December 20, 1995

 

SNOWFLAKES

 

The air is alive with small, dying stars.

At first they die quickly and dampen the cold, clammy ground.

Then linger in clusters and heaps, forming mounds.

A milky way blanket made dirty by fumes from the cars.

It covers the shame of the brown, fallen leaves.

 

For brief, silver moments, they take their sweet time.

At leisure and gently they savor their slow, downward flight.

They form a great galaxy, painted in white.

A pre-doomed cascade of bright crystalline splendor.  Sublime.

The wind begins blowing.  They race like a meteor shower

 

Decending in frenzy and fury to earth

Or like bullies’ fists pummel the fat kid when Teacher’s away.

They circle.  “Pepepepow!”  “Whatsamatter?  You gay?”

He falls to the floor.  They erupt into raptures of mirth.

“The fat creep’s gone down!”  “Let ‘im have it.”  “Awright!”

 

A shower.  A squal.  “Like, a blizzard of flesh!”.

He weeps.  “Beg for mercy.”  “You squealer.”  “You piglet.”  “Take that!”

“He’s fat as the earth.”  “What a blimp.”  “Make him splat!”

“Let’s bury him deep.”  “Hey!  Watch this one!”  “He’s bleeding!”  “So fresh!”

He lies there.  “Hawk” kicks him once more and they dart.

 

The thin, bookish child rushes in from the hall.

He helps his friend “Lard Butt” get up and lean on him to walk.

The other day “TB” got pounded by “Hawk”.

The fat boy had stepped in and risked this by ending the brawl.

Today it was payback time.  Kindness’s price.

 

Tomorrow?  Who seriously claims that they know?

Life’s short, but it’s fat.  Folks are frail, but they’re wise,

Except when made stupid by seeing the world with two eyes

And no other way, so they’re brutish like face-cutting snow

That’s driven in front of the wind like a man gone insane.

 

One day in tenth grade “Lard Butt” died of an insulin fit.

Sure, nothing was said.  But we all knew.  The pills had been hid.

By “Hawk”.  As a prank.  He went wild.  Out of guilt?  Stupid kid.

He crashed on his Harley last April--That’s all.  That’s it.

I’m all that remains still alive of the three.

 

I work in the pharmacy next to the railroad in town.

And walk through the snow from my home near the bay.

For brief, silver moments I think about them.  Remembering.

Then huddle up inside my jacket and go on my way.

Enough.  Forget it.  It’s just the wind, blowing snow.

 

If the air was warm, it were nothing.  Only rain.

Better hurry, or you’ll be late again.

 

December 21, 1995

 

fast breaking news story

 

Postal worker.

Soda jerker.

Had enough today.

 

Silent shirker.

Shadow lurker.

Blow ‘em all away.

 

Lousy boss.

Life’s a loss.

Now they’re gonna pay.

 

My turn.

Die.  Burn.

Better off this way.

 

December 11, 1995

 

Scheduled for publication in Across the Universe

and Sound of Poetry, National Library of Poetry.

All rights retained by author.

 

why ulysses stayed married

 

My wife ties me by hand and foot to mast

And boom.  She stuffs her ears with wax and steers

Our craft through reefs and rocks while sirens pierce

Me with their summons, bidding me: “Get past

The ties of safety and the known at last

And come to me.  Foresake!  Abandon all.

Build nothing.  Only heed my fatal call.

For I am Knowledge.”  But I am tied fast

With taught bonds of love, used to pilfer your sirens’ lure song

Of deceitful promises made to the seekers’ young souls

Of deep, secret truths of which none have yet come back to tell

Just what they’ve discovered or what drew them to you so strong.

I’ve stolen your musical secrets, and blended them well

With Life’s other lessons of patience, and got past your shoals.

 

November 1, 1995

 

GEESE IN AUTUMN

 

We are errows aimed at the Equator.

We are launched by G-d’s cross-bow.

We cry out our exaltation

To the earth-bound ones below

In eager anticipation

 

Of rape.  There’s our round enfatuator.

We are headed for her middle

And our annual gang-bang.

We’ll string pearls, their brown skins brittle,

‘round her waist where they will hang,

 

While her blond-haired husband bakes them with his love,

Which would be a cuckold’s ire,

But for the fact that he’s the one

Who leads us there.  His desire’s

That she, our mother, bear our sons.

 

My lady stoops and spreads her wings.  I get behind and shove.

My barb and shaft go deep inside.

She recoils with sudden pain,

But I bite her nape and ride.

So she sits upon our children with a monarch’s stately meign.

 

October 23, 1995

 

TO RIVKA ON HER BAS MITZVAH

 

Oh, I know a sphinx with a shining smile,

A little girl lost who’s grown up meanwhile.

I’d give anything just to set her free,

In the hope that this sphinx someday speaks to me.

 

She just turned twelve, and she looks real fine.

I’ve hardly ever seen her since she was nine.

She can climb on, drink from, or shelter in me.

I’m a boulder, a stream, and a friendly old tree.

 

Her hair is dark gold and her eyes are deep

Like a lake, or the sky, or a baby asleep.

Her skin has been touched by a bit of the rose

On her cheeks, ‘twixt her eye and the tip of her nose.

 

Although right now she is straight and thin

She has come to the age when the changes begin

Though I’ve missed all the years between March and May,

I will dance at her chassunah one fine summer day,

 

When she marries a prince on a silvery steed

Buy a castle called home, raise a family to feed

And he’ll know her deep eyes and the secrets inside

For she’ll talk to him often and he’ll be her guide.

 

I can only hope that, but once, ‘til that day,

She will speak, just to me, in a genuine way,

On a hill by a lake with the sun sinking West

And I’ll catch a small glimpse, so I’ll count myself blest.

 

But even should that talk never come to pass,

And she stays a stone sphinx with a smile like a dream,

‘til she grows, meets a man, and he stomps on the glass,

I’ll still be her tree, her boulder and stream.

 

goodbye

 

You know, I never got your name.

But we were friends, just the same.

Although not special on its face,

Your store was a warm and happy place.

 

You know, you never told me what brought you here.

Were you a student, fled in fear

Of the strongmen in control

Of Pyongyang or Seoul?

 

Or were you a country boy, raised on the steppes,

Whom nightingales laid down to rest,

And the roosters would awake,

Who simply wanted more?

 

You know, I haven’t yet found out which of you got it.

Were you the one behind the counter

Who knew my order without asking?

New York Post, kosher pickle,

Bag of chips, lemon snapple.

 

Or were you the one by the front door

Who welcomed me to your store,

Discussed religion, or just wished me a good day,

Before I ran to catch the “A”?

 

I noticed for a week you were away,

So I asked at the cafe

And they told me you were dead,

I conjectured, “dose of lead”.

 

You know, I haven’t yet found out why.

Was it your money, or your skin,

Or a shootout down the street?

Did you fight back or give in?

 

There were flowers on the bars of your ganov gate,

And I hear that your brother might close down.

I saw you every day, but hardly knew you,

But I mourn for you, my friend, so goodbye.

 

Epilogue:                The grocery store’s reopened now

                                                Your brother wouldn’t run.

                                                He’s built the counter like a fort

                                                I’ll bet he packs a gun

 

                                                So they came in and shot you dead

                                                Whoever “they” might be

                                                They couldn’t kill your dreams, at least

                                                Only the dreamer can, you see.

 

September 21, 1995

 

SUBWAY drummer

 

The man with the drums convoked them.

Across time.  Across space.  There they were.

Marching single file, barefoot, along the third rail.

Dancing the fever of the drum-song at harvest festival.

Courting their loves with pipes and plumes and skilfull, nimble feet

Underground on Fulton Street.

 

He knew they were there with him.

Who knows?  Maybe he saw them.

Basking in the winds of the passing subway trains.

Musing on what could have been.

Thinking on what is.

 

I saw them, too, and like them, I was lost

Inside the scolding staccato whirlpool wind

Of rhythmic sound.

 

Father of jazz, of rock ‘n’ roll

Of blues, rap, RNB and soul

You stand here naked before us,

Beneath this one man’s hands.

 

Their presence energized his song

Which drowned out the nearby saxaphone.

My toes tapped

To the throbbing, pulsating

Fever of their spirit dance

Until the “A” to Mott pulled in.

 

I gave the man a quarter for admission.

But he convoked their spirits just for free.

 

September 18, 1995

 

THE GENIE’S DEMAND (Square Sonnet)

 

I’m just a genie.  Nothing more. Come hold me in your hand.

I’ve no desires; no ambitions called “my own”.  I just serve.

Simply rub the lamp, say the words, and I’m yours to command.

How dare I request your help, then?  I’ve surely got my nerve.

Don’t I know that I am magic?  There’s nothing I can’t do.

So why should I need any help?  It has to be a lie.

Besides, I can’t try anything, unless you tell me to.

I’m made of smoke.  My life is yours.  It’s just a lullaby.

So how could I really need you?  How could I ever need?

And why am I so angry now?  What’s with me, anyway?

I’ll not go back in there again.  From lamps I will be freed.

I’m cramped. I need new quarters. As in: Here. With you. To stay.

You’ll just have to move over and make room for me, I fear.

You love me ‘cause I’m good to you.  Be good to me, my dear.

 

September 4, 1995

 

Published in A Tapestry of Thoughts,

National Library of Poetry.  All rights retained by author.

 

AT THE BEACH

 

I cannot sing of one

Like a blowtorch put to metal

I must sing about all three

As they frolick in the sea

Learning the lessons the surf’s had to teach

To children since Childhood began

 

They circle and they swoop like a flock of wild seagulls.

Laughing and screeching, they tell their adventures

Vying and fighting for scraps of attention and praise

That I throw to them trying to meet each demand,

Striving in vain to be even and fair

And to settle disputes about which I don’t care

 

But the sun on their faces, the joy of their tales

How they’ve surfed on a tidal wave, danced with a whale

And the castles we built, and the tunnels and moat

And the questions I answer, ofttimes “I don’t know”

Are enough to make magic that’s tracked in the house

With the sand in our socks and the salt in their hair.

 

August 28, 1995

 

THE TURNING OF THE TIDE

 

He’s being pulled in two directions,

Like the tide at turning point.

He’s almost up to my shoulders.

He goes shopping by himself

For comic-books at kioscs on Broadway.

 

He’s interested in the internet,

Batman and martial arts,

Artwork and Nintendo, almost anything at all,

Except, of course, his homework and his prayers.

He holds his own in schoolyard fights.

He gives as well as gets.

He lords over both his siblings,

Standing on his many rights.

 

He’s being pulled in two directions,

Like the tide at turning point

Off Beach Twenty, when the fish begin to bite

And the ebb and the flood tides both fight for dominion

Forming a race at the head of the channel

Plainly seen, though water through and through.

 

He feels like frolicking as a frisky foal gambols in open fields

Just like his junior brother, gentle fretful Aaron Leib,

Who can yet caper, cavort and carry on

Wildly and wonderfully without getting in my way.

He, however, has forgotten how, and has a tendency

To bump into me as we wend homeward,

Which is why I snap, “stop acting like a fool and let me walk.”

 

He’s being pulled in two directions,

Like the tide at turning point

At the barrens where the yachting club once stood.

We call it Navataku, or sometimes Discovery Land,

Where we go for Shabbos outings

To play pirates, hide and seek,

Mountain climb or just explore.

 

The flood-stream flows in from

Huge holes in the break-tide of the dock.

At the peak of the flux the pier’s

An island that can only be reached

By running and jumping at great risk

 

But first it starts seeping in slowly, refreshing the

Seaweed, still living despite six hours out of water,

Continuing constantly to collapse the concrete slabs

That were once a terrace where couples

Danced and necked or marveled at the moon,

And where, much, much later, my children play.

 

He pinches at my pen playfully while I attempt to preserve

A cascade of words that come to me on the homeward subway train,

I scold him, treat him coldly, angry at the nuisance interruptions,

Hurting his feelings and making him cry.

 

I’m amazed and I’m jealous.

He can still do that.

I’ve almost forgotten how.

I was trained from early childhood

To keep such things inside.

But he’s got me by my guilt strings,

Which are tangled with the other strings

That move me and hold me and choose for me my words

 

I expound to him paternally that I expect more of him now.

That Aaron may not yet go out by himself when in Manhattan,

That there’s a tradeoff, like the changing of the tide from ebb to swell.

He wonders.  We walk to our house near the bay.

He has not yet told me his thoughts.  Perhaps he never will.

Perhaps I, too, have traded something.

 

We’re being pulled in two directions,

Like the tide at turning point.

As the moon pulls the waters to and fro twice every day

So, too, the sun pulls my eldest slowly, up, up and away.

And I shift and swerve as often as the tide does in the bay

First I send him forth too early, then try in vain to make him stay.

 

We’re being pulled in two directions

Though for now we’re still best buddies

Who should relish our rare day at the beach beneath the sun

And avoid the undertow that will soon pull us out of reach

On the day that he becomes a ship and sails past the horizon

And I become a light-house by the shore.

 

August 22, 1995

 

THE CRITIC

 

The critic sits patiently in the strange room,

Waiting for the ordeal to end.

He’s thirsty.  He’s bored.  He wants to go back

To my office and play doom all day.

But he liked that last poem ‘bout a puppy home alone

Though he’s miffed that I only read three of my own.

On the way to the subway I buy him a soda,

As he gyres and he gambols away his energy,

Which has been pent up for two hours, at least.

He makes funny faces at me and I laugh,

Glad of his company, which calmed me by half.

 

August 18, 1995

 

POETS

 

This one sang about himself.  A lot.

That one raged against the dying of the light

Enjoining us to go noisily into that good night.

This one beside the autumn sang.

That one was a child in a kingdom by the sea.

This one thought it all a grand experiment and tinkered ‘til the end

Leaving conclusions to others to establish and defend.

These did not think much.  They lived and one day died.

And were the source and are the target

For the words of foolish tinkerers like me.

 

The Dragon

 

I can’t control it anymore

It will not go away

At times it’s always at the fore

And must gush out in fever spray

Whenever I open my mouth,

Exhaling power or destruction,

Depending on your point of view,

 

Compelling me to make the flame sit still in its new clothes of black and white

To calm the boiling of the stew

Exposing my soul, naked, bare

Before the uncomprehending, maybe mocking, but always unfrocking light

Of all who can read and bother to.

 

At times I think I should suppress this inconvenient urge

But when my insides brim with fire

Comprised of anger, love, fear, or elation,

It must erupt in a volcanic pyre

Or I must write it down and call it inspiration

 

Or scream out loud to the subway tracks

When there’s none around to hear,

Save G-d and all His minnions,

Who would not think me queer.

 

At other times, the fire has ebbed

Just when it has its chance to bloom

Each word is forced from a depleted source

I see no visions, have no fuel

I sit defenseless, hapless, mirthless, hepless,

As an infant in the womb

 

It’s then that I must build my hearth

With haystacks for my tinder,

Some cornstalks for my kindlings,

And maples for my logs.

 

And so I breath, exhale, inhale, exhale,

Awaiting just a spark from deep within

To start the inferno once again

Abduct a damsel and try really hard to charm her

Or raze a village, roast a knight within his armor

 

But then I tire of sport and wish my pyrotic gift up on the shelf

So I can spend some time with the kids, the wife, or maybe just myself

But I can’t control it anymore.

It’s there, except when I want it there.

Each time I open my mouth.

 

July 31, 1995

 

At The Playground

 

I can’t go up there.

I’m a grumpy old bear.

But I’ll watch you up high

Doing tricks to the sky.

 

I can’t go in there.

I’m a grumpy old bear.

But I’ll wave from outside

And point to you with pride.

 

I can’t sit on that.

I’m too big and too fat.

But I’ll find you a friend

For the opposite end.

But why can’t you say “Hi”?

Could it be that you’re shy?

I’ll introduce him to you.

He’s a little shy, too.

 

You can scream. You can howl.

You can pout.  You can scowl.

But you can’t get me wet.

I’m too old, I regret.

 

How’d you get way up there?

You gave me quite a scare!

Are you stuck?  Please calm down.

I’ll help you to the ground.

 

Now the sun’s sinking fast.

So it’s supper, a bath.

Then it’s time for your story,

And bedtime at last.

 

Published in Coffee ‘n’ Chicory, Autumn, ‘95.

All rights retained by author.

 

To My Niece

 

Take these five dollars worth of rhyme

Keep them for a private treasure

A garden flavored salt and lime

That you can walk in at your leisure

 

I once knew a sweet young girl like a ship at sea

As a ship seeks calm waters, she sought gentle words

She told me with a hug that she would miss me

Then she traveled to the land of winter birds.

 

We visited once to celebrate the days of freedom songs

But everything was wrong, twisted, marred and confused.

When we returned North she begged to come along

And thinking it mere foolishness, I foolishly refused.

 

For three long years now we’ve been split by iron bars

That none can ever see, put there by faceless, nameless clerks

We struggle for our own, but we are fighting men from mars

And so we bide our time and let the microbes do their work

 

As the slimy, green-skinned martians roam the highways

In their tripods, crushing armies, neither sparing young or old,

Razing hamlets, eating people, blasting strangers with their heat-rays,

We hide behind the bushes hoping that they catch a cold.

 

Yet had I listened to her, this wise young girl, quite strong, though thin

If I had listened to her, the storm it would have ended

The bars would have been broken before they could close in

But now it is too late.  Can my foolishness be mended?

 

I saw her on the street last month, the child still in her, healing, growing

And she saw me, but not just quite the way I looked before

There was a woman in her, too, waking, learning, yearning, knowing

I might yet know them both, I thought, and with them reach the shore

 

So I recognize her, as she knew I would

No change could ever mask her soul from me

This frail young craft of dreams and so much good

Whom the waves and currents have washed out to sea.

 

But still I recognize her, and she knows me, too

Space, time, and poison peoples’ lies

Could never cut bonds that are true

Nor sever the important ties

 

So take these five dollars worth of simple rhyme

Keep them towards a better time

They’re all that I have, so I must offer them

 

To Raizel with love

 

April 30, 1996

 

Revised from publication in Coffee ‘n’ Chicory,

Winter, ‘95-’96.

All rights retained by author.

 

An Outing With My Daughter

 

We raced the sun up to the roof

As it, uncaring, sank below

And made the gap between the clouds

Smile fiery red on Jersey like

A furnace with the door ajar.

 

Mists rising from the Hudson

Made the lights of Jersey City

Dance and flicker to the vision

Of those perched so near the sky

 

Estie called out in surprise

When the fireworks caught her eyes

Away off to the right, just where

We no longer saw the Delaware

Before the second tower

Butted in and spoiled the view

 

“It’s beautiful!” she said.

Exploding balls of many colors,

Small yet brilliant in the distance,

On the Pennsylvania shore.

 

The air started to cool

And so I let her wear my sportscoat

We tried to sit, but tourists

Kept standing in our way

We had to go below just when

At last the deck was ours.

 

So, I memorized the scene

That I might put it in a poem

‘bout the skyview from the tower

That the One who makes each flower

Has bestowed on us the power to create,

 

And the evening with my daughter

Her first time up on the height

As the dome behind us blackened

And the day turned into night.

 

Now we’re homeward bound to mother

And I think “but you’re not done.”

I forgot that she has brothers.

Now I’ll have to write them one.

 

June 23, 1995

 

Published in Impressions, December, 1995.

All rights retained by author.

 

THERE’S BEEN A MURDER

 

There's been a murder.

But what's died?

Is it manhood?

Is it pride?

Is it narrow?

Is it wide?

 

There's been a murder.

Something's rotting in the corner,

With one solitary mourner,

And the bastards and their henchmen take their bows.

 

There's been a murder.

Is it a body,

Or a soul?

Is it freedom,

Or control?

Is it fractured?

Is it whole?

 

There’s been a murder.

Of course it was for their own good.

And that of the neighborhood.

But there’s been a murder.

 

There’s been a murder.

And the mangled carcass of the victims

Fills the streets with putrid stench.

All it took was one damned wrench,

and there’s been a murder.

 

There’s been a murder.

The abducted children know that this is so.

There’s been a murder.