"But now abide. . ."

Oh! To be free of earth!
To soar above the clouds
And see a thousand suns and more
In the black night sky;
To see without obstruction.

Oh! To be free of air!
To soar between the earths;
To touch other worlds
And breathe their air;
To see without distortion.

      As a child I once feared the sky's portents:
      The yellowed, bloody moon;
      The immensity of space.

      These fears I left behind, but still
      As a child
      I stare into the skies—
      As into a darkened mirror.

      The stars, the galaxies,
      The countless possibilities;
      The light and radiation
      And tug-of-war of gravitation:
      In them I see a dim reflection
      Of myself
      And of my Maker.

Oh! To be free of time!
To soar among all that exists
And see all time and space as here and now;
To do away with childish things;
To know without need of sight.

Then—I shall know as I am known.

Refraction

Upon the sore surface
Of a purple-black bruised cloud,
Like a shard of glass, there shone
A brilliant sheaf of color.
I beckoned: “A rainbow!”
Another came and in the languor
Stared in admiration.
Intense, the color stayed on undulating clouds
While 'cross it lightning played.
But as it faded, the other
Was not content to stand in silence.
Why must such moments be contaminated
By human speech?

In a sunset mode

Awaiting the time twixt lights
When colors are splashed
Clouds appear self-luminous.
Imagining new worlds are formed
And disappear at dark
Or explode leaving bits of dust.
Awaiting the mysterious moment
Between two times.

Eclipse

Why hide your shadowed face from me—
Are you ashamed to bear the temporary stain
Of this dark earth?
Could you not peek around the clouds?
Do you not wish to be seen
Unless you reflect the Sun?
Now clouds have passed. You shine
Full, bright, without that eerie glow
Of light that's bent
By tainted air.

Moon Songs

I

Wax on wane on bleached white moon
Always changing always there
Never really seem to care
Wax on wane on bleached white moon

-- February 24, 1989

II

Gray cloud cover
Always hover
Watch the breezes stir you by
See you float
Gray cloud coat
Lovely gray clouds in the sky

-- February 27, 1989

III

Great white stone
Dropped in a lake
Circle 'round
Circle 'bout
Clouds around the moon
Repercussive
Echoes make
Circle 'round
Circle 'bout
Clouds around the moon

-- March 18-20, 1989

IV

Fat crescent moon
Low in the sky
Strange glowing pink
Setting is nigh
Fat crescent moon
Late in the night
Strange glowing pink
Strange eerie light

-- March 18-20, 1989

V

Moonbeams shining bright
On a clear and cloudless night
Awestruck moonstruck in your light
Moonbeams shining bright

-- November 12, 1989

Songs of Time and Space

[dance of the spheres]

Dance little wanderers, dance
Whirling and swirling in elliptical orbs
Performing your intricate counterpoint
While the distant stars
Provide accompaniment

Planet and moon, dance together
Around

They say it's not the heat

They say it's not the heat
It's the humidity
But I can tell you—
It's the heat.

I've been in dry West Texas
Baking in that oven
Where the scorching wind blows in your face
Where there is nowhere to escape—
It is no more pleasant
That the soggy summers of New Orleans
Where every year as a child
I thought I would melt away and die,
Where I built callouses on my feet
That could tolerate the sidewalk only
Long enough to dash to the next patch of grass.
I remember the summer our air conditioner died
All the repair shops were backlogged;
We bought a smaller window unit
And lived in the front two rooms.
Living room became my parents' room
Dining room shared its function with my sleeping quarters.
We scurried back to kitchen or bath
Like cockroaches in the middle of the night
Rushing back to our hiding place
Avoiding heat or light.
I remember breaking out in heat rash;
I remember blisters on my fingers;
I remember leaving early to go to school
Catching the (only) streetcar because the bus did not run that early.
It is a good thing we moved next spring—
Surely one more summer would have finished me off!
In piney East Texas the heat was not so bad,
We spent most of our time on the screened-in porch
While inside candle tapers would contort
Bending in gentle curves with odd shapes.

I always hated summer;
The older I grow, the more I hate it.
As an earnest student
I welcomed fall and the return of classes.
Always, I looked forward to cooler weather.
In college, summer meant I was even more broke than usual
And had to endure living with my parents again.
(Though, true, I broke that pattern
Once, I spent a summer in Indiana
Where the weather was actually bearable!
And once, though it was hot
I was free of responsibility—
Between schools—
Though I had no money and little air conditioning
I had much fun.)

Now, my work is busiest in summer
And though I'm not in school
I miss the attendant activity
Concerts, meetings,
Even TV shows.

I hate summer.

long hot summer

Heat

that oppressive heat
which defines this place
this region
stretching the days eerily long
weighing us with humidity
until we break in desperation
(or give up in perspiration)

(it is no wonder that of old
the rich in this place took their leisure
and in turn oppressed
those without choice—
for who would choose to labor
under the hot southern sun?)

these summer months are filled with emptiness
no school, the learning melts away
and the attendant busy-ness is gone
those who can do so leave on vacation
for what can be done?
no major feasts or festivals,
the green vestments to match the green plants
(too hot to bloom)

the one event:
a celebration of one hot summer
when revolutionaries put their fiery words to paper

when on the hottest dog day
Sirius arouses from his slumber
it is not surprising that he is reluctant
to join the eternal hunt

Room Air Conditioner

Come inside, my friend.
We'll close the door behind you
And enjoy the coolness of this room—
An oasis in the summer night.
(Nevermind the electric bill!)

Summer's End

Another year
Swiftly slips past:
Departure and evolution
And adaptation.

Another year:
Sadly sighing
For lost youth,
For friendship and love—
And home.

The melancholy joy
Of leaving,
Of age,
Weighs upon me.

Another year
Lengthens its shadow:
Too soon it comes,
Too long it stays.

Another year—
What will it bring?
Dare I ask?

(scene with bird)

bird on my window sill
preening
cannot see me behind the tinted glass

the sky filled with clouds
chest feathers ruffle in the wind
autuum approaches

Come, winter

Blow, wondrous wind,
      Freezing breath,
      Chilling breeze:
I am weary of summer,
      Of heat.

Come, grayish clouds,
      Obscure the sky,
      Obscure the sun:
I am weary of its glare,
      Of its blazing.

Fall, winter snow,
      Purest white,
      New and bright:
Cover all earth's flaws with peace,
      Come, quench its heat.

Come, winter.

Winter morning

The cold this morning
Reminds me of the wind
Coming off the Mississippi
As a knife it would
Cut through scarves and
Gloves and hats and coats
And sweaters and sweatshirts
And skin to jab
Its point into
Your bone.
It wasn't really that cold,
But the wind and the
Water made it feel so.
The same moisture made the summers unbearable.
Every summer I thought I would
Sweat and melt away
And die
But somehow I survived
Another year.
That's how life is
When I think I can't make it
Another day
I somehow survive
And always feel on the verge
Of freezing or melting
Away.

Winter night

Nothing makes one feel as lonely
As a cold night
When there's nowhere to go
That's warm and welcoming.
Alone and cold.
Too cold to do anything
Except bundle in layers.
Alone and bored.
Cut off from the world
Since everyone else is at home
And warm—
Or alone, like me.
I used to not feel the cold
I used to like the cold
But I am too tired to keep myself warm
And too alone.
I used to not feel alone
I used to like to be alone
But I am growing weak and old—
And cold and alone.

Mutability

Time is not a constant—
It is a variable,
Always changing, fleeting, halting,
Never the same.
Things do not change—
Only time changes;
The moments last forever—
Life itself passes swiftly.
Too soon moments are only held in memory,
A memory no one else shares.
Time changes, carrying me to new places,
Carrying me to new people.
I may return to the places,
To the people I love,
But time will change.
You and I may stay the same,
But time cannot.

Solstice Sky

The fabric of the twilight sky:
Quilted with clouds,
Cross-stitched with con trails,
Tie-dyed in pastels
From pink to green to blue.

On this longest, coldest night
A warm receiving blanket
Prepared for an anxiously awaited Child.

Turn

Time turns 'round
And strange what follows.
Chance and logic,
But irony its favorite toy
With which to shape our lives,
So that I would never have thought. . .
And then I am surprised again.

Remembering the Future

I remember when everything will work out,
I remember how now seems distant past;
I remember the future.
But my memory fails as I try to recall details.
The past (from now) seems just as vague,
But it exists, this past,
Just as the future co-exists
With the past and present.
My mind wanders back and forth
Between these times.
There is no steady walk from past to future:
The linearity, the direction of time
Is a myth.
It all, the then-now-then,
Is.
Yet now is as difficult to remember as the future,
The future as uncertain as the past.
And I know not which way to walk
Or how.

The Song

If I could sing,
Now I would be singing—
Not of love or hate or beauty;
Not of anything in particular,
But of that inarticulate something
That I know, but can never explain.
Within I hear the countless melodies
That form one unbroken song.
If the notes were not so difficult
I would write it down.
If I could sing,
Now I would be singing a wordless song
That says everything.

Undefined

The simple beauty of the proper sound
In the proper place
At the proper time.
Logic beyond comprehension;
Emotion beyond feeling.
The most precise of the arts;
The most undefined of the sciences.
This is music—
At least in part.

Cantus Firmus

There is no music more beautiful
Than Quiet;
The frequency of stillness produces no discords;
Calmness and repose are the perfect counterpoint
To a life filled with wondrous, strange noise.
It is only in Silence
That true music is heard.

Aesthetic Theory

If only I could find the right combination
Of tones
That you could hear Music,
Or speak the proper words
That your eyes and mind might open.
If only
I could do the perfect deed
So you would comprehend
Truth and Love
And be set free from fear:
Then that would be Art.

Pain

Oh! Screaming siren!
Will you never cease?
Your voice surrounds me like so much discordant polyphony,
Never ceasing never slowing.

The shrill piccolo in my leg begins the imitation,
The timpani in my head repeat the theme.
Before one part is finished
Another joins.
The harmony is cruel though the melodies bearable.

The instrument you use is not your own.
You take my strength to play this,
Although I do not wish to hear.
When I cover my ears
The beat grows louder,
For you are within;
The pipes drone on their steady pulse within my head.

How I wish to flee this fugue!
But your voices entwine around me
Holding me still.
If only you were music!

Reflections after a concert

A century, and again half a century,
The battles fought—
The conflicts unresolved;
The dead died in vain,
And the living—they go on living in vain.
Death, the mother, lately seems barren,
For no one lives whose death to mourn.

War is neither hell, nor death:
Hell is just, and some escape,
Death is fair and kind to all.
War is meaningless:
Unequal suffering without result.

So go on, live your meaningless lives
Laugh and shout through hedonistic pain.
(I understand—
It was madness that once tempted me
To avoid the world,
To avoid its sorrows.)
Go on, and add to the senselessness
And die your senseless deaths
And be forgotten.
I cannot—
The battle wearies me (for I see
The vanity of it all) but
I must fight,
Not over borders or for power,
Or the thousand senseless things that mankind seeks.
But I fight against the void,
The meaningless of life,
That my death might have meaning,
My life purpose—
That my memory might carry knowledge to the future,
That others will also seek truth,
That art and wisdom will not be forgotten.

Adoramus

The best we can offer
The only beauty we sinful souls have:
To use science to build our art
And art to praise our Christ,
For in this mystery
Of Solo Deo Gloria
His grace makes us
More than we are.

Communion I

Give us this day. . .
Between my teeth this bread is crushed
And by my deeds Your body broken.
Give us this day. . .
Bread of Life, each passing day
How I need,
How I feast:
How You bear the pain,
Our Daily Bread.

Communion II

Though water is mighty
I must drink blood:
Water alone cannot cleanse me.
So fill me with this wine that I
May be intoxicated.
Fill my veins with Your death-drops—
The water and the blood—
So joined to You
I may live.

Communion III

Blood on these guilty hands;
Blood upon these guilty lips.
I am of unclean lips,
But this blood does cleanse them.
Cleansed first by water
Then by blood—
Nothing shall this stain remove:
This stain is the sign of salvation.

Communion IV

All time collapses into a single moment.
As we gather we are transported
To be with all the saints who've gone before
And all who will come after us—
Scattered across time and space,
Yet one body
Partaking of one loaf,
One cup,
Giving thanks eternally.
As we commune,
As we consume,
God consummates the covenant.

In that one perfect moment:
Before the foundation of the world
At the center of time
And yet to come,
Timeless grace breaks into time.
By this grace we glimpse the Lamb
Slaughtered and worthy
Once for all.
We sit in that upper room
And at the wedding feast.

Communion V

To table or to rail we're led,
Or sit and wait until we're fed
A bland and tasteless wafer thing,
Or pinched-off piece of homemade bread.
Is this a meal? Fit for a king?

A chalice shared, with too sweet wine,
Or tiny glass of grape juice: sign.
But thanked-for—something greater still:
A foretaste of the feast divine,
An appetizer, if you will.

Like grape or wheat we come from mud,
But “this my body, this my blood.”—
Our common bond through time and space.
We share the wedding feast of God!
Regardless of the day or place.

Communion VI

Where the words of Christ are spoken,
Bread is shared, the wine is poured,
There the Presence of the Lord is,
God the Christ, th'incarnate Word.
Where the Blood of our Redeemer,
Too the Body of our Lord:
All his saints fore'er assembled
Round the sacred banquet board.

If your children ask a bread-loaf
Would you give to them a stone?
How much more our heav'nly Father
Gives to those who are his own.
Jesus taught us how to pray thus:
“Father, give our daily bread.”
Who would dare deny his children
Access to the table spread?

O! great myst'ry, who can know it?
Christ is here in loaf and cup.
God all elements created,
Yet in them is lifted up.
Rightly then let us discern here
Christ's true Presence as we eat:
Christ is present in each other
As in gift of wine and wheat.

Glimpse

In that fellowship around the table
When the presider invokes the saints of past and present
I always think of those from the future as well,
For this is a moment outside of time.

This morning I look upon the elders,
There is Paula, blind and mostly deaf,
Her friend assists her,
But she is the one holding the wine,
Speaking the words,
"The blood of Christ,"
Attesting to their power.

Sue also offers the cup.
(I'm not sure if her husband is here today
Or still recovering from his recent injuries)
She is seated in her wheelchair,
Evidence that the polio vaccine
Is not that old an invention,
And evidence of God's strength shown not only in weakness,
But in strong convictions and outspokeness.

As Eric holds the bread
I cannot help but think
That among those unseen saints around this table
Julia sees with joy
Their daughter in a newly-blended family,
Testifying to the Spirit of adoption
That unites us all.

In this moment out of time
I catch a glimpse of that future...
No longer do we see in a glass darkly,
But face to face,
And clearly we hear those gracious words.
Because of the body broken for us
There are no more broken bodies,
No more death, or pain, or sorrow.
There is but one family,
Where we all are brothers and sisters
And children well-beloved.

Deluge

First by Water, then by Fire
The Chosen World is purified;
Born of Spirit hovering, brooding;
Clothed in Breath and Wind.
Water, Fire, each such cleansing
Leaves behind the Seed which lives
Despite the Air and by the Air.
This same Seed contaminating
Bears the only hope of Life
For it bears the hope of Death:
Then the world is new-created,
Purged by Spirit, Purged by Blood.
(How may other worlds there be
That Breath-less never will submit
To flowing Fountain, to fiery Flame,
To sanctifying Death?)
First by Blood, then by Breath
The Chosen World is sanctified,
And finds in Death the Choosing Parent,
And never needs to die.

Fantasia on Psalm 8

When I consider your heavens,
The work of your fingers,
The galaxies spun out in space,
The countless suns winking in and out,
Your creation from a single thought,
Gently shaped, your handiwork,
The moon and stars that you have ordained:
What is man that you are mindful of him?
What are we, that you should deign to come among us?
The son of man, that you should become to save us?
Yet you have made us a little lower than God,
And you made God as low as man
To bring us to yourself.
Your have crowned us with glory and honor
And let us glimpse your creation.
O Lord, how excellent your Name
In all the earth
And all the farthest reaches of the heavens—
How excellent your Name, O Lord!

Ordinary and Proper

How easy it is
To take the most mystical
For granted—
(To stare into the stars and forget
The vast implications,
The frightening and awesome grandeur
Of the universe and our place in it;
To go, instead, about out lives
Not even noticing the sky, or that
We cannot see it anyway
Because of the unnatural lights
That illumine our nights;
How easy to ignore these lights
And all the science and skill and thought
That allowed them to exist and
Blind us from the stars.)

We take as commonplace, as ordinary,
The wondrous things that shape our lives.
How easy to lose the sense of mystery at the Feast
When it is celebrated often;
To lose the sense of wonder at love
When it grows year upon year.
Instead, the awe is replaced by
The simple beauty of acceptance:
The gentle comfort of knowing
That day by day
We are face to face with the incomprehensible;
That day by day
Our lives are ever tinged with the eternal;
That thus
We are ever made worthy of the Mystery.

Three-Fold Harmony

Who was and is and is to come.
At the beginning of time all time is future;
At the end of time all time is past;
At any point all time is now.
One cannot distinguish past-present-future
Except by perception.
Outside of the universe, beyond, before all time, you are;
Before I was, you are;
In a specific moment, you are
Taking on flesh and blood and frailty
And stuck in time.
Beyond all hope and forever you will be
In all the universe, and in each of us.

Height and depth and breadth.
From above you descended,
Reaching down to your creation,
Drawing us up to you.
Coming to our plain
You experienced the narrowness of humanity,
You broadened our concern for one another.
You felt the confines of space,
The limits of the physical world,
The reality of decay and death.
You fill us with your presence
From our deepest recesses
To outermost thought and feeling.

Mind, body, spirit.
The Word made flesh
Dwelt among us in this world
Which the Word of your mind
Speaks into existence,
Which your Spirit broods over.
In your image I stand now:
My body hungers and thirsts for you,
In you it finds direction
To move forward, outward, higher.
My mind considers past and present,
Meditates upon your Word,
Awaits the future hope of your promise.
My spirit knows not how to pray
But lets your Spirit intercede
With sighs my body cannot sigh,
With words my mind cannot comprehend.

Time, space, and Trinity.
Mind controlling body,
Both subject to your Spirit.
Space co-exists in time,
Both subject to your Kingdom.
We in your image,
You born in ours,
Yet you remain the Mystery.

Outrageous Demands

You told Abraham
He would have a heritage
And children to inherit it.
But years passed,
There were no children.
You spoke to him again,
He raised the question.
You promised him an heir,
Not a slave,
A son.
He believed.

Yet he was not patient.
When Sarah faced facts
She offered a surrogate.
As our first father before him
Abraham did not listen to you:
He listened to his wife,
He listened to his own desires,
He listed to clear reason.
Ishmael's birth caused trouble then
And ever since.

Years passed.
You spoke again:
Not only Abraham's son,
But Sarah's, too.
They laughed—
Laughed in disbelief
Then laughed for joy.

Years passed.
You spoke again:
You told him to throw it all away.
Twenty-five years of waiting,
A fractured family,
Devastated lives,
For what?
The child of promise,
The child of Abraham's old age,
The child of Sarah's laughter—
Their only son,
The son they loved—
Take this one,
Now old enough to speak,
Old enough to wonder why—
Give him back.
The later law would condemn
Those who sacrificed children.
But you asked the impossible,
The outrageous,
Even the immoral.

"Take your son,
Your only son."
Of all the harsh demands you've placed upon your people
Could any be harsher than this?
Abraham by now had learned
Trying to figure it out on his own
Would only make matters worse.
Abraham believed.
"God will provide," he told his son.
God had provided Isaac.
As another faithful sufferer said,
God gives, and God takes away.
Abraham took knife in hand—

Blessed be the name of the Lord,
You spoke again!
Though Isaac his descendent are numbered,
Children of faith,
Children of the one who believed—
And it was counted as righteousness.

I claim this heritage,
I claim reliance in your Providence.
Yet would I dare destroy what you have given?
Lord, I believe,
Help my unbelief.

You ask as much of every parent:
To return their children to you
Through death and burial
In the dark waters.
You asked no less of yourself:
You gave your Son,
Your only Son,
To forever stay Abraham's hand.

Me

A glass of tea
A cat within petting reach
The crisp night air
The black winter sky
Silence
And solitude

My body at rest
My mind dancing

Surely this
Is good for the soul

Myself revisited

The tea causes my reflux to act up
I'm mildly allergic to the cat
The dry, cold air affects my sinuses
And I feel cold and alone

My body lethargic and unwieldy
My mind restless—
Both unsatisfied

Surely my soul
Should be kinder to my body

The Important and the Necessary

The curse lies heavily upon me.
Sometimes I feel its weight on my shoulders—
A heavy yoke.
No, not a yoke, but birds of prey
Perching, grasping.
At other times, waiting, circling,
Patient, and certain of my doom.
My constant companions, and almost friends:
Anxiety and Responsibility.
One makes me strive for the important,
The other troubles me with the necessary:
And therein lies the curse.

The strain of being seen

I do not want your complements
your pleasantries
your niceties
your polite lies.
Leave me to go my way
and I'll leave you yours.
I do not look nice today
(or any other day)
but if I did it would not be important.
I don't feel fine
and if you're not insincere
neither do you.
This morning is not good
for everywhere and everywhen is
permeated by the stench of evil.
I care but it is not my way
to say nonsensical words or
to thank you for your silliness.
Let us keep our silence
until there is cause to break it
so that true words when spoken
shine all the greater
(like a star in the black field of night
not a gem among cut glass).
I'm caught in the trap, though
I'll say, “I'm fine
Thank you, and you?”
“The weather's nice,”
For fear you'll think I'm not polite.
But I'll not comment on your clothes,
your hair,
for that's too personal.
I'll do to you as I would have done to me
and not look at you too closely.
So I'll take your pleasantries
and lies
up to a point,
But spare me your compliments
I do not trust them—
They turn to insults as soon as you speak them.

Even the stoics

When in pain,
A scream crawled from my belly
Into my throat
And out my lips;
A higher and louder sound than any note voluntarily produced:
And I was ashamed.

They say I am strong
Because they have seen we wince in pain.
They offer help
Because they have seen me weak.
They assure me I was right
Thus condemning my mistake.
They have seen all this,
But one thing they never see—
      It is too intimate for their insolent eyes:

Even the stoics among us cry.

Regrets

If regrets could be undone
I would have a full agenda.
It is just as well—
As it is, I don't have enough time
To do all that I should.
Ah, but if I could!

I should not have left home when I did.
I should have stayed nearer to my friends,
      my family,
      my home.

I should have returned a year later.
I should not have taken out so many loans.
I should not have pursued a degree I did not want.
I should have cut my losses.

I should have taken better care of myself,
I should not have had to reach the edge of pain.
I should be in much better condition by now.
I should not have abandoned my body while tending to my mind.

I should have returned later, when dad became sick.
I should have talked to dad more,
Even if he was reluctant.
I should have told him more often,
With less difficulty,
How much I loved him.
I should have pestered him with questions
Until he talked about his past,
      his life,
      his self.

Too much left unsaid.

I should have hinted years ago
At my growing admiration for my friend.
I should have been a better friend,
I should have encouraged him, not teased him.
Most recently, as he spoke of irony,
I should have told him the greatest irony:
That as he complained to me of his lack of admirers
His sympathetic friend found herself
Growing ever fonder of his company.

(I should not have gotten a dog.
I certainly should not have gotten a second one!)

I kept missing opportunities, afraid of the consequences.

It is too late now to move back home.
Had I stayed it would have been difficult,
I would have needed a job,
My friends would have still moved away.
I have a new home now,
It is a pleasant enough place
(Even with the dogs)—
Though I still miss my friends.

It is too late to redeem the time
And avoid the debts of wasted graduate school.
Had I left earlier
Or gone to a different school
I still would have needed loans.
Yet I can keep the knowledge I found there,
And continue paying down the debts.

It is too late to regain lost youth
And it is a slow process to undo what has been done.
It would have been difficult under the circumstances
To do all I should have done.
Yet I have begun to learn discipline and stewardship
And can continue to improve my health.

It is too late now to speak with my father.
Had I spoken it would have been awkward on us both,
I might have risked saying too much.
Yet I can still recall his memory,
And honor my father with my life.

Perhaps the Providence that has kept me
Even as I've wandered confused and lost,
Taking strange branches from the path,
Lacking the faith to take opportunities instead,
Will grant me this grace:
Perhaps it is not to late to speak to my friend.

If God will grant me one more chance,
I will try my best to take it.
I do not expect it to be easy,
Or even to turn out well.
If it does go well, perhaps
I will redeem the other wanderings.
If not, at least
I will have one less regret.

Groundless

I am a broken wire
Flailing about
Searching for ground,
A danger of shock to all nearby.
Fortunately the caution signs
So carefully crafted over the years
Keep all away.
At least I am inconspicuous
In my wild searching.

No, I am far more subtle than that.
I am an animal
Searching, smelling,
Recognizing and rejecting.
Keeping to myself,
Quick to defend my territory.
Sizing up all that stray into my path
As potential mate
Or certain foe.

No, I am far too reclusive for that.
I am a restless wanderer,
Easily distracted,
Straying from the clear path
Into the far more interesting thorns and weeds—
Led astray by curiosity.
Staring off into the distance
I wonder where the time has gone
And why I am so tired.
Searching for some obscure marking
I go right past the clear sign post
Then wonder why I am lost.

I am too restless to stop walking—
      but I can walk on the path.
I am too suspicious to stop evaluating—
      but I can let others pass.
I must find ground,
Though it is all around.

All my life

If age is measured not in years,
But in regrets,
Then I have been old all my life.

If age is measured by responsibility,
And growing old means growing weary,
Then I have been old all my life.

If age is measured in wisdom,
Perhaps I once was old,
But I grow younger.
Though bitter experience teaches me new wisdom,
I seem to always find new folly.
At best I maintain an equilibrium.

If age is measured in decay and loss,
Then I have been old all my life.

If age is measured
By love unexpressed, unbelieved, unrequited
Then I am ancient beyond all tally,
And dead twice over.

If age is measured anything that matters,
I have been old all my life.

Graying

Silver strands amid the gold—
And the gold is merely polished bronze,
A meager attempt to redeem lost youth
By stripping off the dark residue of years.
If lighter hair is a sign of wisdom
It is not surprizing that my hair has grown darker
As my mind became burdened by foolish-headedness.

Gray hair is my namesake.
Perhaps the wiry strands, though annoying,
Signal my return to myself,
To my heritage.

the world changed

The world changed.
Walls fell—
It all began to fall apart.
Nothing makes sense anymore.

The world changed;
I have barely noticed.
For my world changed.
Friendships began to fall apart—
Yet fond farewells allowed
My heart fo finally rejoin my body
And mind to concentrate again.
Too many years too late
My home is where I live.

Free from nostalgic gazing into the past
My eyes were opened to see
Kindness in other eyes,
Beauty close at hand.

Awakened, I was surprised by my own strength.
Undistracted, I found new opportunity...
Which led me to further distraction.

My world changed,
And I have been too selfishly distracted by it.
So, it is with guilt that I despair
How the world has changed in my absence.

The Sacrifice

I weep for you, although I never saw you;
I weep even more for the one who must live with your blood—
      One who loved you.
Out of anger (not towards you)
Without realizing what she does,
      She killed you.
As you lay, your life-blood pouring out
She is too afraid to help you.

Oh! How cruel children are;
Oh! How frail are little birds;
Oh! How thoughtless is anger;
How sin hurts the innocent!
But only by innocent bearing the pain can humankind live.

At least your pain was short;
The child has lived a lifetime with the guilt.
So I weep for you both:
      You are a picture of us all.

That of importance

You are more important than my possessions,
You are more important than my friends, or any dear one I may know,
You are more important that my work, than myself, than my very life:
For you are my blood,
Your seed is that from which I sprang,
Your soul is as though it were my own.
Because of you, I have known life,
But your life overshadows it.
All of my hopes, my thoughts, my prayers,
Are centered on you,
O my father.
May you someday know life.

Dying Breath

I remember
how you lay there
dying, breathing loud—
      gasp in
      gasp out
was all I heard
the whole night through.

I could not sleep
(I barely tried)
I did not want to leave your side—
      gasp in
      gasp out
you breathed so hard.

or did you snore?
come on!
wake up!
just one time more.

      gasp in
      gasp out

I held your hand
until
one final
      gasp
and then you died.

to this day still
I hear that rasp
of how you fought
until the last to breathe—
so strong that breath
so strong your grasp
upon my hand.

I could not now forget that sound—
      (gasp in
      gasp out)
it forms
an underlying beat
to all the songs that I shall hear henceforth;

could not forget
nor would I try—
you were my start,
my origin,
my older self—
your soul, your spirit,
breath,
is mine!

I will not
will not
let you go.

Lessons learned

You taught me not to cry;
You taught me to hide my feelings;
You showed me how, when angered
      to speak calmly, quietly
—you scared the daylights out of us when you did that.
I never picked up that technique
I shout and argue,
But with a cold precision,
Not blathering, like mother.
You showed me how, when afraid
To pretend you're not,
Or to fear nothing, because you long to die.
You showed me how to deal with pain by avoidance,
To forget, to not speak of the past,
Not to risk too much, lest you be hurt again.
You showed me how to care
By providing things, needs,
But never speaking—
Love by action, but never in words.
You taught me not to cry,
But when I did
(Usually because I was sorry for what I had done),
You'd shout, “I'll give you a reason to cry.”
I'd swallow my tears,
And you never carried out your threat
(You always left mom to punish me, anyway).

You taught me how to cry.
Whenever I hear a song, a story,
Anything that reminds me of you
(So many things do,
Even the sentimental dreck that I despise)
My eyes fill with tears
And I remember you.
I remember losing you.
I remember at the end how strong you were,
You faced your greatest fear without avoidance.
You finally learned to say the words—
You even seemed to believe me
When I told you.
At the end it was harder for me, I think,
Yet I held your hand
And wept
And said, “I love you.”

You taught me how to cry
Yet I still feel a bit ashamed.
I cry, remembering you,
And try to stop my tears, remembering you.
So, whether I cry or not
I always remember you.

Dividing Wall

Dividing wall that cuts asunder
Bonds of blood which
Neither land nor water sever,
O cruel wall that separates me
From my own and they from me;
You have no purpose
(But to keep fear alive).
Thus, you separate us—
How strong you are! to conquer
The thickest of bloods.
Dividing wall, shall you not permit me
To see my only counterpart?

Foolish Wall

O foolish wall!
You could not remain forever.
Now you are powerless:
A stony skeleton.
How easy to tear down a wall;
How difficult to repair lives.
O foolish wall!
I rejoice at your demise
But will always mourn the separation.

Young men you were

Young men you were
Made old beyond your years.
Called upon to serve,
      to die,
      to kill.

The tragedy of war is not the dead,
But the living.
Those who survive:
Their innocence butchered,
Their dreams turned to nightmares,
Each night reliving death.

Let the theologians debate if war can be just;
Let the historians argue if this was a good war.
Probably we should have intervened sooner,
Probably we delayed too long entering the battle against evil.
Surely none can disagree that it was pure evil we fought against.
But the price. . .the terrible price.

Some lied about their age to volunteer.
Some volunteered to avoid the draft.
Those who could not go did what they could at home.
And we sent our youngest and best to slog through mud and blood.

The deserts of Africa;
The beaches of Italy
Covered with artillery;
The hills and countryside,
Salerno, Cassini;
Rapido River.
The haunted streets of Pompey—
Somehow death so long ago provided a distraction
From fresh death all around.

My father never told me this,
But when my brother returned from Vietnam
Over some beers, one soldier to another:
Routing out the enemy in an abandoned Italian village
They went house to house.
He tossed a grenade down a basement,
When clear they went to see the damage,
To see if they got any Germans.
Instead they found dead children.
Is it any wonder he lost faith?

Finally the Eternal City,
Rome had been patiently waiting.
Victory in Italy, and some little rest
Before the assault on France.
It was somewhere in France
That my father won his medals.
That story I knew since childhood,
The citations, framed, hung on the wall:
A cook, he did not have to be on the front lines,
Yet there he was, and when they fell
To his right and to his left,
He took over the radio,
He stayed behind as they retreated.
I wondered if he had a death-wish,
If he hoped he would be shot and die so easily
And not have to see others die anymore,
Not have to kill anymore.

Is it any wonder he drank to forget?
Is it any wonder he did not trust others?
Is it any wonder he slept lightly and on guard?
Yet after the war he made the Army his career.
He was proud of his service,
Though he did not discuss the details too often,
And he shielded me from the worst of it.
He remained fiercely loyal and patriotic.
He did what was necessary,
No more or less than thousands of others did.

Young men you were. . .
So young. . .
But that was over half a century ago.
Now you are old,
Those that remain,
Or like my father, you finally died.
You may have survived the war,
But age and frailty catch up with us all.
You did what was asked of you,
What had to be done.
You gave up your youth,
Your innocence,
Your comrades,
Your health,
Your families,
Your hearts and minds.
Yet you never complained,
You were proud,
But never boastful.
You tried to shield your children,
To provide them a world free of war and evil.
(Nobody has that power,
So you remained loyal and ready to fight when necessary.)
You kept the visions of death locked up within.
You kept the nightmares to yourselves,
You remained strong.
And we, your children, never knew,
Never understood.

Young men you were,
But now so many of you are gone.
Teach us before it is too late.
Let us honor you while we still can,
Before we forget why you endured so much,
Before we forget how to fight evil,
Before we become soft and complacent.

Young men you were.
Teach our young men and women,
So that their innocence
May be tempered with wisdom beyond their years.
So that they may serve
      by living,
      by preserving.

Wailing Wall

You are my wailing wall.
Your wall still stands,
But only a shadow of the beauty that once was.
When I see it
(Or even think about it),
I wail.
Not always with tears,
But inside I wail, weep, mourn,
And pray that your glory will be restored.

The lamp that once burned bright both day and night
      Has now grown dim,
      Has now gone out.
The fire that burned within
      Has now died down;
Not even burning coals are left.
Perhaps a spark that could erupt into glorious flame?
      The hope remains.

Even if there were a fiery altar,
Where would the sacrifice be?
The living sacrifice that you once willingly gave,
      Holy and acceptable?
Who are you to say that it is not acceptable?
Offer what you have.

Where are the offerings of song:
The psalms that were sung with joy—
With a sincere heart?
Oh, may they be sung once again!
(How I long to join in that song.)
Yet the silence remains:
      The empty hollow silence within your walls.
Do you not yet see that walls are nothing?
It is the life within that matters.

Oh, my wailing wall,
As I hear your silence,
My silent cries continue.

My Window

I stare out my window at you
And sometimes catch a glimpse of myself:
I do not know if it is a reflection in the window
Or if your image reminds me of my own.
I wonder if I stepped outside
And truly saw you
If I could better comprehend myself—
But I am afraid.
So I stare and feel a strange joy
When you seem to see the one inside.
I keep the foolish, futile hope
That you will come and take me
From my isolation.
Yet I am grateful this window of silence
Prohibits you from hearing my plea.

To a Friend

I ache for you
(No, not with the longing for your physical presence—
Although I surely miss the ease of conversation
That proximity facilitates,
Rather) I ache with pain on your behalf.

It is a frightening thing to glimpse another's soul—
I did that years ago.
Like everything incomprehensible and awesome which we encounter,
With which we co-exist,
This frightening thing fell into the commonplace.

Now, as I feel this pain—
Your pain,
The hurt, betrayal,
My anger at those who would dare to hurt you—
I am again frightened by this awesome power,
But most of all
I ache.

Change

Long years ago you said,
Don't ever change—
But time and age
(And wisdom, too, I hope)
Have left their mark.
The body fails,
     grows weak,
     needs much more maintenance.
The wit becomes slow;
The mind is more and more nostalgic.
The search for adventure is replaced
By the longing for home and calm.
All things are weighed in the scale of Priority.

You accuse me of being an impostor
Because I am no longer impervious to cold,
Because I can no longer eat or drink as once we did—
Because I no longer want to.
You make fun of my driving.
You say I am too grouchy
     (Though I've always been a curmudgeon),
Because I no longer find your insults so amusing,
Because I am weary of your tired jokes,
Because I refuse to acknowledge you as the center of all attention.

Old friend, you too have changed.
I know when and why it happened,
When you became bitter and disillusioned.
Long years ago I said
I had glimpsed your soul.
I saw it fragile, bittersweet,
Good at heart, but tinged with sadness.
Now that fragility has led to brokenness,
And the tinge of sadness has given way to darker markings.
You are no imposter,
But deeply scarred,
Changed in appearance and form,
Not always recognizable.
Yet of your changes I have said nothing.
I have merely tried to be your friend,
Even as I mourned your disfigurement.

Still I wish to be your friend,
But I cannot keep up with the frenzied pace
Which you use to distract yourself from the pain.
I cannot laugh at your bitter jokes,
And I am embarrassed at your insulting comments.
Still I wish to be your friend,
But at a distance,
So that you do not infect me with your disillusionment.

Long years ago we had such fun,
But life is change—
There is nothing we can do to prevent the inevitable.
I hope and pray that my changes have been for the better;
I hope and pray that you will change for the better, too.
I cannot undo what changes have occurred—
You have changed,
I have changed,
Our friendship has changed.
Yet I hope this fact will not change:
You are still my friend.

Cold Memory

“Do you remember that winter
(around Christmas time)
when it got down about 15 below,
and you and I walked through campus
for a brief bit?”

Why would I recall
A particular walk?
Just a walk
Like many others;
Just a conversation
Like we often have.
There's nothing quite like
A brisk walk in winter
To make me feel alive—
So it is hardly surprising that I should wander about
On a cold night
With an old friend.
What would be so memorable about that?

I ignored the question,
Vaguely said I thought it was cold.
I would not admit
That I knew exactly what evening
My friend recalled.

It was quite cold,
Perhaps near freezing
(He exaggerates slightly).
I was home for the holidays.
We wandered around our old school,
Quiet because of semester break
(And because nobody else was stupid enough
To be outside in the freezing cold).

The cold air made the night sky bright;
The stars were crisp and clear.
I've always loved the winter sky
With a good view of the stars.

The walk was short
Because of the cold
(It was even a bit chill for me).
We talked a little while.
There was something a little awkward,
A little uncomfortable about that conversation—
Not just because of the weather.
It was an awkwardness
Not unlike what I felt recently
When saying goodbye to another friend.
      It was the awkwardness of something left unsaid;
      It was the fear of what might yet be said;
      It was the discomfort of not knowing what to say.
Most of all it was the dismay
Of knowing you must say good night,
Goodbye.

Yet that night was different from this recent one:
Then I was afraid that you might say
What should be left unsaid—
What I do not want to hear or know.
On this more recent occasion
I regret what I did not say.

Sometimes I wonder,
Sometimes thoughts I do not want to think
Disturb me.
Is it simply my imagination?
Or do I forget your familiar nature?
Though I try to ignore these thoughts,
They worry me sometimes.
Do you
(For some reason I could not fathom)
Think of me
In a manner I wish you would not?
One can tolerate things in a friend,
A brother,
That one could not abide in others.
You know I would never put up with you
(I made that clear years ago)
If you were not like a brother to me.

After too many unhappy years,
You have finally found someone
With the patience to tolerate you
And the strength to love you.
I rejoice for you.
I wish you happiness at least.
But now,
You have no right to bring up winter walks;
You ought not remind me of long ago talks.
I do not want to remember,
And you have no business remembering,
Because
(As you well know),
I never would have put up with you.
But also because
There is someone else who should command your attention now.
Yet also because
There is someone else who has captured my thoughts.

Yes, alas,
If my dark thoughts are correct,
I can sympathize with you, old friend.
For I have another friend
Whom I think of too often,
Whom I think of too fondly.

Recently,
On a warm summer night,
He and I stood outside,
In that same town
The three of us once called home,
Saying our goodbyes—
And it was awkward.
I was too afraid to say the things I wanted to say.
I wonder if he has any idea.
I wonder if he fears my secrets,
As I fear what secrets you might have.

My old friends,
Are we stuck in some perverse triangle
(Or a topologically more interesting arrangement)
That leaves us all miserable?
I know you love her,
But do you wonder what might have been
If I were less impatient?
Meanwhile. . .
Sometimes I think I keep our friendship
As an excuse to maintain another relationship—
Because for years I have preferred
Your brother's company to yours.
Yet I cannot bring myself to admit it
To either of you.
Meanwhile. . .
He chases silly girls
Who insult and avoid him,
Leaving him sad and miserable.
(Meanwhile. . .
No doubt they, too,
Have loves who love them not.
And so it goes.)

It is a miracle that any two can find each other
In this crazy spiral in which we are stuck.
At least you have found someone,
So be glad,
And don't remind me of winter walks from years ago.
Why would I recall?

A Cheap, Belated Gift

Silver and gold have I none. . .
Oh, that's not true.
I am not in poverty—
Merely in debt.

Anyway,
I don't have a lot of money
To buy you some extravagant present.
I wish I could be extravagant and generous,
Bestowing rich presents on my friends.
I wish I could take us all on fabulous vacations,
I wish I simply could visit more often.
I wish a lot of things. . .

Where was I?
Ah, yes, I can't afford to buy you much.
I'm sure you understand,
You're not wealthy, either.
Though I suppose there have been times
When I have spent regardless,
That's why I'm in debt, I suppose.
Too, there have been times
When I've given you some present,
Usually nothing much,
But if I found something you might like,
If it didn't cost too much,
If there was an appropriate occasion. . .
Perhaps I've even been a bit extravagant
Once or twice.

(To be honest
You probably don't know,
Don't want to know,
How much money I've wasted because of you.
Whether traveling to see you,
Or racking up the phone bills,
Losing sleep.
You cannot know—
I've never done the accounting,
So I don't even know myself.
And I don't want to know.)

But as I was saying,
Or attempting to. . .
Because I'm either broke or cheap,
Perhaps I can fall back on that old device,
Used by children and artists,
Of making a present.
But what?

I'm too far away to perform some task,
An errand, some investment of time.
Just as well,
I have no more time than money,
Perhaps even less.

I would compose some music,
Something perhaps you could perform.
No, it has been too long,
I've lost what little skill I had.
Besides,
It would probably be too weird for your taste.

I am not skilled at the visual arts
But you are, and I would not presume to compete.
Nor do I have the craft to create some object
That would be anything other than laughable.

Indeed, it seems that I lack in skill of any kind
As much as I lack in cash.
So many things I would do in my life,
So many fields interest me,
So many ways I wish I could contribute to society. . .
Alas,
Whatever I touch seems to suffer at my ineptitude.

There I go again. . .
I can't even think about a present for a friend
Without lapsing into self-pity.
Well,
My life has come to this:
I have nothing other than words.
No, I claim no skill to speak—
I cannot keep track of what I have to say,
Or I do not have the courage to say what I should.
Instead, all I know to do any more is write.
With pen and ink (or, more likely, keyboard),
I have the chance to edit, to polish,
To annoy myself to madness!
But to create something.
I can't seem to write anything very long—
I'm no good at developing a story,
Too lazy to do research—
So I take refuge in the cheap and easy poem.
In other words,
I'm not sure I'm any better at writing than at anything else,
But it's what I have.

So, such as I have, I give you. . .
A few words,
Nonsense, perhaps—
Not even in time for your birthday,
See,
I can't get anything right.
But such as I have, I give you. . .
A rambling poem
For an old friend.

Ah! No!
Behold what an incompetent I am!
Perhaps I would be better off,
No doubt you would be, too,
If I did not even try.

I did not mean to use the word "old"
In connection with a birthday gift.
Please,
Let me edit that.

Such as I have, I give you. . .
An unworthy poem
For my friend.

Parallel Paths

You and I travel on parallel paths,
Though we do not know where we go.
We stumble blindly along,
Longing for sight to show the way,
Calling to each other for advice.

If I knew where I should go
I would find a way to bring you there.
If I knew what your path should be
I would gladly join you on its way.
But we each travel our separate paths,
Alone, apart.
We both long for light
For ourselves and each other.

Yet I also wish
Our paths were not parallel,
That they might converge.

Friend of my friend

Friend of my friend,
Brother of my brother. . .

I am a fool!
Because you make me laugh like no one else can.
You make me laugh like a fool.
Why is it that we can talk for hours?
I sit and listen like a fool,
Yet advise you as though I were wise.
But I am not foolish enough to be wise.

Friend of my brother,
Brother of my friend...

Why did we never talk so until we were far apart?
Perhaps because far apart we will never risk becoming close.
For I am not foolish enough to risk
Losing you,
Brother of my brother.
For I am too foolish to risk
Gaining you,
Friend of my friend.

Across the Ellipse

We go before you
What hinders you is as the air to us
We run in a path you cannot follow.

Your reality is our mirage—
Yet you glimpsed us.
We come from behind
Yet we go before you.
Three bore witness:
You cannot deny us.

We go before you
What hinders you is as the air to us
We run in a path you cannot follow.

As one from slumber wakes

As one from slumber wakes and is dismayed
To find a lover gone, no
Not gone, for that was but a dream,
Does he look back across the years and sigh
For what was lost, for what had never been?

Or does he wake relieved, the nightmares gone
Yet trembles still,
And fears to dream again,
Unsettled by what has gone on before,
Yet also fears to face what lies ahead?

As one from slumber wakes and soon forgets
The dreams now spent,
Now fleeing in the day,
Does he arise, and shrug off sleep like dust
And look ahead, rested, renewed, refreshed?

Or does he wake confused, unsure of time,
A jetlagged traveler
In a foreign land?
Is he perplexed by where he is and why
And yearns to understand what brought him here?

Does he look back with fondness, or regret?
Or does he merely go on, and forget?

Babel

As those who built that ancient tower,
You sought to climb into the heaven,
To take by forceful fighting works
That which but by grace is given.
And as bricks fell you never knew:
      Your tower was about to fall.

Some say you touched the face of God;
      Is that why in hellish flame you sank into the ocean depth?
They call you heroes;
      But they mock your deaths by adding bricks to the tower with killed you.
They say your dream lives on;
      Will they never learn what you now know?
It is a nightmare.

As those who built that ancient tower,
You finally came to your demise.
If man still cannot rule the earth,
How then shall he rule the skies?
And as bricks fell you never knew:
      Your tower would confuse us all.

Morning Smile

Week after week I observe,
He enters quietly, sits in the back,
Leaves without speaking to anyone.
Then, one morning, he enters with a friend.
As he speaks to the young woman at his side
He smiles freely, easily.
It is the first time I have seen him smile.
It is the beauty of a rainbow on storm clouds,
Of the first green leaf after winter.
I doubt that I could ever be
So happy or relaxed in the company of another.
But (so long as I observe from a safe distance)
I can take joy at the sight of such a lovely smile on a stranger's face.

What's a heaven for

Generations work hard
Good honest labor
Sweat of brow; no idle hands
Backbone of society.
Live in walkups
Brownstones in the city
Sturdy wooden houses in the country;
Neighborhoods or communities.

But when my friend does this
His professor father is disappointed,
As are his brothers—
As am I.
He has dropped out
Should finish school
(Though I've long argued college is over-emphasized,
Forced upon those who should not go
Turned into job training
For too many a party house
A place to teach what the high schools failed to).
Am I that much of a snob
(Or worse a bigot)
To think my friend should not be like those others.

I'd like to think the disappointment is because
He's abandoned dreams
Left plans to go a different way.
Everyone has dreams, the rich,
The poor, even the middle class;
It is sad to settle for mediocrity
And lose sight of your unique contribution to society.
But by this standard all have failed
(I am most disappointed in myself)
No matter what we do, we could do more.
We are all born to dreams
And grow up to nightmares.
We are not happy without ambition
And are miserable with it.
We cannot live without sleep
We cannot sleep without dreams
We cannot dream without awakening
      to harsh reality.

A moment of Silence

You opened our ears
Which in their deafness
Never heard all this music
But instead called it silence.

You opened our eyes
Which in their blindness
Never saw all these ideas
But instead called them nothing.

You played and danced on the fine line
Between meaning and meaningless,
Between sound and music and silence and movement,
Between chance and determination,
And showed us how fragile it really is,
And how harmoniously it vibrates.

You taught us music never ceases;
Neither will you ever be silenced.

Funeral March

“Let us now praise famous men,”
Then recite a litany of giants,
Legends of a time and place far removed from ours:

Enoch, who walked with God
And was no more, for God took him;
Noah, who preserved life despite disaster;
Abraham, by faith sojourner in a strange land;
Moses, who beheld the glory of God.

Ancients,
Who march across the sacred page,
These do not belong to our disillusioned age.
We look back,
Yet they were looking forward—
They saw the future and led the way.

We remember their names,
We know their stories,
But their humanity is hidden in the shadows of time.
The dust to which we all return has obscured their memory.

————
One winter I sat in a concert hall,
The chorus sang of lilacs and death.
Later that night I listened to Black Angels.
Death and war and heroes were in my thoughts.
In dismay I cried out,
      “All are liars.”
In my despair I said,
      “No one lives whose death to mourn.”

Too often since I have been reminded of the foolishness of those words.

I have mourned the passing of those I respect,
Musicians, artists.
Ones I have never met,
My grief made greater knowing I now shall never meet them.
All of them flawed,
None of them with whom I would agree,
But they left a legacy,
A body of work
That enriched this world.

I have mourned the death of my father—
God knows,
Each day I mourn anew.
I struggle to reconcile my faith with the awful fact
That my father is gone.

Yes, there are those whose deaths I mourn:
None of them counted among the powerful;
Certainly none of them among the politicians.
For I am a cynical person,
Born in a cynical generation,
Living in a cynical world.

In cynicism I cried out,
“All politicians are liars.”
There is none who does righteousness.
The presidency continues its descent into disgrace,
Most of the people are apathetic,
Those who vote do so capriciously,
And those we elect only seek their own benefit.
No one serves the public good,
But we only serve ourselves.

————
When holiday lights in the city gleamed,
The ancient star recalled that rose in the east,
We mourned.
In the midst of celebrations and lights and music,
The one whom I respect lay fallen.

Three days before he died,
I heard him on the radio,
I almost called,
Several times I began to reach for the phone.
I would have said that I respected him,
Would have said how rare that was for me,
Would have (jokingly?) suggested he not retire
But begin a campaign for the presidency.

As usual I left it unsaid.
Thank God others did not.

————
A spring elegy is a sad thing.
Death is ever in the midst of life,
Yet it somehow seems worse in spring
As the rest of world awakens.
It is not fair.
My father died in spring,
      In Lent.
That Easter the Alleluias came reluctantly to my tongue.

Yet death in winter is worse,
Perhaps because we fight against it too hard.
In the darkness of midwinter we celebrate light,
      Birth,
      Life.
When it is darkest we most need the light of life.
When it is coldest and we most need the warmth of each other
It is harder to deal with the cold touch of death.

Pray that it may not be in winter or on the sabbath.
It was both when the one I respect died.

————
You had accomplished all you had set out to do,
And even more.
You had surpassed your original dreams,
But you never stopped dreaming.

It was a time of transition:
After a long life a service,
Your task was done—
Only the ceremonies remained.

You were saying your goodbyes,
But we did not expect them to be so final.

We recalled your accomplishments,
Your tenaciousness,
The fights you fought.
You spoke up for the children,
Saw us through disasters.
You walked with us.
You worked for justice.
After forty years in the wilderness
Arguing with stubborn people
You caught a sight of the promise.

You held power,
But never let it hold you.
You never lost yourself.
You have earned your rest,
But we expected it to be retirement.

You did not come to stay, you said,
You came to make a difference.
You were merely a sojourner,
And you did make a difference.
Yet you stayed,
Not because you were reluctant to leave,
But because you never got the chance.

————
A coffin,
A simple, pine thing,
Passes along the highway,
From the state border to the Capitol
To lie in state.
The path it traces,
      Retraces,
Is one its occupant had traveled long ago.
The crowds come,
Surely more than were there for that famous walk,
They watch,
They remember,
They say goodbye.
With pomp and ceremony guards process,
Flags wave, flags dropped low.
The cortege winds its way through the forest,
Along the coast,
Through, perhaps, the last of the old Florida.

That first journey traveled further,
South, past the orange groves,
Past the cane fields,
Past the Everglades,
To the Keys.
Through lands that have changed much since then,
Through a people that has changed much since then.

The one I respect was from a State alien to me:
A land that hardly exists anymore,
Paved over and dammed up and polluted;
A people replaced by people like me,
From other states, other countries—
We are a numerous people.
He spoke a language foreign to many of us,
A language rich in metaphors and wisdom.
I feel like an outsider,
      A newcomer,
Like one trespassing on ancient ground.
Yet he was my governor,
I claim this heritage as my own,
And no one shall deny me.

————
Politically, your timing could not have been better.
You still held the title, the office,
But no longer the power.
You were well-respected,
      Well-loved.
You said your good-byes,
Your family had gathered,
Your bags were packed.

You gave your friend the chance to succeed you,
If only for a few weeks.
He had fought for the office, and failed—
Now he holds the title, but never wanted it this way.
He knows: you left us too early.

You left in what was to be a season of joy,
Our time of celebration you turned into a time of mourning.
Now ever-returning Christmas will bring thoughts of you,
      Of your death.
How could you do this to the children you loved so much?
How could you do this to the State,
      The people,
You loved so much?
You gave us so much,
Yet you still had so much to give.
We wanted the chance to thank you.

————
How often I have driven the street behind the mansion.
I've even walked around past it, around the corner, once or twice.
I never met you, but we were neighbors.
One time I visited the place
(The public areas, of course),
Your touch, and the touch of your wife, was there.
When I would drive past I could catch glimpses of buildings, grounds.
I've often wondered what life there must be like.
How a family could live a normal life hidden in the midst of such a place.

You seemed so close to your family,
Somehow the fact you had political disagreements made you seem closer.
You seemed like a normal person.
That is, in part, why I respected you.

How could you be so surrounded,
By staff, guards,
By family,
Yet die alone?

Did we drive you to extreme solitude?
In our media-driven world no one has privacy,
The powerful least of all.
Did we force you to build up those walls around you?

No, I can understand,
I require solitude
(Though I've never yet inspired media frenzy).
To live with others you must first be able to live with yourself.
To remain faithful to the many people you served,
You had to carve out a private place.

But you were never alone,
You knew that,
For you walked with God,
And God took you.

————
We see so much,
Too much.
Instant updates
Followed by lengthy analysis—
Yet so little substance.
We know too much about each other,
Yet we hardly know each other.
We see so much,
Yet are so blind to greatness in our midst.

Yes, there are those to mourn,
They walk among us, not as legends,
Not as giants among the stars,
But as the he-coon walks before the dawn.
They walk down our highways,
They do justice,
Love kindness,
And walk humbly with our God.

Perhaps, if we walk with them
We will be given the vision to see them
Before God takes them.

Perhaps, if we walk with them
We will be given their vision.

Perhaps, if we walk with them
There will always be someone left
Whose death will be mourned;
There will always be someone left
To carry on the walk,
To turn our funeral march
Into a dance of celebration.

Come, let us walk together,
Following those who have walked this way before,
Until together we walk all over God's heaven.

Aureus

I almost named you Fool
For your capriciousness,
Your chasing phantoms across the kitchen floor,
The silliness of youth
(Instead I named you Golden—
      I have never regretted that decision:
      For your hair is gold,
      Your eyes are gold,
      Altogether royal and regal).
But even now in middle age
You entertain like some court jester—
      Leaping, bounding,
      Somersaulting,
      Bouncing, leaping,
For no reason
Other than the sheer pleasure of it.

In the window downstairs

Two cats:
One a kitten
The other mature
One cute and fluffy
The other sleek and handsome
One white
The other black
One capricious
The other dignified.
Perfect opposites
And each perfect.

To a Cat

When my world comes crashing down around me
You cheer me
With kittenish rampages through the room.
When the world seems devoid of beauty
You sit so handsome,
So perfectly poised.
When I feel old and tired
You greet me
Like a long lost friend.
When I feel lonely
You follow me,
Tripping my feet,
Staying by my side,
Always near.
And when at night I cry for my friends
You reassure me
Everything will be all right;
You show me by your quiet trust
How I should trust my Lord.

I wish you could understand these words—
But I know you need no words
To understand me.

When Joseph was in Egypt

When Joseph was in Egypt
He stored the grain
From the seven good years
For the seven years of famine.
Altogether fourteen years—
Who guarded that grain
From the mice and rats
All that time?
Why do the Scriptures
That tell of the Lion of Judah
Not mention the cats?

The Israelites worshipped the pagan gods
Of those around them,
Thus the prophets railed against them:
Spoke against leaning on Egypt,
Warned of the influence of that land.
So why do the prophets not protest
The cats?

Though bulls were falsely followed
The mention of them was not censored,
Their usefulness was not dismissed.
Scripture mentions
Many other creatures
For good or ill.
But why would such a noble creature
(Or such a problematic one)
Not even be mentioned?

With delight I discovered
The Letter from Jeremiah,
The only mention of felines found
In the deuterocanon.
There, they are not idols,
Not foes of the true One,
Not even guards of grain—
Though they are in the pagan temples:
Playing,
Pouncing,
Knocking over the false gods,
As though they were cat toys.

The Adoration of Idols

Jim adores me!
I come home, he greets me at the door,
He follows me around the house,
Waiting for me to deign to acknowledge his presence.
It annoys me no end.
I dismiss him,
He is unperturbed,
But continues to stare adoringly upon me.

Not long after we adopted him,
When he still pretended to behave
And could be trusted loose in the yard,
I drove up, and before I could get out of my car
He ran eagerly to greet me.
I realized then why people love dogs.
I realized then that I was truly a cat person.

Jim adores me!
I have no idea why.
When I am at home he ignores all else,
And waits for me to deign to acknowledge his presence.
I speak, pat him on the head,
Try to conceal my annoyance.
Certainly, I would be glad
To receive the adoration,
But, you see,
My border collie is the wrong Jim.

Sojourn

Home is a far-away place—
A distant time.
I still live there
Though my body is here,
I will not let go—
My heart, my mind
Have never left
Thus my body yearns to return—
Yet I do not want to lose this place,
But hold to one
While not letting go of the other.
That is as it should be
For home is a far-away place,
A distant time:
Neither here nor there,
But ever elsewhere:
Somewhere I am not
Nor ever have been.

Homesickness

Oh, that I had wings
That I might fly away
And soar among the statue-clouds
And lazily float upon the breeze
Like a purring prop plane.
Oh, that I had wings
To take off when I will
And go where I will
To “flee like a bird to her mountain”
And fly away home.

Enchantment

This enchanted land
I dreamed of as a child,
And tried to work the magic
To carry me there.
One day the magic worked:
I escaped dreary captivity
And dwelt in wonderland.
The mystic spell
Of this strange place
Held me bound,
Charmed me, but
Then I grew and
New dreams took sway.
These carried me to a new
Wonderland
Of Thoughts, of Sounds;
The new world awakened
The childhood dreams.
I then realized
This enchanted land
Was not the land of early dreams,
But an illusion
That kept me from
The Thoughts, the Sounds
Of my true home.
The spell was broken,
And I was free
To Dream.

For the Flowers

The vacant lot was filled
Knee-deep with black-eyed susans
(I've never been too fond of these
One of the ugliest of flowers
But) collectively they formed
A yellow-brown-green sea
That filled the dreary vacant lot in the dreary city
With some little cheer and brightness.
I thought to myself as I drove past that
The City would soon see to it that the vacant lot
Was cleared of the weeds.
A few weeks later the flowers were gone
And in their place, a nice, neat, dreary vacant lot.

That Land

I miss the land
      wide,
      high,
      broad,
      flat,
      plain,
Where you can see from horizon
      to far horizon;
Where the sunsets are patchworks of color
      (because the dry dust floats
      forever suspended in the air,
      as particles and time stand still together);
Where the parched ground demands of you
      your sweat
      for its meager moisture;
Where at night the stars shine
      their light unpolluted;
Where the wind sings continuously
Unimpeded by anything more
      than a mesquite bush;
Where the landscape seems alien,
      Ancient,
      Yet untouched,
            untamed,
            unremembered
(You could lose yourself in this land).
This land. . .
Where you feel as though you could step
      into infinity;
Where your unhindered vision sees beyond
      even that;
Where you feel alone in the universe,
Yet comforted by the embrace of the
      ever-present,
      ever-singing wind.

The Mimosas

The mimosas are in bloom.
Has it really been so many years?
Years—
How much, how little
Has changed.

I remember walking under the mimosa tree,
Past the roses and crepe myrtle,
Longing for the future;
Feeling at home.
Now I drive past the mimosas
In an alien place,
Still longing for the future—
Never feeling at home.

Somewhere I still have
A fragile fragment
Plucked from that tree of years ago.
Now, that place seems as alien
As this one.

The mimosas are in bloom.
I still don't know why that matters
So much.

The trees are raining

The trees are raining—
No shelter there!
The gray moss-clouds drip down
The drops they collected
From the recent shower.
But beneath the darkened sky
No drops,
All dry.
How strange:
The trees are raining.

After the storm

The storm makes everything wild-tossed
Like an unmade bed—
Or the one who just rose from it.
The rain causes all the plants to grow
Outside their man-made boundaries—
Tall grass and brush poking out and up
Like unkempt hair.
Wind-blown branches,
Smudges of mud, leaves, water—
The streets with unwashed face
Despite the recent shower.
So the city awakens
Slowly, drowsily
After stormy slumber.

Light(n)ing bugs

Who snuck into the woods outside
And threaded them with Christmas lights—
(The little ones
      that blink on and off)?
Where is the outlet
That they must be plugged into?
What an odd display!
The fireflies light up the forest.

Feast of Lights

The delicate dance
Of circling stars:
They hover over the site
In some strange conjunction,
Some new constellation.
They slowly descend
As new stars quickly arise.
From this distance
It seems they will collide—
But my sense of depth is lost in the night.
As they approach they seem to stand still,
Only the beacons grow brighter,
Then flash, flicker,
As they turn on final approach.

The city lights obscure the real stars:
Shimmering ribbons follow the highways,
A glowing blanket illumines the runways.
So many travelers following these man-made stars!
It is a beautiful scene—
But we have lost sight of so much.
Our magi are too busy creating artificial ones
To follow the true Light.

Rain-stained

Black ink smudges
The ledger lines of the highway.
Fog blots,
Absorbs the feeble light.
It is frightening to drive
On a rain-stained night

Out of season

snow covered branches
upon a warm, bright spring day
dogwoods in blossom

A Springtime walk

Walk upon my grave
Plant trees and flowers and enjoy the park
Sit upon my tombstone and practice horn or pipe.

Do not hide the dead
Nor be too hushed about them
For they are no more or less sacred than you.

Take walks through the cemetery
Gaze upon the tombs
Never forget you came from the same dust as they
And to the same you shall return.

Sing and play and live among the dead
Never forget that in the midst of life
We all are dying
And life exists only in the midst of death.

Substance

Night
Makes shadows take on
The strangest
Faces.

Day
Dissolves them
In
Agony.

Sometimes
We destroy meaning
By definition.

(an)/(de)notation

A¹ word²
Packed³ full⁴ of [as much] meaning⁵ [as possible⁶]
With⁷ a sense⁸ of meter⁹ [and line¹⁰ / filled¹¹ in¹² by implication¹³]

¹ first letter of the alphabet, one, unitary

² words are symbols; logos

³ like a suitcase, opening to reveal many items

⁴ overflowing, pregnant, full moon

⁵ denotation; where does meaning stop and symbolism begin?

⁶ limits—cf. calculus

⁷ and, together, dependency

⁸ the senses, sensation, sensual; reason, thought, rationality

⁹ related meanings in verse and music; not necessarily regular; metered, measured, restrained; measurement

¹⁰ related meanings in verse and visual art; sketches where a few lines imply a whole

¹¹ cf. full; implies action by reader; cf. line

¹² inside, not outside, included

¹³ imply, implied meanings, implication on part of writer, does not guarantee reader will infer as intended

A Sometimes

Dwelling within me are so many thoughts,
Many too deeply buried for words;
I write to express these thoughts
(Putting them into words is a delightful challenge).
Sometimes these thoughts well up,
And I wish to write
      But I am not up to the challenge:
The thoughts are too deep
And I am too tired to bring them out.
So I sit with pen in hand,
Paper before me,
And a thousand ideas trying to escape.
Sometimes—
When the pressure is too great—
I write about it instead.

Comprehension

I do not know;
I cannot comprehend things,
Life, the world,
Et cetera.
But it all makes sense
Somehow.
And somehow
I know—
But do not ask me to explain.
It is all so simple:
Too simple to explain
Or to understand.

Expression

There is a reality so simple.
There is a thought that embodies many thoughts.
The difficulty lies in expressing that thought.

It is difficult to order words or sounds or lines;
They are so cumbersome.
But the thought exists—
And behind that, the reality

AI

We think—
They perform the troublesome work;
A rather nice arrangement.
No memorizing a thousand facts
      to forget
      within
      a
      second.
We learn how to learn—
They perform the tedious memorization:
By rote they spit out
      INFORMATION (for a small
      fee).
Together we perform
      the Impossible
      and have time to watch ourselves
      on TV the next day and
      the next (resting between
      the commercials).
We can relax yet be
      SuperGeniuses.

So why not
      go the next step.
They store more in a second than
      we learn in a life.
So why not teach
      them
To learn
      how to learn.
A few more instructions
      (this switch on, that one
      off)
And they memorize and spit out
      INFORMATION
But not by rote.
Teach them to discern
      more important from less
      important;
Put two and two together
      (or 10 and 10).
Let them think:
We can sit and watch ourselves
      on VDTs.
So why not
      go one more step.
They learn more in a nanosecond than
      we learn in a life.
So why not learn from
      them.
Let them teach us how to think, and
      let them program
Us.
And we can sit and watch
      them
      on TV.
Program our thoughts with
      manufactured ideas,
      canned laughter—
Our thoughts, our feelings,
      our souls synthesized from
Them.

Who needs them?
      we already program each other.
We are unoriginal, uncreative,
      unthinking
Without their help.
To memorize a thousand facts
      and forget
      within
      a
      second—
Or not forget—
It does not matter:
We are already programmed
      to forget
Ourselves.
So let us sit and watch ourselves on TV and
      Argue with what we see
      with what we do not see
      with all that is and all
      that is not.
Perhaps then we will not be
      Artificial.

Write what you know

I shall write nothing;
That's what I know best.
Once I was audacious enough
To think
I knew something.
But I know nothing,
And know it well.
Emptiness and nothingness
And all that is unreal
And strange and
Impossible.
These I know:
The vast, empty space
Between each something,
The lack of distinction
Between any thing,
And best of all
The mystical, magical
Mirages, dreams,
Mental landscapes,
Stories, fictions,
And other truths
That those who claim
To know
Reality deny, and call
Nothing.
These nothings are the substance
Of which I shall write.

Self-consciousness

Who will read these lines?
An older version of myself?
      (wiser, or just older?)
A few friends in whom I confide?
Will I get guts someday
To show them to an agent?
Will I read these lines in print some day?
Will anyone else ever read them?
Will I hide them away,
      then some day after I'm dead,
Will someone find them?
Will anyone seek out what I've written?
Will anyone remember me?
Will they ask me to give lectures?
Will they give lectures about me?
Will I be rediscovered?
Will they read my juvenilia?
(Can I be embarrassed when I'm dead?)
Will someone throw this paper out?
Will they be able to read my handwriting?
Will this work be lost?
Would anyone miss it if it were?
Who are you, reading these words?
What right do you have to read them?
Do they speak to you?
Are they nonsense?
Do you understand?
Is there anything to understand?
Is this so much drivel to be tossed in the wastebasket?
Can you chart the influences of others in my writing?
Can you find themes in my work?
Will critics love me?
Will critics hate me?
Will critics be aware I ever existed?
Did earlier writers ponder such questions?
Did they think that centuries later we would still read their works?
Did they expect to be forgotten?
Did they think about how other writers were regarded?
Did they wonder what earlier writers thought?
Who are the writers we've forgotten?
Who are the ones who wrote volumes
Which were not preserved?
Why weren't they preserved?
Were they uninspired or uninspiring?
Was it just an accident of history?
Were papers lost during wars, fires, floods?
Are they waiting, yet to be discovered?
Were they almost talented, but not quite genius?
Were they ahead of their time?
Are they ahead of our time?
What does time have to do with talent?
Were they simply too mediocre to bother with?
Am I mediocre?
Will anyone read these lines and care?
Does it matter?
Am I writing for others, or myself?
Do I write to create art?
Do I write to express my turmoil?
Do I write in hopes of achieving greatness?
Do I write simply because I must?
Do I care who reads this?
Would it matter if I did?
Can I stop this questioning/writing?

Microcosm

Infinity exists between zero and one;
All the universe is contained within this interval:
Between nothingness
And perfection;
Between true
And false;
Between existence
And nonexistence—
Yet never quite reaching
Either extreme.
These extremes
Are the same,
Each equal to infinity,
Completing the circle
That holds all that is
And all that is not.

Falling

Falling
      Falling
Endlessly
      Falling
It is almost exhilarating
Like flying
Only there is the ever present fear
Of landing.
Falling
In a bottomless pit
Would be fine
But falling
In a finite world
Brings terror.

Retreat

I just want to lie me down
And sleep
And dream
And order the world in my mind
And do all the things I wish
But am too tired to do or be
In reality.
I wish to withdraw
Hide myself from the world
And gather strength
And rest

Sleep

Sleep, slowly sinking down;
Soon I am soundly sleeping,
Dreaming delightful dreams.
Too soon morning comes:
Another day, too many troubles
(Each has enough of its own).
How I want to escape to my dreams:
Visions, plans, stories of the night,
In which impossible becomes real—
     For they are very real.
They give way to the world around me:
Do this, go there, say that, be here, without rest.
Would that it strengthened like the dreams.
Ah, but sleep is so mysterious
      So active, yet refreshing,
      So quiet and so loud.
How does it come?
      Slowly, yet suddenly;
It is such a different realm!
After a long day
      I welcome its coming
      And hate to rise.
Yet
      I fear I may not awaken.
But this fear makes me less afraid—
Perhaps death is like sleep:
      A peaceful rest after a long day,
      A new reality replacing the daily troubles—
Knowing that I will awaken to something greater than sleep.

Dreamscape

Do Not Disturb

I hate to wake a sleeping creature.
Perhaps it is because I seldom sleep enough myself,
Perhaps because I enjoy escaping to my dreams,
But I hate to awaken a sleeper.

When I was a child
My father would fall asleep reading the newspaper.
If I had not yet read the funnies
I would creep into his room to take the paper—
But I dared not be too quiet
Lest old training take over
And he guard against the silent enemy soldier sneaking upon him.

I love to watch a peaceful cat curled up asleep.
(Legend says Mohammed cut the sleeve off his robe
Rather than wake the cat asleep there.)
When I saw my beautiful Sydney sleeping,
His green eyes hidden behind silver fur,
A saying from the Song would come to mind.
I paraphrased it to fit the moment:
Do not disturb my beloved while he sleeps.
(I've since read that same verse translated
Quite differently—
Also good advice:
Do not awaken love until it is ready.)

On early Sunday mornings
At the back gate to the church
Often a man is sleeping
(I do not know his name,
I suppose I should).
When arriving early to prepare the Elements
I have tried to open the gate without awakening him.
Always I would find myself apologizing to the sleepy man.
So I began using the front door,
Not to avoid the man
But to avoid disturbing him.
I cannot bear to wake one who is sleeping.

Twice I've driven while a passenger dozed.
I wanted the company to keep myself awake,
But I could not bring myself to disturb my sleepy friend.
It is not easy to look upon a dozing passenger,
At least not if you wish to drive safely.
The first time as my friend slept
Something motherly stirred within me,
I wanted to protect the fragile little one,
I wanted to guard my drowsy little brother.
The second time, it was a different friend
Who slumped forward, bending his head down.
I thought about waking him lest his neck become sore,
But I hate to wake a sleeping creature.
Instead I wanted to watch him.
(A story says one's true face is revealed in sleep—
I wished to evaluate him.)
I wanted to tell him to sleep
And I will watch,
And I would catch him should he fall—
Though I was the only one in danger of falling.

Do not disturb my beloved while he sleeps.

asleep

I am asleep--
What was I dreaming?
Why did you wake me
Only to leave?

She is asleep.
I do not know that work
But it seems fitting.
Dreams are stories;
Stories dreams.

I should not be left alone too much
Because I slip so easily into waking dreams.
I should not be awakened
Because I sleepwalk too well.

She is asleep and all she asks:
If you wake her
Do not leave her.
Whisper in my sleep sweet stories;
Whistle in my silence silly songs.
If you wake me let me dream.

Human Nature

Another year come and gone:
I bemoan my weakness.
Each year I slip a little more,
Slowly lose control:
First I feel,
Then feel more—
Finally succumbing
To showing my weakness.
Thus gradually,
My life falls apart.
Since I cannot hold myself,
My thoughts,
My feelings in check,
I lose my grip
On all the rest of my life, as well.

Oh, mystery of the Incarnation,
That truly God should become truly human!
I cannot comprehend this,
Since all my life
I have struggled to be
Un-human—
Anything but human:
Alien, feline,
Superhuman genius,
Or subhuman
And unfeeling—
Especially unfeeling!
But I confess I am human,
Confess as though a sin,
Although I know
To be human is good,
Ordained of God.

I find it painful to be so weak,
For I know weakness begets weakness.
Most of all I fear:
After years of denial,
I fear it may no longer be possible
For me to claim this human nature;
I fear that the attempt shall cost me
That which I do not wish to lose—
My friends,
And myself.

Conversation

What shall I say?
I have no more answers than you;
I have as many questions, though.
But I do not wish to trouble you with them.
So—I shall say nothing.

What shall I say?
Perhaps in your questions I'll hear my answer;
Perhaps in my silence, you'll hear my questions.
Perhaps in this conversation, we'll hear each other.
Still, I shall say nothing.

What shall I say?
Shall I encourage you to do the one thing,
Discourage you from the other?
Shall my advice be for your good, or for mine?
No, I shall say nothing.

What shall I say?
Does it even matter?
We always seem to find plenty of words—
Meaningless or meaningful, I do not know.
Yet, I shall say nothing.

What shall I say?
That you are my friend? That you know;
More than that you could not bear.
Yet, I shall not stop telling you—
How? I shall say nothing.

What shall I say?
If you will consent to keep asking,
I will consent to not answer.
I promise no advice, but always will listen—
That's why I'll say nothing.

Someone

Somehow when we're together
The hours slip by;
I wonder why.
Sometimes, I wonder whether. . .

Sometimes we talk and laugh—
Soon hours have passed.
They go so fast!
The night is gone by half.

Somehow we speak of fears,
Hopes, questions, dreams.
Too soon, it seems,
Too quickly, morning nears.

(Somewhere, alone, apart,
This life I chose—
Thus now I close
And hide myself, my heart.)

So now, I must go sleep—
Goodnight, goodbye,
I sadly sigh;
Then I depart, to weep.

Somehow when we're together
The hours slip by;
I wonder why.
Sometimes, I wonder whether you and I. . .

Helpless

You break my heart—
You are so sad,
So sad and alone.
I would hold you, comfort you,
But that would do neither of us any good.
If only you could see yourself through my eyes. . .

Why is it that the gifted are plagued with doubt
While those who boast have so little reason for it?
You are so haunted,
So insecure,
So talented,
So beautiful,
So alone.

You search creation,
Yet still there is found no suitable companion for you.
You are unfortunately drawn to myopic fools
Who cannot see how wonderful you are,
Who only add to your sadness,
Who break your heart—
And mine, too.

I wish you could find someone,
Find happiness.
It must be the oldest story,
To be attracted to one who doesn't reciprocate—
Yet I can understand,
For you break my heart.

Inflammation

My fingers flame,
My shoulder sears,
This limb hangs in limbo.
Since it offends me
I consider amputation,
To let it fully fall into the flame,
So that I might be free.
Ah, but if I could trade:
To live forever with my arm ablaze
But to have the burning in my heart extinguished!
I would gladly take the pain of nerve and muscle
Rather than the irrational inflammation of desire.

How is it that thoughts unbidden come to mind?
How do undesired desires arise in the heart?
How can we want that which we do not want?

Desire is the cause of suffering,
But also the hope of future.
(Life is suffering.)
We hope for that which we desire;
Hope impels us to create the future.
The gift of fire forges, purifies,
Yet also burns.

Chronic Condition

Acute pain I can stand,
It is the chronic pain that drives me mad.
The day after day gnawing
Wastes away my arm,
Chews up my patience,
Nibbles at my soul.
Like water wearing away stone
It wears me out,
Wears me down.
The constant irritation exhausts me,
Leaves me constantly irritable.

My body tells me,
Each day speaking a little louder,
That I must change.
It nags me to sleep more,
It rebels at my working habits,
It pesters me when I drive.
It demands so much time and energy to care for it,
As though I could make up for all the years of neglect.

My heart tells me,
Each day crying a little louder,
That I must change.
It mourns the many years I have wasted,
It urges me to speak,
It says this life was not meant for me,
As though I could change the past,
As though I could make up for the mistakes.

My mind screams above the din.
It says I cannot afford to follow the path my heart would take.
It says I do not have time to rest or sleep.
It says I do not have time or money to do what I love.
It says I dare not risk admitting that I love.

Acute pain I can stand,
It is the chronic pain that drives me mad.
The day after day longing,
Wastes away my hours,
Chews up my reason,
Nibbles at my soul.
Like water wearing away stone...
Perhaps it carves me into a sculpture.
Perhaps it is fire to burn away the dross.
Perhaps it will destroy me.

Water dripping from the faucet
Annoys, keeps one awake at night,
Wastes water.
Yet the dripping may keep pipes from freezing,
     from bursting.
(Is not my heart always in danger of freezing?
Or is it in danger of bursting from the pain?)
Water on the forehead may be torture,
Yet water on the brow may be baptism,
Life-giving sign—
But also sign of death.

Acute pain I can stand,
It is the chronic pain that drives me mad.
The day after day thinking of you;
The drip, drip of second-guessing what I have said,
     but especially what I have left unsaid;
The day after day after endless day wishing to be near you;
The day after day praying for you,
That you may never endure such pain;
The daily knowledge that you already suffer,
And that there is nothing I can do about it—
That is what makes chronic pain so difficult to endure:
The frustration of not comprehending it,
The inability to overcome it.

I have long favored my mind at the expense of my body.
Now my reason wars with my body and soul—
My whole being pays the price.
My mind mutinies, provides no assistance:
I do not know how to escape this trap of my life,
I do not know how to silence the voices.
I do not know how to stop the dripping water,
     the gnawing pain.
I do not know how to help myself—
How can I be audacious enough to care for someone else?
Yet if I knew how to cease concern for you
My own pain would dissolve,
Or at least be bearable.
Well, that's what my mind says;
My heart says it is only by caring that I can find relief
For myself or for you.
My body says only that it hurts.

Acute pain I can stand,
It is the chronic pain that drives me mad.
The day after day longing
Wastes away my life,
Chews up my hours,
Nibbles at my soul.
Like water wearing away stone
My tears wear away my heart.

A day at the beach

The green of the water
The blue of the sky
      (the color of your eyes)

The coolness of the water
The warmth of the sun
      (the touch of your hand)

The roar of the waves
The whisper of the wind
      (the sound of your voice)

I am at my happiest by the water
      on the water
      in the water
But I would be happier
If you were here with me.

Alone

If I cannot be with you
Then let me be alone.
Long I have preferred my own company
To that of most others.
Long I have been comfortable
Keeping my own counsel
Alone with my thoughts.
So if I cannot be with you
Let me be alone—
Because when I am alone
I can pretend that I'm with you.

Foolish Anger

When young and foolish
(Though perhaps not as foolish
As I am now)
I claimed not my humanity
But knew only anger and fear.
(Fear it was that surpassed all emotions.)
I struggled with disdain
Bordering on hatred
Yet found in guilt a strange comfort.

My mother roused my anger—
Teasing me she said
That when
(Not if—poor choice of words)
I fell I would fall hard.
I kept silence in my anger
For I could not admit
—least of all to her
That she knew me too well,
That she spoke truth.

Now I admit
—though only to myself,
That I am as susceptible as any
To human weakness.
I do not understand how I can be so driven,
So obsessed—
And over what?
One who has barely tolerated me;
One flawed in many ways.
Yet what I would not give for his sake!
Still I am angered—
Now more than ever,
At the foolish things that humans do
Merely to be with one another.
Still I am angered
At how well I can endure,
How well I can pretend,
Even how happy I can be
And how well I can go on with life,
While my thoughts are so far away.
I have fallen hard
And do not know which is more foolish:
    my fall,
    or my pretense.
Though I finally confessed
(Yet surely understated)
I still pretend to be immune
To all the rest of the world—
And only appear the stranger for it.

Monday

Monday morning
Feels like hell
Shouldn't start the week so exhausted
Cram all the chores in on the weekend
Don't have time for them on the weekdays
No time for living—just existing
I hate Mondays...

Harsh reality
Slaps me in the face
The weight of too many responsibilities
If not for working
If not for getting by
Might have time for all the rest
Might have time for a life
I hate Mondays...

Monday evening
Was when I finally told you
That I was rather fond of you
Monday evening
Was when you told me
(As politely as you could)
What I already knew
That you didn't care

Every Monday
Since that night
I've counted the lonely weeks go by
I walked out your door
And walked out of your life
But you won't leave my thoughts
I hate Mondays...

First Impressions

When we met
There was kindness in your smile.
You said I seemed familiar.
It is quite possible,
We had been at some of the same meetings,
Yet never before had met.
I've never trusted first impressions.
Probably because I ignore so much,
But the older I get, the more detail I notice,
The more reliable my intuition seems.

I've always liked to give misleading impressions.
I am confident enough that I don't care what people think,
And too complicated to figure out at first glance.
Let people underestimate me!
I like to surprise.
When we went around the room and introduced ourselves
You probably wondered what I was doing there—
You soon found out.
I soon learned to respect you.
I soon realized that I was headed down a familiar path;
I soon realized that I was falling for you,
And would not soon be over it.

You are quiet,
That intrigues me.
I discovered I was right:
There was kindness in your smile—
Yet mischievousness, too.
When you teased me
I hoped it was with affection.
When you said there was something you liked about me
You seemed to pull back
As though you had admitted too much.
That's how I wished to interpret it,
But I knew better.
I could see myself making the same old mistakes:
Believing what I wanted,
Inferring messages that were not there,
Misinterpreting friendliness.
Alas, my fate was sealed,
Since we met
And I saw kindness in your shy, sly smile.

Premonition

So many things I might have been,
I could have done.
So many talents I have wasted,
Dead ends pursued.
But I have never been boring.
My life is not what I expected,
Yet it is satisfying.

I am fiercely independent,
I would never change or try to please another.
If someone could love me despite that,
      —better, because of that,
I would be fiercely loyal.
I refuse to search for such a one,
Instead I rejoice in my solitude.
I am not immune from desire
But I am stubborn.

Our first meeting seemed providential
(Who am I to argue with Providence?)
Yet as the weeks went by
We did not speak.
I learned a little about him—
He seemed quite boring.
(Meanwhile I met another,
Exciting, attractive,
—Out-of-reach.)
As weeks turned into months
Still I saw him,
We spoke only in passing.
But I had the most frightening visions:
     I have seen him sharing my responsibilities;
     I have seen us together by the font;
     I have seen a frumpy, middle-aged couple.
God forbid!

I do not want to be typical.
Perhaps I could share a life
Filled with travel and excitement and each other.
But not the boring domestic life,
Especially, God help me, no children!

Understand, then:
If I weep thinking of him
It is not because of longing,
Rather I despair my destiny.
Should I tremble when he is near
It is not because of desire,
Rather I am terrified of tedium.

When we look back

Someday we'll look back on these years and laugh
At how we were afraid to speak to each other.
But I am not laughing now—
I am too scared.

Someday we'll regret the wasted time,
But will admit we were too busy,
Not yet ready in so many ways.
But I do not regret it now—
I've too much to do.

    (So often I've wondered what I would have done
    If I'd known then what I know now.
    Would I have believed that pesky kid
    A decade or two later would still be my friend?
    Would I have paid more attention to our first conversations?
    Would I have been any less annoyed?

    If I'd known where I'd live and where I'd work
    Would I have been more or less determined as a student?
    Would I have been more or less pragmatic?

    If I had known
    Would it have mattered?
    Would I have changed anything?
    Would I have believed any of it?)

Someday we'll look back, amazed
How our ignorance allowed our fickle imaginations
To see the other as more fascinating or more boring
Than what we finally discovered.
But I am not yet amazed—
I'm too bored by my dreams.

Someday we'll tell how we first met,
How we knew what was to come.
Each time we tell our story, we'll marvel at our surety.
But I will not tell it now—
For I don't really believe it.

Someday, instead, will I look back on this and laugh?
Wondering what mix of wishful thinking and self-delusion
Led me to imagine a future that will never be?
But I'm not laughing now—
I'm still waiting.

Star Gaze

He smiles,
His eyes are the blue of sun-drenched skies.
He tires,
They turn cloud-gray,
Storm-tossed.

Let night descend:
The stars come out,
Twinkling mischeviously.

I could lose myself in that boundless sky.
I could look long and deep and never comprehend
The mysteries of that heaven.

Oh, to bask in that bright blue!
To comfort that clouded clime...
Ah! But let night come—
Let me lie back, and linger,
Let me star-gaze for a while.

A little knowledge

I miss you.
Though I've spent so little time with you
I've known you quite a while.
I want to see you again,
Though I'm not sure I want you to see me.
I want to talk to you
Yet when I have the chance I fear to speak.

I do not know you well
But I know you well enough to know
I'd like to know you better.
I am not in love,
But, ah! if somehow
You were to love me
I am quite convinced
Such love would be requited.

tabla rasa

Your shyness makes me the one
Afraid to speak
(Lest I distrub you),
Until I am unable to utter
The barest of greetings.

The more I wish to learn of you
The further I retreat.
The resulting distance between us grows
But merely makes you seem more mysterious.

I wonder if you struggle, too,
And do not speak to me
Because you are just as fascinated,
Just as afraid.

I suspect that, at best,
I annoy you —
It is more likely, though,
That you never notice me.

Your quiet forms a void
Which I fill with songs of my own devising,
Songs likely to turn discordant
Were you to break your silence.

My ignorance of you
Forms a blank slate
Upon which I sketch my dreams,
Only for time and reality
To erase.

Mementos

I keep a collection of mementos
Not tangible objects, but memes:
A clever phrase I picked up,
A helpful trick observed,
A curious habit acquired,
An interest in some new field.
Each one has become part of me
Yet always reminds me of the person
from whom I learned it.

I have several mementos from you:
There are performers and pieces I enjoy
Because of the instrument you play.
You introduced me to my favorite beer.
I view art exhibits I never would have known about
If you had not taught me.
I steal your lines and use your jokes.
You have influenced me in so many ways
Both profound and trivial,
Though you do not know it,
Though you couldn't care less.
Thank God I am no longer in love!
But you were my first love--
That is history now and cannot change--
Another bittersweet memory for the collection.

As the years go by
And memory discards the sorrows
I grow somewhat nostalgic;
I treasure these mementos.

Exceptional

Easily I fall
Yet never divulge but
Well conceal it.
Yet I know you know--
That annoys me
As much as the infatuation itself.
Still I tell you far too much--
I might as well,
You see through my defenses.

You are the exception
That tests the rule,
That finds the weakness in my barricade.

Never would I flirt,
But if I tease
It is only because I could not possibly be serious.
Even then I have always stayed within the bounds
Of propriety.
Yet I've shocked myself
At my shameless,
Even inappropriate, words
Which I've heard myself speak in your presence.

You are the exception
That tests the rule,
That turns my joking into innuendo.

My usual demeanor
Around one to whom I am attracted
Is silence and coldness
Lest I betray my secret.
I shun the touch of even my closest friends
And few there are whom I would willingly embrace.
Yet I do not shirk your arm about me
But respond in kind
And welcome even a kiss on the cheek.

You are the exception
That tests the rule,
That melts my iciness with the warmth of your hand.

Few there are whom I have known
That I have found of interest,
And fewer still there are
Who have dared show an interest in me.
Though few there are in those two sets
Fewer still there are who meet both criteria,
For the intersection is null--
Or so it always has been.
Yet I suspect
(I may be wrong but still suspect)
That your fondness for me
Is not unlike that which I have for you,
That n=1.

You are the exception
That tests the rule,
That changes the equation.

Never have I cared for children
For I cannot comprehend them.
I have never met your children
Yet I adore them--
I have only seen them through your adoring eyes.
Though I could never bear to bear children of my own
It seems to me a loss to humanity
That our DNA will never be blended.

You are the exception
That tests the rule,
That gives birth to new desires.

Always have I drawn a line
And those beyond declared off-limits.
Never would I consider one
Who belonged to another
Thus never could I fall
For one I could never attain.
Anyone whom I loved I would love rightly,
Should he love another I would rejoice for him,
For love that knows jealously or covetousness is not love.

You are the exception
That tests the rule by which I live,
That tests my resolve.

Revisited

It had been so long since I had seen you last.
I had convinced myself there was no chance.
I was over you.
When I planned my trip
Certainly I hoped I would see you again,
But did not expect to.
When my friend invited you to meet us
I knew you'd have another excuse.
Sure enough, you had other obligations,
Which you said you'd cancel for my sake.
Alas!

Then, when we met,
You went out of your way to greet me with a hug.
You would not let me depart
Without another embrace.
Alas!

While you may have some affection for me
It is no more than friendly, I know.
Yet you know not what you do.
So, though it was not your intent,
You awakened longings I hoped had died.
For how could I,
Frumpy, grumpy me,
Ever hope to win one
As charming and handsome as you?

If only you had found another excuse
And I had not seen you again.
If only you were more reserved
And had kept your distance.
If only I truly were over you.
If only you did not stir up within me false hope.
Alas!

Yet...I take such delight in your smile!
And thrill to your embrace!
I would rather sigh for what will never be
Than be blessed with ignorance of you.
I could not wish to be free of those arms,
Though they held me far too briefly.
False hope it may be,
But I'll take whatever you deign to give.

I should know better

The first time I knew that I was foolish;
This time I should have learned from my mistakes.
I should know better.

The first time the guy was only a couple of years younger than I;
This time I'm older by a decade.
Certainly I'm old enough to know better.

The first time at least I knew him well before I fell;
This time I only know him well enough to know we don't have as much in common.
While I wish I knew him better, I should know better.

I've never been beautiful;
The first time at least I was young.
Now I'm an old fool
Making the same mistakes of youth,
Falling for someone I know cannot possibly be interested in me.
Again I am misinterpreting friendliness or mere politeness
As something more,
Though I should know better.

Perhaps I have learned something:
The first time I wasted time and money
Making long-distance calls to one who'd never call me back,
Finding excuses to travel and visit friends,
Just to see him.
At least this time I've found someone local.
The first time I talked him into buying me a drink;
At least this time he voluntarily bought me two.

Yet that was foolish, too:
I stayed up far too late
(And got far too drunk)
Just so I could enjoy his company a little while longer
(Even while he was enjoying the company of someone else).
The first time we stayed up way too late without benefit of drink.
Perhaps this was better,
For I could enjoy the false intimacy of being drinking buddies.
He told me his sorrows,
I listened sympathetically,
Put my hand on his shoulder—
And pretended to forget, for that's the etiquette.

The first time I only dreamed that he grasped my hand,
This time he really did,
Though it was merely a friendly gesture—
And he was quite drunk,
So I have to pretend to forget that, too.
Still, it is more than I ever shared with my old friend.

Perhaps I did learn something from the first time:
I don't regret having been his friend,
I don't regret having said goodbye.
Sometimes I regret not letting him know how much I cared until it was too late.
Sometimes I regret not having flirted early on
Before I fell too hard,
When rejection would have been easy to take,
When it would have been possible to salvage the friendship.
I told myself next time I'd flirt,
Not push the guy away,
But give myself a chance,
Find out right away where I stood,
Then get over him before things got out of hand.
Yet here I go again...
At first I smiled a lot,
Tried to be charming,
But the more interested I become,
The more my instinct is to hide it,
The more I sabotage what little chance I have.
I should know better.

I pride myself on my intelligence,
As he well knows.
But does he know what a fool I truly am?
I suppose
It is better he should not know.

Unresolved

What's worse than unrequited love
Is love repressed and unexpressed,
Returned but unresolved.

Once I loved a friend who, I knew,
Did not think of me as more than that.
Though painful, I was able to move on
By telling him, by facing harsh reality--
I lost a friend, but kept my sanity.

Now the harsh truth will not help
Because I know he cares as much as I.
Though, dammit! he has no right.

Since we cannot speak the truth
We call each other "friend"--
But keep our distance,
Tacitly admitting it would be too dangerous
To be too close.

If we were free to speak,
To know each other well,
Perhaps this would have run its course
Long ago, and be but bittersweet memory.

Yet we cannot let each other completely go,
Which would make it so much simpler.
If only, like everyone else
We would eventually lose touch,
If only we could forget.

Intead, every few months we meet,
Catch up, reminisce, talk shop--
And sometimes hint at what we cannot openly admit.

Twice now we have said goodbye
Knowing that we really will not part,
But using that as our excuse
To say how much our "friendship" means.

Though we've shared nothing more intimate than an embrace
We've felt the longing in that bond,
The wondering of what might have been,
Of what we know can never be.

No matter what, sorrow is our lot:
It would be sorrow to lose my friend,
It is sorrow to know he is not mine,
But it would only be worse sorrow that could bring us together.

So I let him hold me long and tight--
We say goodbye, I'll miss you,
But no more than that.
He goes home to apologize for being out too late,
I go home alone.

Apology

O World!
I owe you an apology
For I have judged you,
Rather, I have mocked you.
I have made fun of you
      and disdained you
and called you weak
and been bored by your stories.
Despite my protestations—
I am one of you,
I too am human.

I find myself sighing
For no good reason—
Or for the only reason that matters.
I cannot work,
I cannot sleep,
I am bored by life.
All I can do is sigh,
And long for what I do not have,
And try to find some reason for hope,
And try to find some excuse to call,
And write drivel that ordinarily I would despise.

So world,
Please accept my apology,
As I steal away and hide in shame.

Refutation

The trouble with a cat's that gettin'
One requires at first a kitten.

Keeper

In the dim morning light
Cat eyes gone black like Lyta's.
Do you speak with Shadows?

Silly rhymes for a silly cat

When I feel down
You know how to cheer me
When I'm alone
You always stay near me

When I'm afraid
You calm and ease me
When I feel glad
You sometimes will tease me

When it is summer
You always stay cool
When it is winter
Sometimes act the fool

When I am cold
You're able to warm me
When disillusioned
You manage to charm me

cat haiku

Acrobatic leaps
Excitement or contentment
Purring in the sun

O Little Tallahassee Town

O little Tallahassee town,
How still we see thee lie.
The graduates in cap and gown.
Have said their last goodbye.
The lawyers and reporters,
Too, have gone on their way.
The hopes and fears
Of all the years. . .
Are somewhere else today.
 

How silently, how silently,
The peace and calm restored.
The ballots which arrived by truck
Back to their local Board.
No longer are we mentioned
In nightly network news.
Professors take
Their Christmas break—
And Tally Town can snooze.

Ode to my Lost Mind

My brain is like a red, red rose:
It fades real fast, then dead, dead goes.

Flight of fancy

One winter night
There were no trees
Silent
The still air
Hovered
Oppressive
Dry ground
Clouds
The weight of all
Fell down the stairs
To a dark
Musty-smelled hovel
Trembling, alone
With shelves of wood
No fire, no light
A nest of mice
Where the hole led out
Further into the mysteries
Feverishly sweating
Swirling ever darker
The lake stood frozen
Turned upon itself
Time refused to move
Ever seeping past the door
Where all could be
But never would
Perhaps to ask
What it meant
To see a flower pendant
Upon the neck
Hanging
In the curve of the elbow
Tension tightens
Releases
Flying geese
Squawk
Again silence
Among the tall grass

The Ambassador is Delirious

      thin bulletins over the ocean
as if you knew
            but shimmering

      see
            that's
                  the way
      always
      perhaps
      eventually
and furthermore

            so the cups are gathered

lovely turnips and beetles

      spinning around seeing through a veil

and you must have supposed

why
why
why

            torture and torment
      no resolution

turnips and teakettles and tulips and tights
      tea for two lips turns up

beetles and bulletins and broncos and balloons

i don't like any of them except the tea

      a veil with lights
            that's how

i never understood, i still don't

            clouds have always fascinated me
      you

Our Brave Captain Kirk

Topics Poetic

Let the poets pipe of love
(Usually unrequited love)
And when they've had enough of love,
Then let them write
    —of Death!

True, they may speak of flowers fair
And beauty that is everywhere,
Enthralled by Spring that stirs the air,
'Til Winter brings
    —fair Death!

Now poets may be quite devout
And things divine may write about.
Their prayers express their doubts about
The ways of love
    —and Death!

So let the poets write of love
And endlessly enthuse of love!
When we've more than enough of love
Then we may hope
    —for Death!

Schlendrian's Daughter

What I fool I was!
So many years without you—
Yet you were there, patiently waiting for me.
I suppose there was a part of me that always desired you,
But never thought it could work.
I was prejudiced, disdained you,
I called you bitter,
Even said you smelled bad.
But once I gave you a chance
You won me over quickly—
As though it was always meant to be.
Now I am a convert with the fervor of the enlightened.

I was put off by some of your kin—
Until I found the right one,
One that was complex, richly nuanced.
Now each morning
I cannot wait for you to touch my lips,
To drink you in.
You awaken me as no other has done.

Throughout the day I think of you;
I look forward to relaxing with you after dinner.
Songs that I could not comprehend before
Make such sense now!
Sometimes you are to hot to handle—
Yet I have learned to appreciate your warmth.

So many years, but forget the past!
From now on, each morning I will look to you:
My elixir!  My delight!  My coffee!

The day the Twitterhood Quiz died (or at least the generator went out)

There once was a Lady Linnet
Who sailed over seas wild and wet
Then she got on Twitter
And left tweeple bitter
When her generator died
and @GLITTERSTARZ took over the quiz
and @phyllismufson arbitrarily won
[then @deucehartley showed up late
and arbitrarily won but
Still wouldn't wear the tiara],
You bet!