"A Short Lie," 4/13/06

It was such a short time,
just a filament in the tapestry.
Thoughts of you made ruts in my mind;
it was the same old story.

So let's don't ever pretend
it was more true than a lie;
I'll live again,
and you never died.

Or did we ever live
till we were together?
Or are we living now?
Or did we wake up ever?

Perhaps my heart had faltered
long 'fore you broke its strings;
Perhaps yours wasn't altered
by any mortal means.

But broke or even absent,
Where'er our hearts may lie,
somewhere you're missing fragments--
I know, for so am I.

With me rests one piece of your heart--
and you keep parts of mine--
Don't call the time we held them short;
I've missed mine for a lifetime.

"Disaster," 7/23/05

You say you're upset and you claim you're disturbed,
but it's I who have jumped every time that I've heard
your name mentioned softly in quick, furtive phrase,
and I can't help reliving those torturous days.
The pain numbed my heart and the numb steeled my brain,
and the happiness left me like sifting of grain.
The anger is gone, and the sigh, and the groan,
and the frown, and the tear--I'm an automaton.
I run from my doubt and the feeling inside
but it follows me 'round; there's no place I can hide,
except deep inside me where no one can come,
where none ever penetrates my shroud of gloom.
So how is the pain? How does it taste
over there on the tongue of Disaster's face?
Tell me, for well do I know that you may,
being Tongue, relate anything you wish to say.
It's a service to those of us topside, her eyes,
who are witness, dispassionate, to all the lies.
Being but eyes, I cannot speak or think--
In defense of myself, I can only blink.

"Abnormalcy," 4/27/05

Society has a definition--
in a textbook--of normalcy,
and beside that a picture
of what I should be.
Men, women, children,
and all those who see it,
straighten their spectacles,
nodding agreement.
Maybe my lenses
are long due for exchange,
but when I've looked at that picture,
it's not two times the same!
And maybe it's me,
but it seems very small,
so how can they see it
to tell what they saw?

"The Name," 4/27/05

The words I had not heard spoken
in so long
laughed at me from the
edges of everyone's lips,
their insidious sibilance
creeping into my ear canals
and around my frontal lobe.
Each letter mocked me
like a smug child;
cruel children the alphabet was,
holding hands and taunting me
with their distinct voices.
I stuffed my ears with
the cottonballs of literature,
my pencil making
kind, alphabetical monks
shuffle across the page--
patient, orderly letters
with a vow of silence to keep.

"That Boy," 4/12/05

I love that boy. Don't we all? He is the boy
That captivates our hearts without taming our souls.
He has no age but the natural age of joy--

Somewhere around five or eleventy.
You and I love him for his quiet childlikeness
And his happy musicalness that will always be

Fresh as his tousled sun-bleached hair.
He is the darling of every maiden heart,
Yet no one and he will ever make a pair,

For who could kiss a song? And who
Could wed the wind? To take Laughter
And Joy to have and to hold would be cruel.

He will never know the sorrow of love lost,
For all the world is in love with him.
Earth's favorite child he is, and unlike most,

He shall sit in the sunshine, not walk in the rain,
And his bright laughter and clear eyes will not fade,
So long as he can sing. And he will not feel pain,

For he is ever a child, and the problems of the mundane
Adult world shall never bear down upon him.
He is enraptured by every word, amazed by every game,

And we who have seen it all envy him his child's eyes.
He is the love that blooms in all seasons,
Unselfish, without jealousy. That boy will never die.

"Suspense," 4/12/05

I am spinning
-----There is no ground
----------There is no up
---------------There is no down.
----------I'll right myself
-----After all
In the moment
-----That I fall.

"Paul McCartney, after Pablo Neruda," spring 2005

I have called you McCartney.
There are younger than you, younger.
There are louder than you, louder.
There are cooler than you, cooler.
But you are McCartney.
When you play at Super Bowl halftime,
No one appreciates you.
No one sees your MBE, no one hears
The years of Beatlemusic behind your riffs,
The rock'n'roll legacy.
And when your voice sails into our living room
All the rhythms sound
In my body, pyrotechnics
Light the stage,
And my parents leave the room.
Only Ringo Starr and I,
Only Ringo Starr and I, Paul,
Listen to you.

"A Prison Like No Other", 4/8/05

In youth I felt the stifling press
of a most exquisite prison,
its fragrant petals choking off
my very noble visions.
But Time has always shown himself
quite dutiful a warden,
and lest his flower-field jails grow full,
he transfers all his burdens.
The guards have a curious practice,
in life's correctional facility,
of leaving off the fetters to
achieve maximum security.
There is no floor for stable ground,
no definition for lack of walls,
and maddening are the footsteps
down its nonexistent halls.
And yet a ceiling it does have
so blots out all the sky;
never do I see the stars,
but nighttime fills my eye.
Seldom does a visitor come;
I think I have but one:
it's old Dementia in the dark
with stories of the sun.

"Conceited One"--3/16/05

Yes, this poem is for you.
It is for you
just like all the applause
in all the world's theatres.
You're smart.
You've figured it out
and you can't forget it:
that everything is just for you.
All the king's horses,
all the king's men,
God's little green apples,
that big needle in Seattle,
flashing S.O.S. signals,
the majesty of Mount Fuji,
and the great bell that cracked in Philadelphia
because of its great peals in your honor.
You and Denny's
are both American institutions.
And no one would dare
make a move on this earth
without asking your sagely advice.
In fact, my everyday question
and the world's mission is
"What would [your name here] do?"
Oh, yes, this poem is for you, dear.
But I don't have to tell you that,
for, from the very moment
that I uncapped my pen,
you knew it would be.

"The Cleansing Rain"--2/15/05

The rain fell cold,
running through the streets
in gleeful little rivers.
I ran into the wet daylight,
throwing my arms up like bridges
to let the silver drops
make highways to my neck.
Did I think the rain,
those marvelous little spheres,
were endowed by our Creator
with a spiritual Dial Soap,
lathered by angelic hands,
to cleanse away the pain
that clung hotly to my soul?
Maybe I did.
But there was no one there
(anymore)
to gently break to me the Truth,
tell me that pretty things aren't real
(never were)
and warn me importantly
that a cold rain will give me (p)neumonia.
I was ignorant, you see,
of all these wisdoms.
So I stood there, smiling up
at the unseen owners
of the kind, lathering hands.

"Carbon Copies," 2/09/05

Don't include me
I don't mind
You're not special in your kind
There's more like you
All around
When you talk it's just a sound
Talking, saying
Nothing ever
I say nothing but it's better
So you fill my
Consciousness
With dreck, hoping I won't suspect
That underneath your
Life of gold
Your soul is starving in the cold
Your intellect's
A dusty well
A wasteland and an empty shell
Carbon copies
All of you
Rank and file, John and Sue
When your home is
Dark and brown
Three feet broad and six feet down
Will a man or
Will a child
Whisper your name with a smile?
Or will Eight-two-
Six-three-oh
Come out to replace John Doe?
Take your pity
Back, and here's
Some of mine to put with yours
Better to be
Thought a fool
Than a robot with no soul.

"Love's a Tyrant"--3/19/04

Before have I loved without knowing why.
I have supposed that Love in her scheme knew
A purpose greater than the mind of I,
That bound I was. But bound--not I nor you.
It's said the chains of love are 'passing light
But slaves in fetters light will still be bound.
If golden fetters forbade you from sight,
Forswear would I the gifts of light and sound.
If Love's a tyrant that she keeps us twain,
That jealous name should both of us renounce
Which, with renouncing, would we quit the pain
That long diverts us from what truly counts.
-----It's your face, not hers, from which I do drink,
-----And your voice, not hers, teaches me to think.