IMPOSSIBLE DREAM, A Lover's Question

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IMPOSSIBLE DREAM,
A Lover’s Question        

I have an astounding dream to report.

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

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

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

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

Mounted to the wall at the end of my run stands

A giant, three-dimensional cartoon heart.

Although hand-painted, it has a natural color.

It seems the skin of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart

A gold-metal strike plate sets up over against

An aperture, the channel; I wonder if it leads

To the lock that might open, release your heart?

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

Awaken to nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?

Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does my deep desire

Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease?

The promise of a new, peaceful kingdom

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

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

And the congregates sense the blasphemy;

They whisper calumnies.

They say that I am my father’s son,

“He is the boy from the hardware store!

By whose authority has he the right to reveal,

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

When he revels in his midnight imaginings?”

And me, their belligerence,

The hostility of the locals does not concern me,

Not a whit, though they rise up

And ready to condemn me.

I pray ... I might have definite answer,

That I am prophet in this house,

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

Carry hope for life anew,

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

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

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

A single notch protrudes at its end.

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

Darling, please, your answer!

Have I the key to open your heart,

Or do I dream the impossible dream?

ETTA, 1958

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 ETTA, 1958


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

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

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

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

There was no question about the boy being strong.

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

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

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

They thought that they might sail away upon the waters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had been granted affection.

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

This one moment had already been written.

ALWAYS, After Pablo Neruda

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ALWAYS, After Pablo Neruda


I'm not concerned about those other men,
The lovers who came before me.

I could not care less! Forget about it.

Your friends, those guys who had previous claim,
Who boasted title to the blood rush of your heart,
They mean nothing to me.

Come to me carrying an old boyfriend on your shoulders.

Show me that picture,
The one which has a hundred men sniffing your hair.
Conjure up a mother goddess image,
A thousand guys nestling between your breasts,
Or tell me that you have had acolytes adoring your feet.

Flood me over as were your memories
A monsoon river torrent, when in mid-July it empties
The mountain-gully slopes of Goa,
And speeds the great, red earth out into the Sea of Arabia.

Roar into me with the tidal wave of all your mementos.

Show me the wrecked hopes,
The twists and heaps of those tokens which at one time spelled
The bleeding-heart intent of your now-drowned lovers.

How wretchedly long the debris stretch,
How deep and far your keepsakes tear inland over the coastline!

What vanity dreams to withstand the timeless motion of the surf!

Yet here I am.
I wait. I am waiting for you,
No matter what, or who it is, you may bring along.

We are alone, we shall always be alone,
We shall always be you and I.

 
                                                      
 And here -- here is the time,
The place, where, through the ages,
Through worlds and worlds, through universes apart,
In a flash out from the cycle of life after life.

We are now at the moment.

Our affection reaches beyond the stint of ordinary dimension.
It has settled in for the term we call immortality.

JEALOUS MAN

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JEALOUS MAN

I have never figured myself a jealous man.

Maybe when I was much younger,

During my teen years, I had a bit of a streak,

And, later, toward the end of the drinking life,

Elements of my character became magnified,

True, especially for the worst parts.

Liquor always brought me to morbidity.

I became lost, crazy, think was upside down.

My bending of the elbow grew to obsession,

That was the mode, coloring my every move.

But you know the story, Honey. Hallelujah!

I was saved. For me, like Saint Paul’s,

A miraculous conversion, blinded by the light,

I had been born free, citizen, Roman, holding rank,

Armed upon steed, death squad commander,

Who served at pleasure of god, Caesar,

To whom I pitched incense, and swore

Allegiance, knowing to act otherwise

Would mean pain of exile,

To be banished from Rome forever.

What a story! Knocked from horse, and

When the saint rose up, up from that ground,

From the road outside Damascus,

He had not only raised himself,

But us up, too, making for us all seats together,

Heavenly places, in the church of Christ, Jesus.

Forgive me. I digress, and what I call miracle

May in my case be exaggeration for a more pedestrian,

Every day experience, I fell to panic attack, seizure,

Or was it alcoholic psychosis? Simply put, I went nuts.

Liebchen, Ich bin ganz verrueckt geworden!

However the therapies label, it certainly stopped

My practice of daily imbibing,

And freed me from the terrible habit

And set me on steps toward character improvement.

Yet, here, once more, although you know my count,

The score of years during which I labored,

Made every effort to set myself aright,

Thanks. Sure I no longer succumb to the bottle's allure.

Still my mind hosts that other awful zealotry,

Whenever I think about you, dear,

The green-eyed monster despoils me.

It eats me alive!

When your stockings lay in bedroom bureau,

When you lived with me here in our home,

I would open the drawer and look upon them,

The pang I would feel lay in what I could not…

For unlike them, I could not caress your entire leg!

Then I grew jealous of your buttons and zippers.

You might say, using strongest intonation, “Stanley!

“How can you be jealous of innocent items?

“How can you be jealous of objects,

“Please, things like my own buttons and zippers?”

But I must retort, not so innocent at all!

For they hold you in many intimate places,

And stay with you the whole day long, even now,

Now, when you are gone, utterly absent from my side!

The devil possesses me. My ardor so extreme

That I have become jealous of your shoes, because

(And here you must have guessed the reason)

They hold your feet and take you away from me.