has floored my spirit.
I fear my heart might stop.

I struggle to arise before the ten-count.

I bleed, darling, I bleed.

Your blow has opened a cut above the eye.
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.

I have lost the fight.

BEAT IT, Canal Street Lessons, Second Version

2010-11-20T23:14:00.000-08:00

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BEAT IT!
Canal Street Lessons,
Second Version

Let me comment on our Western tradition;
Money talks, every other thing walks.

Now, in this, mine, particular scene,
Sam is key.
He’s the boss, the king to the thing.
He figures himself -- only a fool might doubt it --
As one of the chiefs in a band of good brothers.

Yet propriety, also, counts.
Affirm “Hello! Good mornin’ Sir!"
Do not forget, “Hey babe, how you doing?”
And behind this deportment, be doctrinaire,
Remember to talk three things in one person:

Pussy, the weather and always include
A word or two about sports,
Otherwise masculinity might open to question.

And let us say what things soever the law says,
Get an invoice,
And make sure to write it all in carbon.

Fair and square, it’s hard to trick in duplicate.

I believe, was it not, Saint Simon, who teaches?
“To each according to his need, and
From each get a copy, every transaction.”

Careful with Leo; he is hooked up,
High as a kite and looking for trouble.
He may not remember
How he spoke one day or the other.

And Bernie, he’s the intellectual type,
With him always best to clarify your position,
Try to explain your course of action, point out
What's good for today and possible tomorrow.

That basement desk with the single light bulb above it,
A hanging one-switch receptacle on a wire,
No shade, why adorn it?
Send the lawsuits down the wooden, threadbare steps,
To bottom, the barely paved, beaten concrete floor,
And have a laugh at process servers’ expense,
What a notion Bernie authored!

And should you go out for a drink,
Keep an eye on Bob whose favorite fun,
Slip you a Mickey and laugh while you fall,
Knock your head on the barroom floor.

And Stanley, why he carries a box blade,
He might act to settle a score,
Good Lawd, what a whore!

Sell! Sell! Keep ends tight! And sell!

Today we have diamonds, tomorrow the world!

Say hey, Willie Mays, you’re the greatest,
And now the world knows it!

CRAZY LOVE, Sorry Interlude

2010-11-19T20:19:00.000-08:00

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CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude,
November 2010, Version

I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…

You yourself proclaimed our special bond.

One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.

The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.

“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, and said “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.

My soul took flight; my love ran to ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.

Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
Bit more than a month and one half.

I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.

For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.

And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breathe and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.

Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.

And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.

I feel you woman. I have the telepathic gift
To hear when you think of me, and you know it!
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, whose loudness
Would awake you and disturb your sleep to dawn.

I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.

Can’t you fall in love with someone else?

I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.

Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running to distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.

My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.

I may believe to love you, but the love has gone.

HE LOVES YOU, Junior Says

2010-11-17T00:04:00.000-08:00

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HE LOVES YOU,
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
When ever she referred to him,
Instead of his name, she called him “boy”.
She fell to despair,
And claimed, she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.

I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,
You might call me Junior!

Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.

That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!

You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.

You are the love of his life.

MILO

2010-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

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MILO

How do I say it?
He has no regard for the norms of citizenry.
Oh how the people's values slide, down, down, down,
Every year, a new low, no idea of equanimity,
Those days are gone; they will never return.

I saved his sleeping family from robbery.
And more than once,
I safely delivered him from assassination.

Yet when I stand here in the dock,
Charged with a capital crime,
The jury fixed to render judgment against me,
Milo, he just cackles with brutal laughter,
He delights in the prospect of my exile.

He seems ready to plot my murder.

I blame the times.
No man's morality survives when chaos rules the byways.
Who remains upright when arson an arm of politics?

And what hope have we for ethical compass,
When gold rules the body politic.

REMAINS OF THE DAY, Passion Play, November 2010

2010-11-16T23:47:00.000-08:00

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REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play,
November 2010

Yaaaaaaaaaoooowwwww!

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 bed empty and heart ache,
The terrible pain of my regret,
Oh how I hate the resolve, never to see you,
Have nothing more to do with you,
How ever long I may live,
I swear to it and mean it!

Yet I want you. Wish to see you, 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 they tore off the purple,
Returning Him to everyday clothes,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
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.

HER GRANDMOTHER, Early Morning Refrain, November 2010

2010-11-14T00:49:00.000-08:00

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HER GRANDMOTHER,
Early Morning Refrain,
November 2010

Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise,
No one ever said she was the smartest,
But she painted well, an artist,
Today her family treasures and enjoys,
Landscapes and still lifes,
Wonderful evidence of her output and skill.

She applied the oil heavily, used both trowel and brush,
And captured wood and river, and rural architecture
All around her North New Jersey home;
She also rendered, remarkably, the wonder of
Atlantic Waves lapping upon her state’s South shore.

And following the common adage,
Different time and place, who knows the fame,
The renown she might have attained?

She dressed her grandchild, a girl, in pricey sets,
And family and neighbors seem to appreciate it,
“Oh isn’t Elsie wonderful!” They often said.

For all intents and purposes, the child was orphaned.
Her Mother was sick,
And had long-time stay in sanatorium,
Dad was gone;
He had run off and started another family.

Two other girls, her sisters, older, likewise deserted,
They stayed with paternal father and mother.
And she, the baby girl, was cast off, separate,
She went to her Mother’s Mother and Father.

Hard to explain the cause, yet jealousy reigned.
The new wife kept their father away,
He hardly ever saw the previous wife,
Or bothered to visit the three girls he abandoned.

Grandma's girl was tall, naturally curly, blonde hair,
And cheek bones high enough to make for real beauty.
Possessing natural, happy disposition,
Her eyes beamed, and when all-dressed-up,
She looked as though,
She might model for children’s fashion magazines.

2.

But Elsie, she did have her ways,
(Really, I am told to put it nicely!)
She paid no heed to underwear,
Only interested in outward appearance,
Think on this a moment, for who could see it?

Though it might be tattered and dirty,
And Lord knows should have been replaced,
Especially when one consider the expense,
She cared not the dollar amount of any outfit’s cost.

She favored subtle, flower prints,
Nothing garish; she was master seamstress,
A healthy woman, who loved her cats
(Fed those both inside and outside the house)
And took in every kind of stray, animal and human.

A former dancer who partook of chorus,
Had her training at LUNA PARK,
And, all who knew her swear,
She practiced kicks, over head, when
She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.

Did she swap a place for her star on the walk,
Take lead role in gilded cage instead?

No way, she was tough and worked hard,
Created a wonderful home and with natural talent,
She made a big garden, a green-thumb delight.

And guess what? To top it off,
She married well, a union man, a good provider,
A leader, he was respected and adored by all.

Sure he was a hard-nosed guy.
He had his trouble with the Schuberts and the mob,
No easy matter getting a salary for men,
Who changed the bulbs on marquee boards
Who hauled wire, and painted sets,
And whose days involved going up and down ladders.
Her grandpa made sure there was a decent wage
For the man whose job it was
To clean and bag after circus elephants.

Over the years, testimony holds,
-- Here we have no mean feat --
They fostered twenty-five kids, adopted four,
And then wound up having a girl of their own.

But something went amiss;
Grandpa went upstairs to bed,
Grandma slathered in wintergreen, and liniment
Slept on living-room couch at night,
Hard to believe,
How long a time they spent their lives that way.

And after her Mom was finally released from hospital,
Grandmother balked when time came to return
The girl to whom she had grown attached,
The girl she helped to educate and rear.
She pretended the child were her own.
She used every kind of conceivable excuse;
Grandma tied to keep the her real daughter away.

And then I heard,
I heard the granddaughter say,
We sat at kitchen table,
It was very late; sun had begun to signal new day.
I heard her wax, granddaughter waxed on the refrain,
Though she said it quiet and was ashamed,
‘I can not wish she were here.’

‘I do not wish she were here today.’

CONFIDENCE, A Lover's Revelation

2010-11-11T01:39:00.000-08:00

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CONFIDENCE,
A Lover’s Revelation

I hear a voice, and it commands,
It tells me to rise, and stand.
It says that I have been made a minister,
And am witness both of these things,
Which you have seen,
And those things in the which
This confidence shall have appeared unto you.

I have a direct communication.

In my dreams your fathers have told me.
Exactly what to expect.
I have tomorrow’s news today.

Allow me to dwell upon their message.
Do not hesitate. Give your love without delay.
All go unto one place;
All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.

Surely you were meant to be mine.

SMITTEN

2010-11-11T01:32:00.001-08:00

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SMITTEN

Six years have passed,
Since I first made your acquaintance.
Yet it's only during recent days
That I've learned I love you.

And how the excitement mounts!
Surely we have so much of our lives to share.

I no longer need await the Spring
To bring back steady warmth
For love heats the place
No matter the cold outside.