LOVE POETRY

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LOVE POETRY


How about some love poetry?

Right now I am so desperate for your touch
That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing.

I could walk out the door into the hallway
And scream with such ferocity
the neighbors might think
I have taken leave of my senses.

When I think of food,
Nothing compares to how I savor you.

When I contemplate delightful vision,
You are the only vision in eyes.

I love all music,
But there is no sound better than your voice.
I await every telephone call,
And lead you with questions,
Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore.

Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection.

Oh! Baby! I love your smell.
Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed,
And fluff the pillows.
I do so expecting the redolence of you.
When you are gone,
Even after a day or two,
And your aroma is lost I am lost, too.

At wits end, I circle the bed,
And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet
Whose master has not returned home,

I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.

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THE WORD

THE WORD


Well! Was sagst du?
I think I know better, but it is God Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

But, sweetheart, Hej! 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 rabbis know not the Lord
when He stands before them?

RED ROOF INN

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RED ROOF INN
A Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey


An impossibly large bed
Stretched sideways across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle ran the length
From the front door entrance
To the back of the room.


And you, there, in your underwear
Standing up against a cantilever table,
A vanity, half the room's width, with over-head,
Recessed lamps and a mirror mounted to the wall.
You were brushing 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 so my hands
might clasp both your legs at the ankles.
Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center between
your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin touched on
the right back of your knee.

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

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

'Wow!' Burst out. And you admitted
That I sure knew how to compliment a girl.

Woman! Trust my veracity.
For though dumb struck,
In my heart I recited the poet's
immortal words,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all
You know on earth, and all you need to know'.

COFFEE SHOP POEM

COFFEE SHOP POEM


Another Sunday early evening has arrived.

You, you are gone abroad,
I sit all alone at Starbucks and drink a coffee.
Instead of us sharing our diner,
I write about missing you.

The notion how absence makes
The heart grow fonder is nonsense,
No more than a hill of beans in my book!

I am no fonder of you than I was
Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.
I am no fonder of you than I was yesterday,
Than I was last week, than I was
Three weeks ago before you had departed
on your business trip.

Tonight I am simply sad.
I am very lonely.
I feel terrible without you.

BOTH SIDES NOW

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BOTH SIDES NOW


Sweetheart, I know that you love me...
I mean, I know you truly appreciate the poetry.

I have been composing this ditty
For well-nigh a week now, and, as I had
Experienced so often before, I am
Having difficulty saying what I want to say.
But I must repeat again that what I write
Follows the credo, the explicit attempt,
The power behind German historiography,
-- How's that for a mouthful? --
I want these lines to frame the claim
That it is how it actually had happened.
That is the phrase that now comes to mind.

But how do I write a love poem to you,
Especially since much of this content is old,
Comprising events whose date marks a time,
Before I had even heard your name,
And from geography you could not have known,
A land upon which you could never have walked?

May I continue to affirm that I had had composed
These lines for you -- solely with you in mind?
How can I say I wrote things for you
even before we met?

Still I must have created this verse for you.
For the matter had left me no choice.
I did what I am supposed to do.
Call it a form destiny manifest.

Earlier today I found few words. They were
Penned on a lined yellow sheet, pulled from
The perforation of a legal pad. Upon the paper
I wrote, 'I sit at the desk night after night,
And sometimes it's even day and night.
I write. It may not be about that much.
Often the topics are small and
Want the propriety and moment
Critics call central to the poet's chore.
But I sit at the desk night after night
And sometimes it's even day and night.
Now the many years have passed.
I have no choice in the matter. I write.'

And, as I had already told you,
earlier this evening,
When I had telephoned to tell you
I had packed up your mail, the stuff I
Received here at your Brooklyn address,
And that it was on its way to Coral Gables,
I do not know if you remember,
You asked me how I was doing,
And in light of active compulsion,
So lonely, and so in love with you,
I answered 'pathetic'.

Actually my personality probably has
its mirror image in yours,
I multiply my schedule,
not enough hours in the day,
I isolate terribly,
some times I talk to no one for the week,
And when friends telephone; it's not what
I really want! It's not what I want them to do!
I rush them off! Honestly! No time for idle talk,
no time for chatter exchange.
No choice! I must return to my desk.

Incidentally, I dread having to meet
any one for lunch.
Sorry! You must know, I want only to
spend my time with you.

But I do have that other side,
And that, too, may reflect the reciprocity
The sentiments we share, the reason
I qualify for your companionship, and
How it is that I do not fear the confidences
I so comfortably share with you.

So I do believe I can say it right.
Now let us see if I can say it right!

I'll tell you about some memories.
I'll start with Central Avenue, Phoenix,
Arizona.
I'll say Danny's store packed with Native
American silver, the turquoise and coral --
Bracelets, necklaces, and rings -- properly
Displayed on racks and in trays within glass
Enclosed showcases, on the clear shelves,
On velvet pads, themselves many colored,
And I remember my son, maybe at ten,
But no more than twelve-years of age,
Alexander, playing behind the counters,
Next to the shotguns, propped up diagonally,
At the ready in the event of robbery, and
On the floor open boxes of twelve-gauge
Shells should there be need for
extended engagement.

I recall those summer Sundays, flying in
From Dallas-Fort Worth, landing at
Sky Harbor,
The ground crew rolling up the
debarkation platform.
I would run full tilt down the stairs,
straight onto the tarmac,
Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees, and still
early morning,
A rental car reservation awaited me, and I was
Off to the parking lot at the Dog Track,
To the swap meet that was unfolding, and I
Would seek out the cowboy called Roadrunner,
Who always seemed to have a ton of loot,
A big haul of different goods every Sunday.

And I remember, although it all seems
dreamlike today,
That 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 was welcomed into
the lounge camper,
Who greets the Navajo, both the man and wife,
Who knows the children, running across the
Gravel lot, left and right, then unto the asphalt
Sidewalk, refreshing themselves from
the water fountain
Which stood just to the right before the
pari-mutuel windows,
On those persons, I recollect the traders
bestowed the title, 'Friend'.

I remember one Sunday afternoon.
I felt good magic at work when a child
Ran up behind me,
and quickly touched the back of my hand.
Later I went up to South Mountain to the home
Of a Mexican. It was painted blue. I bought
More jewelry and then headed out to Bell Road,
To the outskirts of the city. At one point I
Passed the shopping mall where I had made
appointments for Monday.
I thought about it being the salesman's lot
To sit around waiting for a turn with buyers.

And to the radio which was turned on to the
rock an' roll station
That night I buck danced on the concrete patio
That surrounded the big swimming pool.
Although it was dusk,
and the temperature had fallen back,
It still was over ninety, and I sat back on the
Lounge chairs and watched Alexander, over
and over again,
Practice perfect dives off the deep-end
high board.

And, darling, even then, it was so long ago,
and in Phoenix,
It was you. It was you
I had been waiting for in my life.
The desert air brought me dream of you.
And when I awaited personnel behind the drawn
curtains of the air port security booth,
My carry-on bag had to be checked,
Because the x ray screen showed
concentrated bundle of metal,
I sat back and was wondering when
you would enter,
When you would walk in
to make my life complete.

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KNOCK OUT

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KNOCK OUT


To describe this awful sadness,
The melancholy which strikes
So hard, I must posit,
In contradiction to tradition,
a physical soul.

Your absence floors my spirit.
I struggle to rise before the ten-count.

I bleed, darling, I bleed.
Your blows have opened a cut
above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle
to fix it.

They might not let me
face another round.

For me the fight is over.