These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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HARVEST FESTIVAL, Skördefest, September 2013 Would you but bale the hay, darling, And then put the pumpkin atop So that I might end my search And have signpost to a loving heart. Or better yet! Why not erect a pumpaguben? Tie upon its giant metal frame All the pumpkins and gourds, All the color you can find, Then set its hands and arms askew, And on its uppermost pole Mount a great-big autumn squash as its head With beets for eyes and a carrot for a nose, And fix some purple harvest corn for its teeth. Be sure to arrange straws of hay across the crown So the guben has some hair. Then surely I would have right direction, Know where your table’s set. And having had Ready advertisement to your dishes, baskets and trays I would proceed straight ahead; And once at that place I would have sample of your plenty stores: The pies, the stews and casseroles, The jars of pickled herring, Your cured salmon and your delicately minced whitefish balls, The many kinds of sausages, and patties Made from every kind of meat, domestic and wild, The gooseberry and cherry and the other bottled fruit, The lingonberry jams and the sandwich-style jelly cookies, The kaffebröds and your loaves of breads, bakes Which range from seeded, creamy rye to dark pumpernickel.
And
there before the display of your harvest and kitchen I
might have hope to savor the bounty of your beauty, And
to fill myself with the nourishment of your love,
Feasting
upon this sustenance For
however many the days of my life remain.
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WELL! WELL! WELL! Well, well, well! It won’t be long now, Our love writes out the lines, records its final story, And as in all things possessing world’s glory Ends and soon vanishes without a trace. Perhaps we never meet again. We learn the awful ache, What separation means, Once time runs out, and we see, It’s too late to mend a heart -- Let’s make it plain -- A heart now rendered and torn apart. Right now I feel it’s true, We shall never meet again, while Yet we remain this side of heaven, while We still abide on earth’s shore of the river. Strange, yeah, how fragile my hope (Really quite ridiculous!) That you stop it with your forked tongue, Abandon your bad habit, and proclaim, Just admit it; you broke the deal! And, as for me, you know the story, Surrender, otherwise, forget it. Just tell all, say to one and all, I am gone, you’ve done me wrong. I swear, I don’t care, I don’t care. I am gone, gone, gone, gone! The hurt is bad, real bad. I am through with you in my face. Remember when I begged you, Had to implore, time after time, and again. You had your tickets booked in advance. You always knew when and where you were traveling. It was an easy request; I wanted a few months' itinerary. You pretended not to know the meaning, The meaning of the common, English word, itinerary. And when you had finally answered my supplication, And sent me your plans, you had fabricated a calender. Awful! None of your timings proved true.
Actually, and here speaks the truth of the matter, It was sad, so very sad, After all the time we had spent together, And that we were well-suited in so many ways. Treachery, simplest poetic conceit sums it, It was a game; you played me. You had a pack of lies. I’ve had it! I’m really gone! Moved on, Because you have done me wrong!
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COUNT SLOBENDORF’S MISFORTUNE
He was unable to recall When last he had seen the words, “I love you,” form upon her lips. Still he had trouble facing the truth -- The woman had not cared for him. She sought only his fortune. She wanted his titles, home, and money. Then one day he began to feel that time spent with her The same as the thought of life sentence in prison.
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HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS? In Imitation of Rumi Listen, listen, whoever you are,
Nomad, idolater, worshiper of the flesh, However you may be labeled, Junkie, drunk, nasty son of a dog, You who have suffered in prison, or at the torturer's hand, Or have no home now, reduced to life on the dirt of the road, Listen, listen the news is good. Though you have sworn a thousand false vows, And have blasphemed, Though today your enemies delight in seeing you bleed, And the ravages of disease removes you from Every help of medicine and the comfort of your fellow man,
Remember, God enters us through our wounds. Ours is the audacity of hope.
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LOVE STORY, At the Hardware Store Dad! Try as hard as I can, I won’t be able to finish the inventory. Count up the boxes of bolts and screws. List them according to head type, Length, and numbered thickness. Then double check the tally. At this point I just don't have the wherewithal. How could I possibly enter all those details. Just one look at the lines and columns confuses me! Plus, exacting cost price and summing page totals, Running entries from bookkeeping sheet to sheet, Those kinds of computations demand a clear head. My mind's a mess. I'm sick. The accountant will have to wait. Let's hope I feel better.
Blame Aphrodite, Soft as she is She has almost Killed me with Love for that girl.
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ETTA, 1958 He had twisted his ankle. His foot was swollen and it ached, Hurt him 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.
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LET ME TELL YOU TRUE As you must already know, I am quite over you. I barely think of you more than twenty times a day. Though I must confess that today, When I went all about town in what had been Just an incredibly gorgeous day – 89 degrees Fahrenheit, Dry, even very dry, and absolutely sunny With a ten mile-per-hour steady breeze -- My thoughts of you had crossed my mind At more than twice the usual number-rate. Seems every great weather day reminds me of you. Otherwise I am fine and my recovery progresses. OK! I am not going to blame you for it. I feel that I am congenitally distracted. On Monday, now that was two days ago, It rained and rained, the entire day was hot and stuffy. Still my heart ran to you, I counted, Ninety-two sparate times. Then later during the selfsame day I stepped into a puddle. I dropped my umbrella, and soak and wet, I became distracted, so wasn't it better, Certainly more rigorously honest, That I should start my addition all over. Thus by bedtime, I had the new number, thirty-three, Which, of course, must be added to my first subtotal. I'm sure that you can compute my arithmetic here. In my own defense -- you no doubt recall -- Low barometric pressure has always had a bad effect on me. All right, let's get real! If we average out my daily count, Say over the last 365 days, One thing is abundantly clear, no mistake about it, I no longer spend my days just thinking of you. And let me tell you true, my thoughts turn to you No more than thirty-six times a day.
