Friday, December 28, 2007

9. Curiosity . . .

Curiosity . . .
(I cannot decide which one I like best.)

I went downtown to visit my father
in the skid-row hotel he was living in.
In the lobby the medics were
wheeling out a body. The man
had stuck his head thru the
broken window of the elevator door
to see if the elevator was coming.
It came.

The body of the young man.
Under the white sheet.
In the skid-row hotel.
He had stuck his head
thru the broken window of
the elevator door
to see if the elevator was coming.
It came.

In the skid-row hotel lobby.
Under the white sheet.
The body of a young man.

Sticking his head
through the broken window
of the elevator door
to see if it was coming.

It came

Thursday, December 27, 2007

8. To Wislawa Szymborska

I'd like to suggest a poem,
about the speeds of light
and sound
how we live in movements
of the past.
The sun we see is not there,
it has moved on.
Voices we hear are after the
fact, and after the act.
The words having traveled
the bouncing air
entering into bouncing brains.
And how information is
And how everything except
the unmeasurable is
and is not there.

The light that bounced off the
patterned face of your young
is traveling thru space with
that same pattern, out there
traveling in completions of eternities.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

7. Jeramiah

Jeramiah, five years old
Died a hundred years ago.

Family, friends, casket.

No cemetery with the others,
No tombstone required.
Under the apple tree
Next to the winter kitchen.

I am now.
Ten years old.
Sitting high in the old apple tree
Next to the winter kitchen.

Me in the branches
Jeramiah in the roots.

This is not a sad thing
It tells me about before me
It tells me about after me.

Biting into the apple.

Friday, December 21, 2007

6. Evening

My son and I sit in the big
overstuffed chair
eating chocolate ice cream
from an old blue bowl
our mother’s silver spoons flashing.
And I say, "I never saw a boy eat so much ice cream".
And my son says, "I love you daddy".
And I say I love you daddy.

And there are all of us.
The fathers of.
The sons of.
Going back to that first I
after that last thing
sitting here on the edge.
Future failings, ancient becomings.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

5. Fires Of Poverty

The little boy held aloft, a toy, by mother.
The little boy tossed aloft, a toy, by father.

Laughter from aloft,
a boy, a father, a mother.
Bare floors, bare walls.
Three wooden unpainted chairs
by the barrel stove.
The forth chair burning brightly.

Talk brings comfort,
but silence is the glue.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

4. Becoming A Land

W. H. Auden, Edward Lear XXXV, last line "he became a land"

The construction of my world begins with me.
The whorl of events and whop whop noises
describing my land shows
it is not easy living when no listening is required.

Reeling from feeling
then dealing with the consequences of
is hard,
causing creative crashes resolved in ashes.

In conclusion.
Try to avoid the fogs of sadness.
And always make sure you can live within your sacrifices.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

3. On Reading The New York Times In The Backyard

Sunday windows
on warm eastern mornings
reflect worlds of suns
confusing the issues of mankind's paper announcements
creating an element of reflection,
on spinning space,
of place,
where the leaders of the capital world and word
hold fast to the spinning crib
preventing fallout
the worse sin.

Monday, December 10, 2007

2. The Happiest Song In Moviedome

First, the Street, a Hollywood Paris, so clean, so tidy.
Then, the children, so cute, so adorable, so French.

And, the Music, so right, so Cole Porter.

Then, the Dancer, so alive, so alert, so talented,
so in love, so perfect.

Then, the Song, the music we all have in us.
It only needs to be remembered.

The music we all answer to.
The joy we all lean towards.
Watching two dimensions surrounded by three.

The music, the joy.
It only needs to be remembered.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

1. The Most Moving Scene In All Moviedom

Hot summer day.
Green jungle glade in gray.
The elephants grazing.
Then, the faintest cry
Heard by 200 silent children.

No response in the hot summer glade.
The fly buzzing day.

Then, the call again.
The raising of a head.
Then another, and another
The giant awareness.

The cry for help heard.
The movement.
The crashing.
The massive power.
Mowing down all before.

Tarzan needs our help.
Our friend needs us.
We are coming!.