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
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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?
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?
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.
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,
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.
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 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.