December 18, 1996
DEBRIEFING, 1797
Ah...Beggin’ yer lardship’s pardon, but
There must be some mistaek, I thinks.
I spoke to ‘im yestidae on the moor,
I did, along Quantock wae. ‘e lagged
Be’ind ‘is friend, the one ‘oo ‘ad been
In France an’ talked sum’at like a Scotsman.
‘e was lookin’ up at a tree, taekin’ notes
In a copy book, ‘e was, ‘round a bend.
I practiklee bumped into ‘im an’ begged
‘is pardon. ‘e sez back to Jack ‘ere
“Think nothing of it, good man. From Bath,
Are you? So’s my wife, G-d bless ‘er.
Drops all her aitches, too. That’s how
I know. Dear Sara, slaving away
Over a laundry kettle, dropping
Her aitches as she toils and sweats,
Little Hartley teething on her calves...”
‘e went on in that strain, sir, for a while.
Then ‘e starts talkin’ Greek, or sumsuch,
An’ I interrupts ‘im. Sez I, “Well, then,
Sir, whatever would bring you ‘ere,
To this Gawd-forsaeken moor, a-starin’
At trees an’ writin’ an’ such?”, I arsks ‘im,
“Oughtn’t you to be ‘ome with the missus?”
“My dear fellow”, ‘e replies, “I’m engaged in my
Employment”. And then ‘e goes back to writin’
An’ starin’ at the blessed tree.
“Eh? Come again, guv? What’s that?”
“This, sir, is my employment. D’you mind?
I’ve got work to do. Move along and let me
To it.” I begins again. “Sir, please
Forgive me ignerince an’ all,
But-” “Very well. You may deem your rather
Obvious ignorance pardoned, sir.”
“Yes?...And?...Ahem! May I in any way
Be of service to you, you gawking twit?”
“Well, sir, I was just, lyke, curious, you see-”
“Just curious, eh?...I believe I do see.
Curious of what, might I ask? Prithee say.”
W-why, I just would lyke to know...” “Quickly!
I’m a busy man. You’d like to know what?”
“W-what your occupaeshin myte be!”
“Isn’t that obvious?” “No, sir. It aren’t.”
“It isn’t?” “Alls I sees is you,
A-starin’ up at a tree, sir, beggin’-”
“Beg my pardon once more and I shall
Withold it. Dunce! Ignoramus! I’m a poet!”
“Oh-oh! I sees! Like wut wrytes for the Krunikle?”
“Yes. Perhaps you’ve read my work?”
“Oh, I myte ‘ave. I lykes to read po’try sum’at.
What myte be yer naem, sir?”, I arsks ‘im.
“None other than Samuel Taylor Coleridge”,
‘e sez an’ bows fancy-lyke, “at your servi-”
Then ‘e braeks down an’ coffs ‘isself ‘oarse.
Near falls on ‘is faece, ‘e does-Get on with it!
What happened next? I ‘elped ‘im back
To ‘is feet, sir, an’ after ‘e stopped coffin’,
I sez, “The Sammule Coltridge?” ‘e sez “the same”.
Sez I, “I ‘ave yer book”, I sez.
‘e sat down on a mossy-stump
An’ took a bottle from ‘is coat,
Then measured out a dose wif a dropper
An quaffs it, a smackin’ of ‘is lips.
“Truly?”, ‘e replies an’ coffs
Once more, “which was your favorite?”
The one abowt that scowndrill, Pitt”,
Sez I, “I ‘opes them Frenchies win
An’ puts ‘im on their gill-o-tin,
‘im and the lot o’ them blue-blood barstids!”
Capital. Excellent. How’d he reply?
Tha’s just the fing, yer lardship, sir.
‘e sed, “Dear fellow, leave it out.
Most surely I do censure Pitt,
But that’s the full extent of it.
To think of Frenchmen on yon beach,
Invading, looting, lopping heads;
Why, how un-Brittish! How un-Christian!;
To hope for such poor things--For shame, sir!”,
And in truth I felt ashamed
For so sayin’. ‘e’s not a Jacobin,
I am quite sure, yer lardship, sir.
Did he suspect? Most sartinly not!
I’ve served ‘is ‘ighness, the King for nigh
On Twenty years. Since Gordon’s riot.
‘ad me cover blown but twice,
An’ well I knows the feel of it.
Arfter ‘e sets me straet, ‘e starts talkin’.
Talks ‘imself a blue streak, ‘e duz.
If they’ve twigged you, they don’t saey a thing without
They’ve waed it, careful like, and they’re sher
That they’ve given you arbsilootly nothing.
I kin always tell when I’ve been spotted.
Very well, then. Here are your wages and coach-fare
Back to London. Will that be all?
Just one more thing, yer lardship, sir...?
Yes? To ‘oom would I apply for me pension?
Why, Jack, we’ve known each other for-I wants out
Of this ‘ere traed, see? But whatever for?
This Coltrij cove what you set me on,
‘e talked ‘imself a blue streak, see?
An’ I didn’t savvy not ‘aff of what
‘e said, it bein’ dictionary
Words, an’ Latin an’ Greeek, an’ all,
But now an’ then, I’d get a flash, like,
Of unnerstanding, an’ visions of
A strange new world, an’ then I’d see
That it were the same as this’n ‘ere
An’ I felt cheated. Cheated, you say?
Aye, sir. This Coldridj bloke, ‘e maed me
Feel cheated. ‘ere I am, yer lardship,
A strappin’ ‘ealthy man o’ forty-
Some-odd years, a-spendin’of me lyfe
Findin’ guilt an’ sedishin in folk what ne’er
Did me no wrong, a-sendin’ ‘em to Newgate
An’ the gallows, on ‘count of they trusts me, see?
Do go on, sir. An’ ‘ere’s this cauldrich,
‘e’s a young fellow, sickly and wif an ‘abit
For lardnum, an’ ‘im not thirty yet,
An’ ‘e’s spendin’ ‘is tyme a lookin’ fer byootee
In things I’ve been ignarrin’ me hole lyfe.
And therefore you wish to become a poet?!
Jack, old boy! You’re headed for Bedlam!
No, sir, yer lardship. It’s too laet f’that.
I knows I carn’t be no bloody poet.
But I wants to live a clean lyfe now, sir.
I cud’ve maed sumfink up abowt
Them two coves, that Coldtrick an’ ‘is frend.
Ye warnted me to, now di’n’t yer, sir?
I’ve done it before, arfter all, an’ whye not?
Take your money and leave, you...cur!
How dare you?! How dare you?! Now get out! Get out!
Yes, yer lardship.
Outside, the sun set over Bristol harbour
In rose-tinted splendour, the shrouds and the mast-heads dividing
The last rays of the day like pirates at their booty.
And Jack headed South.
December 11, 1996
CHANUKAH
The children are unruly with excitement.
Aaron wants to pour the oil himself,
And Esther wants to put the wicks in. Yitzchok,
The oldest, has to be the first to light.
I sing. They claim the dance contest is rigged
To spare their feelings. I insist it’s not.
By the light of burning oil and candles
They play at mystic convocations, chanting
Nonsense words and making claw-like gestures,
Turned to giant shadow-puppets on the walls.
The oil is on a cotton road that burns
With flames, forever reaching for the sky,
The wick unites the oil with fire that yearns
To be set free, returned to its first state.
The oil is all that keeps it on the wick.
Though it’s consumed, it keeps the flame alive.
The Greeks had power, war-skilled, mighty armies.
They lived to reason, understand, discourse,
And unify the world with their expanding
But still finite minds, absorb, encompass
All with knowledge, understanding, vision
Slowly growing, reaching ever higher,
More sublime, but always within reason.
That which they could not understand
They could not conquer, rule and make their own.
They tried to kill the sacrifice of lights,
And to replace it with a fire of their own.
Two brothers dance the story as I sing.
The older, one head taller, stronger, faster,
Karate chops and kicks the younger, smaller,
Weaker one, who stands and does not bow,
But waits his chance for one decisive blow.
They move to music, harmoniously fighting.
The Greeks falls down, defeated, sticks his tongue out,
Arms and legs up, like a dog plays “dead”.
The Maccabees now wields a t-square like
A hatchet, chops the Greeks up, clench-teethed grimmacing,
The Greeks slides down the stairs, lands at my feet.
The Maccabees, victorious, now dances.
He marches in a circle, t-square axe
Held high, his teeth still clenched. The singing ends.
“Who won?”, they want to know, the contest over.
“The Maccabees” is my reply. They laugh
And say “We both won!”. We watch the flames burn slowly,
Using up the oil. It climbs the wicks
And is consumed to keep the fire below.
Away from home they make the world more bright,
But weary for their source, consume their host.
The Greeks had music, language, knowledge, skills.
They could not tolerate a faith that rose
Beyond the walls of finite understanding.
They tried to stamp it out-the wicks, the oil,
The flames-to make it rational and tame.
They had the army that once marched with Alexander,
The wealth and power of Royal Agamemnon,
Odysseuss’ wit, Achilles’ prowess.
The Shepherds and the scholars in the hills
Had bows and axes, slingshots, faith in G-d
And trust in one another. Standing unbowed
They fought and ran, came back and struck again,
Defied the odds and beat them. Then they knew
That in the Temple sacred oils were not
Consumed by burning; just transformed to female
Waters bound for G-dliness. The flames
That are the soul of Man, That wearies for
Its source, can beat the tyrant laws of Nature
Every time the need arises, if we
Stand unbowed and light a candle in the night.
December 9, 1996
THE TRAMP’S FINEST HOUR
At first it seemed a film like those before,
A slapstic army scene, some camera tricks
With airplanes, only this time Charlie spoke.
Polite and English in the Kaiser’s soldat-kleiden,
He was knocked senseless and slept through history.
A man who sleeps for twenty years
Awakes to find the whole world changed.
He never was ground down by it,
So naturally rebels against
The degradation of the sign.
The little tramp was more awake than some.
He saw the danger in his doppel-ganger
On the screen-the newsreel footage-
Heard him speak, adored by multitudes-
Knew that the coin was his, was in his pudding.
He met a brown-shirt blue-eyed blondy
At a party. After introductions
Charlie would not shake his hand.
“You must excuse him. You see...Mr. Chaplin
Is a Jew”, the fat man said.
“I’m sorry but I haven’t got that honour”,
He replied and then went home
To plan his movie. He saw the sign,
Knew that the coin was in his pudding.
Across the pond, far from the bombing,
Charlie reached his finest hour.
The little tramp could no longer be silent.
The podium was there, the crowd, the mikes,
The cameras, Edgar Hoover, dark-eyed Hannah-
Somewhere there was a girl, a Jewess, Hannah.
It was for her that Charlie had to speak,
To tell the world of wicker canes,
Of gaily skipping in those shoes,
That ragged bowler, pirrouetting.
And quite by accident he’d kick
The bully in the pants and run.
He spoke for her, the dark-eyed Jewess, Hannah,
Who lay forlorn on some green hill-side somewhere,
A girl that he had never met, but loved,
And dreamt of nightly with a teenage starlet
In his arms, a G-man watching, yawning,
Eating pop-corn like he’s at
A silent movie, taking notes
And cursing Edgar, Charlie, drinking
Coffee, smoking fags and watching
Chaplin shag his latest sweet-heart.
But it was always Hannah that he loved,
The one of his dreams, who looked like “mum”
Before she lost her voice, went mad with hunger.
And it was for her he spoke,
Bereft of wicker cane and funny walk.
And when, at last, the voices of the crowd
Were changed from jeers and cat-calls into
Wonder at a prophecy of fire;
When Mankind for a too-brief and bloody
Hour, united, fought the beastly clock-work
Kings, somewhere there was a Hannah who
Arose, looked up, admired the brand-new
Wings, the clumsy first attempts
At flight, and answered Mister Jaekel’s
“Hannah, did you hear that?”, with
Hannah:
“Listen”.
November 27, 1996
BIG I, LITTLE U
I am I and you are you,
The side-order that comes with Me.
Without you I would be less I.
Without Me you’d be only you.
You’re here to make the main event.
You’re here to help; to back Me up.
So don’t tell Me that you are You.
Think what that does to Us.
We are We and they’re just them.
That “Us” is made of Me and you,
While they are simply her and him.
They aren’t part of you and Me,
And We are something else. We’re great.
The world is full of folks like them.
They all are someplace over there,
While We are over Here.
We are Here and they are there.
There’s no place quite like Here.
It’s close to Me. It’s where We live.
It’s Home for all its faults and flaws.
Those people over there have gall.
They act as though they think they’re Us.
They say that Here is someplace wrong,
But look at where they are.
I knew My Self when just a babe.
I bit My hand and noticed Me,
A subject, object, knower and the known.
Though you exist externally,
Without you I am incomplete,
My mirror, love and friend.
Through raptured electricity,
I am unto you and you are for Me.
Big I, Little u. Here are We.
December 5, 1996
SELF-PORTRAIT IN INK
What am I? A broken record?
A fat failure with a mortgage?
A forest of crystals and lightning
That sometimes make contact?
Gazelles heading for the hills
For refuge from the coming flood?
Am I multitudes of strangers?
I look like my brother, but shorter.
I talk like my father and mother at times.
I think like my sister used to paint;
Different shades of one pastel color-
Or is that like I’m dancing to
Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring?
A river out of which all creatures drink,
And where they squat and dump their loads?
Did my chickens cry their love for me
Before they met their bloody end?
Why do my children love me?
Why does my dog love me?
Does my wife love me?
And if so, then why?
Why? Why? Why?
What am I?
November 24, 1996
FOGGY AUTUMN NIGHT
The water and fog obscure
each other in the distance.
Green house-lights reflect eerily
In the night-black liquid mirror.
Liquorice blackness. Black of the Void.
The crickets next to autumn sing,
Complaining that they’ll die soon.
Up in the emptiness, small points of light
Are actually suns. Perhaps they have planets.
Do people stare up at us from outside
And think we’re just a point of light?
I walk the dog.
He contributes to the Earth.
In his small way.
November 19, 1996
NEW-BORN PUPPIES
The dark warm cave, the water-home, subsides.
I am ejected to a strange new home.
It’s cold and heavy and there are no walls.
My body feels the liquid, golden light.
The warm wet tongue of mother licks me clean.
I breath the air and yelp out Sound, surprised.
Mother, furry Mother of the Drink,
Waiting here for me in this strange place.
Where was she until now? She stands. I fall!
Where has she gone? I’m cold. I wanted more.
I try to swim. I’m heavy. Push and crawl.
I miss my brothers, sisters, warm-drink Mother.
Oh, Mother? Mother? Mother, where are you?
I search for you and touch the cold hard thing
That is not you. Where are you, Mother? Where am I?
A yelping came from over there.
A brother yelping - over where?
I follow on my stomach, swimming
In this strange new way to you.
O brother! Brother! Answer me!
Perhaps you know! Perhaps she’s there
With you! I hear you coming near!
We bump and wrestle in our quest.
Another over there. Let’s follow.
Follow! Swim this way! Another
From the warm, dark, silent, beating home.
Smells and sounds will guide us to her,
Fountain of sweet nourishment!
Pursue! Pursue the scent, the sound.
We seek the trail of playmates from
The warmth. At last! Here’s Mother’s side.
Sweet side of Mother! Let me past!
I had it first! This one is mine!
Take that! Now let me drink my fill.
I sleep on brothers, all of us
Surrounded by the warmth of the
Outside of our last home, who licks
Our faces, rests her head and sighs.
November 18, 1996
TO A RECEPTIONIST
Diana, lovely as the moon.
Your voice is its reflection
On placid waters,
Gentlely stirred into ripples
By the breath of a breeze.
Oh, and please tell your boss
That I called.
November 15, 1996
UNDELIVERED LETTER
This message will not be delivered.
I sit and await your reply.
The envelope’s lost and unopened.
It smothers my never-heard cry.
I perk up and send you another.
But know it will not reach your eyes.
A gulf has been built to divide us.
I sit here alone and despised.
But are you now with people who love you?
If you tell them your dreams, do they care?
The same sky over me is above you,
But my message can’t fly to you there.
November 10, 1996
TO A YOUNG POET
Where do we come from?
What makes us what we are,
We poets, tinkerers with the sound of speech?
I have no answers. Only the questions.
Somewhere, deep within the human soul,
Lies a switch that in some is left “on”.
Welcome to our company.
November 10, 1996
JUMPING ROPE
The pixy running in one place
sixteen, sev’nteen, eighteen, nineteen...
To rhythm set by spinning rope
Fifty three, fifty four, fifty five, fifty six...
Moves with a light and easy grace.
Eighty one, eighty two, eighty three, eighty four...
She oscillates with bobbing hair.
Ninety three, ninety four, ninety five, ninety six...
The joy of new successes lights her face.
Hundred one, hundred two, hundred three, hundred four...
November 5, 1996
EMMA AND GEORGE
Emma and I don’t need to talk much.
A look and a gesture are enough.
She knows me too well. I know her as well.
Emma and I don’t need to speak.
She’s hated me, loved me, cursed and blessed me.
Fifty years later she’s still here.
I have been cruel, been kind, been testy.
She’s made me sing, then cringe in fear.
I have been scorned, then been forgiven.
We’ve come to know each other’s minds.
It comes from fifty years of livin’,
Living through trials, the type that bind.
We’ve both grown old and grey together.
We’ve been through hunger, been through fat.
Now my face looks like scarred old leather,
But it’s still me she’s looking at.
I get a thrill from her direction.
I shelter in her by my side.
It’s something more than just affection.
It’s always there, can’t be denied.
Emma and I have no need for speaking.
Emma and I have outgrown words.
It’s been a while since our bed-springs went sqeaking.
Somehow that’s not so big a deal.
When we were young, I was a lusty lover.
She was a child who drove me wild.
But now we don’t need flesh-roads and bridges,
Now that we both are on the ledge.
One day we’ll make love in the Slumber;
Outgrow the need to see and feel.
One day we’ll lie down on the hillside;
Outgrow our substance, change and meld.
Emma and George are words to ponder.
How long before they mark our place?
How many storms will scar the marble?
How long until we are erased?
How long until we outgrow memory?
How long until we outgrow space?
Emma and I don’t need to talk much.
She sees my meaning on my face.
October 24, 1996
DAVID
I just cannot stop fighting the giant,
Though I’m armed with no more than a sling,
‘cause he stands there inviting defiance,
Daring me to step into the ring.
Though most times I get broken and beaten
And I’m carried away on a board,
I still hope for a shot to his forehead,
If I put all my trust in the Lord.
Though my wife warns me, ‘stay out of trouble’,
And my children implore me ‘don’t go’,
That damned giant must get his come-uppance,
And it all depends on how I throw.
He has ransacked the homes of our kinsmen,
And I know that our house won’t be spared.
So I cannot stop fighting the giant,
Even though, to be honest, I’m scared.
I’ll stand upon his lifeless corpse.
I’ll carry off his head.
The only way he’ll save himself
Would be if I were dead.
Though I’m only one man with a slingshot,
I’ll chase thousands with only one kill.
That’s why I can’t stop fighting the giant;
Because he won’t believe that I will.
October 8, 1996
WALKING THE DOG
The bushes rebuke us with wild, waving fingers.
The rain stings our faces and tells us, “go home”.
The surf sings the song of the ocean-in-harbor.
the wind leads my coat in a stormy-night waltz.
My stockings are soaked from the holes in my loafers.
My dog pulls the leash, looking for the right place.
For him I came out to the weeds by the water.
He circles and squats and then empties his bowels.
With him I can relish these wild autumn evenings.
We talk by just being, two friends of the night.
July 23, 1996
A PORTRAIT OF CHAIM IN INK
Small boy, quiet boy, wild boy lying in traction.
Keeping to yourself. Passively watching.
Hair like Harpo, face like Oliver Twist.
Who will buy this wonderful feeling? Let me fly!
Me-oh-my, I’d sure hate to lose it or its sting.
Sad-eyed boy, sailing away in the fog.
You talk now. But never a word to me. I’m lost.
You laugh and you play. But never with me. Just grow.
Small boy in traction, looking out sad-eyed and silent at me
From a hospital bed, never sharing your thoughts with me.
Sapling. Forget me. I’ll understand and smile,
So long as you grow straight and strong towards sunlight.
If you remember me, I’ll weep for fullness and joy.
Please come and see me when you are older and free.
I’ll tell you my story and you’ll tell me yours, if you like.
We’ll find some way to make our mutual acquaintance.
Right now they would read my letters. The martians would.
But they do not read poems, that have nothing to do
With ruling the world and collecting victims to feed on.
Chaim! Hear me! We’ve both been robbed of each other.
Please, sir, I want more.
September 26, 1996
TO SHARSKY ON HER BIRTHDAY
My love is like a tough old car.
It needs to be warmed up to start.
But it won’t quit on winter days
And leave you stranded on the way
To destinations of the heart.
It’s rusted, dented-paint is chipped.
It makes a jarring rattling noise.
It guzzles too much gas and oil.
Sometimes the rear-view mirror slips.
But it won’t fail on cold, dark nights.
More than a dozen years have passed
Since you chose my love for your own.
In those days it was sleek and fast.
Its hull was shiny, engine tuned.
Each line and curve was finely honed.
Though now its motor roars and whines,
Its brake-pads squeak, its tires are bald,
You know it now like an old friend;
Its moods and noise you understand.
An ugly, cranky, touchy car,
Inside of which you’ve traveled far.
Happy birthday with Love
DP & kids
August 29, 1996
GETTING MR. JONES OFF MY BACK
Co-author: Jerome A. Rambert
PART I - THE HONEYMOON
I remember my first toot of blow.
My whole body relaxed. It was awesome.
Like a view from Mount Everest’s peaks of white snow
At a turquois and orange sherbet two-layered dawn.
But, of course, that was some years ago.
The surprise of that first toot of blow
Simply would not repeat - It was awesome! -
Though the quest for it brought me through places, you know,
Where it’s hard to get out, and it’s sweetness to stay,
But I lived in the shade of my jones.
At first she was a great white goddess
An Aphrodites most immodest
Who was waiting, always there,
Always ready, always bare,
Always willing and fulfilling.
I never felt that she was killing.
She came because I asked her in.
She gave sweet bliss. She took control.
She owned me, body, heart, and soul.
She made me dance. She made me sing.
With her I could do ‘most anything!
For her I did ‘most everything.
I was happy with visions of silk.
I was happy with mountain-top feelings.
She would speak to me softly when holding her tight
And she’d ask if I loved her. I’d shout: “YES! WITH ALL MY MIGHT!”
Then she’d order me, “Take me again.
Right now.”
I no longer thought of eating.
I no longer thought of sleep.
I no longer thought of love-making
Or cleanliness or cash.
I just lived for my goddess the jones.
Well, Mr. Jones, he will lead you,
Make you stay in Shangralla.
You won’t notice how he bleeds you;
When he cuts you off from home.
PART II - THE DOWNFALL
I remember my first night in jail.
I was balled up and tense. It was awful.
Trying hard to play cool for the others who watched,
Mr. Jones closing in like a shark smelling blood.
My white goddess had changed to a man.
So I finally broke down and begged.
Like a baby I begged for a doctor.
Bowed and scraped on my knees with tears filling my eyes,
But the duty-sarge shrugged and kept telling me lies.
Said, “an ambulance should be here soon”.
Soon I gave up and rolled in the dust,
With a hand on my gut, sobbing loudly.
This big bald guy looked at me like crap on his shoe.
Like a fox stealing eggs he told me what he’d do.
Said “it only will hurt the first time”.
I’m not gonna tell you ‘bout that!
My wife made bail. OK?
Let’s make a long story short.
So I woke up in need of my dose,
Like a rubber band stretched to the limit.
I just got to let go or I’ll snap - where’s my dose?!
But, “no money, no honey. You pay if you play”.
And I kept shoving stuff up my nose.
And the habit was playing me out.
Like a fish on a line, getting winded.
My dear wife went and left me. My boss said “get out”.
And the landlord said “pay me” and changed all the locks.
So I lived on the streets. Un-about.
Well, Mr. Jones, he will lead you,
Make you stay in Shangralla.
You won’t notice how he bleeds you;
When he cuts you off from home.
There I stayed, all alone, with my jones.
And she made me forget all my sorrows.
I’d get lost in the forest of infinite tones,
Looking into minuteness, perceiving new worlds,
Then go beg, like a dog for a bone.
I no longer woke up feeling blue.
I no longer lay down feeling happy.
I’d just be either high or a-hung’ring to do
Just another good line and get stoned - then I’d feel!
I’d be numb when the stuff had passed through.
Your inner mind is pleased
When your conscience is but teased,
Until you need a fix.
It’s a terrible thing inside
When your natural high has died.
PART III - THE DECISION
So I wandered around like a rock,
Without strength of my own, rolling downward,
Unless someone would lift me and take me uphill
And wake up in me things that the jones couldn’t kill.
Then I’d walk like a man once again.
But it seemed that would not come to pass,
And I lived like a rat in a barnyard,
Stealing grain from the chickens and eating their eggs,
Watching out for the dogs, making do with the dregs,
When she found me, invited me home.
Well, Mr. Jones, he will lead you,
Make you stay in Shangralla.
You won’t notice how he bleeds you;
When he cuts you off from home.
So I went up the stairs for a dime,
That she’d give me or lose when her back’s turned.
I was so damned strung out from the dope all the time,
That I thought like a fungus; just how to get past.
I did not even see she was fine.
Then she kissed me and called me by name.
Just a simple kiss. No sugar in it.
I’d forgot how that was. I just stood there and bawled.
My kid sister had found me and now I recalled
Who I was and saw what I’d became.
Your inner mind is pleased
When your conscience is but teased,
Until you need a fix.
It’s a terrible thing inside
When your natural high has died.
And she held me and wouldn’t let go.
She said, “Stay. With my help you can beat it.”
For a moment dead hopes were alive once again.
For a moment I felt! that I’d walk among men,
But I just shook my head and said, “No.”.
She said “why?” and I shoved her away.
And I emptied her purse for a rummage.
She said, “Getoffa that! You’re my brother no more!”
I took off like a shot through the still-open door,
Thinking, “Shoot! Well, at least I got paid”.
Well, Mr. Jones, he will lead you,
Make you stay in Shangralla.
You won’t notice how he bleeds you;
When he cuts you off from home.
So I went to the man with my dime.
But somehow I just couldn’t give over.
The hunger was on me and here was the dime.
The man had the junk and the man was on time.
I just turned and went back to her crib.
I came back, but she saw me and slammed.
I just stood there and took it, not minding.
She taunted me cruelly, “You come back for more?”
I mumbled, “I’m sor-”-“Slip it under the door.
That’s a ‘sorry’ that I can accept”.
Your inner mind is pleased
When your conscience is but teased,
Until you need a fix.
It’s a terrible thing inside
When your natural high has died.
Well, I swore up and down I was nuts.
But I slipped the cash under the doorsill.
When she opened I stood there and asked to come in
And she said “Why, most surely”, and slapped me some skin.
I would stay and we’d fight Mister Jones.
PART IV - THE BATTLE, DAY ONE
It was evening. We talked until dawn.
I felt like I could take on an army.
With my sister beside me, I’d do no more wrong.
For the first time in years I felt happy, felt strong.
But by morning the battle was joined.
First I noticed the dope wasn’t there.
Like a rubber band stretched to the limit.
I just got to let go or I’ll snap - give me dope!
But kid sister held out. You won’t give it-You bit-...
...I remembered and settled back down.
Then my body would shiver a bit,
And my stomach would heave without retching.
I would tense up. Relax. Pace the floor for a while.
Feeling cold in July, pace the floor, settle down.
Then the burn in my guts started in.
I could taste it - the acid - inside of my mouth.
I could feel it - the burning - the craving - the need!
I could feel it deep down - feel it gnaw on my feet.
I could hear it take over my head and my hands.
I could see it in front of my face - see it sneer -
See it make me get up - try to shake it - the fear!
But he simply sat there with his cynical leer,
Biding time, with his legs crossed, he’d twiddle his thumbs.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
My whole body would ache. Not at ease anywhere.
I would shift for position; roll over, stretch out;
Curl up into a ball, try my stomach, my back,
But no matter the angle, I could not relax.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mucous ran from my nose. Water flowed from my eyes.
And my bowels would break. I had no strength to rise.
Sister cleaned up the mess. She kept telling me lies.
How I soon would be free of this demon inside:
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Every noise became major. The sirens. A mouse.
Firecrackers outside. Just the tick of a clock.
I would cover my ears, dig a hole in the couch,
To escape from the noise and the craving inside.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
PART V - INTERLUDE
Mr. Jones is a he-she; convertible gender
When you do what she wants, a most generous lender
But sooner or later the balance is due.
She transforms from a lover into a cruel shrew,
But she still has the stuff, and the stuff still has you.
So you keep coming back to her side.
But defy her and she is a man.
A most powerful man and a bully.
He will tie you in knots, stretch you out, squash you flat.
He will break you in half, leave you food for the rats.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
A passerby, a visitor, a wife, and then the host:
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
PART VI - THE BATTLE, DAY TWO
So the second night crawled like a snail.
I just had to get sleep - It was awful!
The whole world was unreal. I was trapped in his cave.
He was punishing me like a runaway slave,
Tearing me with his razor-sharp combs.
I just had to get sleep to get strength.
But I couldn’t keep still for a minute.
I would hope in the dark that I could see a ghost;
Something stronger, at least, than my disgruntled host,
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones,
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
AiiyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And I prayed for my death then and there.
I was praying for something each minute.
And the time passed so slowly - I just couldn’t sleep!
But I needed my strength for day two - Got to sleep!
And my eyes wouldn’t shut from the pain.
Sister tried to massage me. I pushed her away.
She would read me a story. I’d cry and I’d pray,
Living in a dark hole with no light at the end.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
But I knew she was out there for me.
Somewhere deep in that hole I could feel it.
As my skin tried to get up and walk on its own,
And my legs felt like rubber, all flesh and no bone,
I knew sister was there, but outside.
On the wall was a ten dollar bill
I had earned at my first job that summer.
I was only sixteen and I felt I was rich,
With a future ahead - felt I’d found my true niche -
So I saved it. My dad had it framed.
And I stared at it there on the wall,
Thinking back to that beautiful summer.
And I’d fight the temptation - to shatter the glass!
And run down to the man for to make a purch-ASS!!!
...Settle down. Never barter your soul.
And that temptation made me hold out.
In the dark of the tunnel I’d falter.
“There’s no light at the end!”, I would cry in despair,
Cursing sister outside, for I knew she was there.
I would curse her for loving, for trying to care.
I would flail at her wildly to hit her somewhere.
She would keep out of range. I would curse and I’d swear,
As the temptation lent me its strength.
But inside of the tunnel I stayed,
Mr. Jones using me for a footstool.
He abused me at leisure. He was in no rush.
Grind his heel in my back. Rip my arm off for lunch.
Pound me into the wall with one hand. Hear the crunch.
And the pain was so bad I’d pass out.
I’d wake up and he’d be in my face.
No escape. No reprieve and no mercy.
“You are mine”, he would snarl with his animal voice.
“Give it up”, he would croon, “and I’ll love you once more”.
But to give up or not was my choice.
PART VII - INTERLUDE
Mr. Jones is a man of American scruples.
Never plays any favorites with his many pupils.
He will do with a black what he’d do with a white;
Shove him into that hole where we’re all colored night.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
No exceptions for color or creed.
No exceptions for wealthy or poor folk.
Once you’re locked in his den he will not let you go.
You are never quite free from the urge to do blow.
He just sits in the corner and waits.
You can beat him, but just for one day.
He will never give up or desert you.
The next morning he’s there, pleading, “Aw, just this once?”
He gets weaker in time, but the process takes months.
And you know he will never be gone.
But at first he is monstrously strong.
Even if you just snorted or ate it.
If you shoot it, though, he is like mighty King Kong.
There’s no way you can fight him. He’s simply too strong.
There’s no way you can beat him alone.
They say that if you last for three days,
After that, they say that you have made it.
But suppose he’s in deep after years of hard use?
Just suppose on day four he still hasn’t let loose?
In that case you will have to get help.
On day two I had learned how to last.
But I still was deep in that dark tunnel.
Trapped in there with a monster who held all the cards,
Saving one, my decision, the one thing I owned.
Just one small. flimsy card. not enough.
PART VIII - THE BATTLE, DAY THREE
On day three everything was much worse.
I kept begging my sister to shoot me.
She tied both of my hands to the posts of the bed.
She was tying my legs. I was begging for lead.
Then she stuffed a few rags in my mouth.
After that she collapsed in a heap.
She was worn out and couldn’t go further.
I was weak with the hunger. She had no more strength.
I kept try’n’ to escape through the windows, the walls.
So she had to stand guard over me.
As for me, at that point I was done.
I just wanted to run to my master.
I would have given in and done all that he said,
If I weren’t tied down hand and foot to the bed.
I was weary deep down in my bones.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones.
And he visited me in that bed.
I was helpless and he planned amusements.
Phased his hand through my guts and then made it turn real.
Gave a twist with a grin and said, “how do you feel?”.
Said, “it looks like I’ll be here a while.”
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones, Master Jones, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, Master Jones, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!
Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones.
Dentist drill. Dentist drill. All day long.
PART IX - DAY FOUR
On day four we both hoped it was done.
But I was too far gone on the habit.
I was begging and screaming, then quiet as death.
I would weep like a babe and then take a deep breath.
Then I’d make a mad rush for the door.
So the ambulance crew took me out.
Strapped me down to the stretcher to hold me.
Sister rode with me there and held me by the hand,
I returned her love-squeeze and said, “you’re my best friend”.
At the ER they gave me Morphine.
PART X - EPILOGUE
“The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew;
Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.’ ”
My sister read me many words
From many, many books.
But those few lines stay in my mind.
I hear them all the time.
At first I had no strength to rise.
I had no inner drive.
The dope had been my only high.
It picked me up and made me fly,
Then dropped me like a rock.
For years I lived for that brief lift.
My natural high was gone.
I was a ship becalmed, adrift.
It came back like the arctic dawn.
Six months it kept away.
And even now at times I cannot rise.
I have no strength, just like a puppet doll
Whose strings are cut. I want to stay in bed,
But know my duties. So I carry on
And force myself to act.
But other days the sun comes up and shines
Into my window and I open like
A flower in the Spring begins its morning.
I spread my arms and kiss my greeting to
The first rays of the sun.
“Since then at an uncertain hour,
The agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.”
A school-child or a wedding guest,
The sun, the stars, the moon.
All these have been my audience.
They listen, rise, and go their ways.
I stay and nurse my wounds.
I want to rise and be somebody new;
Not salvage from a shipwrecked life patched up
And made to float somehow. I’ll be renewed.
Somewhere, some day I’ll find a way to help,
To fix someone, something.
To rescue someone drowning, calm a child,
Or meet someone like me and help him beat
The junk, set someone free from Mr. Jones,
Or say good morning to a lonely man
And be his turning point.
My Morning Sun! “This soul hath been
Alone on a wide, wide sea:
So lonely ‘twas, that G-d Himself
Scarce seeméd there to be.”
But you look down upon the world,
On lonely ships with crews of one.
You’ve listened, silent, to my tale
A thousand times, and soared towards noon.
You do not know my burdens
And you do not know my cares.
I have to find someone, a friend
And hear his tales and tell him mine.
Forgive, console, support, depend,
Seek out and help to make amends.
I’ll jog until the playground now.
Perhaps I’ll find renewal there,
Or at the least watch children play
And use that for a high that lasts;
Sweet high of life that lasts all day.
BEDTIME STORY
It is time for Aaron’s story
And you have to get in bed
Right this instant. What’s the matter?
Did you hear what I just said?
Stop that fighting. Settle down now.
Listen quietly to me.
I’ll lend wings to these small letters
So they’ll fly into your dreams.
August 15, 1996
PROFILE AND FULL FACE
This one chose from Column A.
This one from Column B.
Neither of them were happy.
Neither of them were free.
Nobody really knew their names.
They never made the news.
They were known around the neighborhood
As Junkyard Dog and Blues.
Junkyard got shot in the head.
The Blues went to the joint.
Their lives were what they made them:
Short and to the point.
August 10, 1996
AMERICA
This land has its heart for a river;
A great river that shifts in its path.
It runs red, not with blood, but with Keynesian mud,
Raising ships with the riches of seasonal floods,
Or destroying them in sudden wrath.
This land has its heart for a river,
That inundates the lowlands each year,
Feeds the delta with silt from the prairies and hills.
It cannot be denied; gives and takes as it wills,
Like a monarch; to love and to fear.
This land has its soul for a river,
Only hampered by levies and dams.
It casts off the pretenders like fleas in the rain,
Sheds its bonds like wet paper and moves like John Wayne;
Striding tall, like a strong, simple man.
This land is a powerful river.
And we float down its stream on a raft;
Taste the sweet stolen fruits of true freedom by twos.
On the islands of friendship all are free to choose;
Bare our souls to a brother or sell him and laugh.
Kill the world with a button or grow it like corn.
And live with the decisions we’ve made.
Let the waters flow
Liberate the stream
Let the river run
Celebrate the dream
Of two souls meeting naked in the wilderness
And take off your skin.
July 31, 1996
A POET’S PRAYER
Lord, please leave me my voice.
Take it all. Strip me bare.
Just leave me my voice
To sing of my loss.
Please help me to see.
Keep the anger at bay.
Keep my vision free
To portray the choice.
Lord, preserve me my voice.
Give me wealth. Give me joy.
But leave me my voice
To praise and give thanks.
Please make my words flow.
I must sing or I’ll die,
So make the words flow
Like water downhill.
Lord, help me to preserve it.
Give me strength to resist
Every cruel, ugly urge
That injures my voice.
Lord, please grow me my song.
Bring the words, smooth and clear,
From deep, holy places;
More pure springs of soul.
July 25, 1996
SUBWAY DRUMMER, II
Your drum is not just Africa.
It’s that, but so much more.
The echoes of this man-made cave
Become your instrument.
Your drum has more than Africa;
More than the songs of ebon skins.
The wheels of metal pachyderms
Add their quick click-clicking
Into the melody.
Your drum was never heard on the Transvaal.
Your drum was never danced to on the Serengeti Plain.
Your drum did not send word across the Umzimvubu, the Tugela.
Never climbed mighty Kilimanjaro,
Never paddled up the Congo.
Those places never heard a sound like yours.
It is their child, student, teacher and friend.
Your drum has the footsteps of commuters in it,
The quarters tossed by men in business suits,
The rantings of bums, the screech of train-wheels,
Making new what is ancient and great.
The wealthy man hears it. The junky. The student.
The angry young man and the war-scarred old soldier.
The happy husband. The harried housewife.
The child knowing nothing but impulse and wonder.
The old man all-knowing, too late to amend.
They vibrate with its rhythm. They live by its song,.
Confronted by the inner warmth of fire beneath the city street.
Confronted by the fire ablaze both within and without,
Of their very own making. Each brings a log or a twig.
Fire suddenly musical, making the pulse jump.
Fire that can be touched, but does not burn.
The fire in the rhythm of the beating of the drum.
Your drum transcends the present and past.
It is the recoil-spring of the musical pistol,
Recycling the action, chambering fresh rounds
At the source of all song.
Awaiting only a choice and a spark
To send its load spinning at super-sonic speed
Into the heart of eternity.
July 23, 1996
SUNSET ON THE BAY
Dark clouds pursue the dusk.
The scarlet sunset casts
Their shadows on the bay.
It tints the waters gentle amber,
The afterglow of its departure,
Leaving soft pinkness in its wake
Up in the sky,
Which fades to black, sprinkled with stars.
The gentle green glow of flickering fireflies
Gives me glad welcome on my front porch.
I enter my kingdom in regal colors;
Orange-tinted sunset rolled out before me,
Like a red carpet that’s fading to star-studded black.
Over the waters the gentle glow weakens and wanes,
Followed by green-flicker lightning-bug courtiers
Who wish me good-night.
July 8, 1996
PORTRAIT OF SHANNA IN INK,
SONNET FOR A TWO-YEAR OLD BABE
Small Shanna with fiery hair like sunrise’s glow
From over a surfless ocean, viewed on a headland,
At the point where the wales near the shore and spout out their greetings.
They never slow down. Just go where they go to grow
So immense, small Shanna with fiery hair like the dawn.
You run in the mall, ignoring our call ‘til feeding.
Your face is a hundred watt bulb shining bright at midday
In a world of mere sixties and less. You are incandescent
With currents that meet on the bridge of your nose where they burn
In the neon of childhood; the glow of the uncluttered way.
Sweet Shanna with fiery hair and the effervescence
Of seltzer just opened and poured in a glass. I discern
In your two feet of height a bright light made of water and flame.
Sweet Shanna with fiery hair, who is never quite tame.
June 27, 1996
ON “PAYMENT” IN COPIES;
A CYCLE IN THE HAIKU FORM
(How I became a famous poet)
Lunge! Slash! Gush...gush...gush..
Collapse! Bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce.
Twitch. Convulse. Stiffen. (snicker)
Oops! Ruined the damn
Syllable count. But I just couldn’t
Resist that last bit.
Weeooo! Weeeoooo! Screeeech!
Cuff. Frisk. Shove. Slam! Vrooom! Type. Prints.
Pictures. Cell. Clang! Lock.
How do you plea, scum?
They paid me in copies, Judge.
Case dismissed. Clop! Next!
Yay! Autographs -Flash!
Talk show appearances! Cash!
Book deal. Movie deal.
June 6, 1996
SIMIAN HELPERS
How beautiful the world becomes.
When monkeys help humans in wheelchairs to live.
They have become human beasts; they give.
They choose. They choose to have a soul.
They have a job. They play a role.
How beautiful the world is made.
Man shapes it; brings it up to G-d.
He shares with them the breath of life
Bestowed on Adam and his wife.
Do simians find this fact odd?
Where is my pride? Where is my dignitee?
I wait on this poor helpless one
And do not ask my due of her.
She cannot mate. She cannot move
Or gather food.
But she’s my tribe
For all of that. My tribe is her.
She is my tribe. My tribe is her.
But where’s my pride? Why do I dance
And do her will? Why do I dance
this boring dance?
I miss the trees.
I miss the trees. I miss the sky.
I want to howl! I want to go
Aaa! Aaaa! AAAA! AAAA!
I want to break things with bared fangs.
I want to live in trees again
And get my own food. Right from the trees.
I want to throw my crap and pee
On elephant and buffalo
And laugh and run when they charge at me.
I want to skip away scot-free!
What does she give me? She cannot mate.
But I can’t run.
She needs me. She smiles.
I live for her smiles. I use the toilet for her smiles.
I give her the stick whenever she drops it.
I bring her the bottle of strange-smelling water.
I put the food and the drink down before her.
All for her smiles. That’s what she gives me.
Her smiles are my soul. I have a soul now.
She is my tribe. I love my tribe.
May 30, 1996
DOOMED BOYS
The doomed boys play out in the streets at night.
They box and wrestle, smoke or just hang out.
I pass them walking home from work in sight
Of my front door. They stop and check me out.
One of them knows me, greets me by my name.
I haloo back and nod. I made it past.
I don’t deceive myself. They’re all the same.
Condemned boys, doomed to die and grow up fast,
Quick-fused candles, flimsy wicked, they celebrate
July in May, December in June, and are gone
With all they could have been-too early, too late.
Grow slowly. Grow solid. Prolong the dying dawn.
When night falls dreams of “could-be” are no more.
I’ll pass you within sight of my front door.
May 13, 1996
FLASH-STORM IN THE SCHOOLYARD
The playground’s deserted.
I wait for it calmly.
A vast, bluish chasm, the blue of black smoke,
White horses in vanguard,
The forces assemble.
They’re angry and restless,
Urged on by their leader, the hard-driving wind.
I greet them serenely,
Look up at the blueness
And see that it’s greenish,
The color of vomit or tank-hulls or mud.
The columns manuever,
Deploying to flank and to center,
Then wait for the rear-guard to close up the square.
The scouts reconoiter.
A lightning-flash signals the troops.
A thunderclap answers, “We’re ready!”.
At first it starts slowly and gently.
But then the air fills with the H20 missiles of May.
I walk home at leisure.
My shirt hugs my body.
My socks and my trousers are both sopping wet.
The cold and the squishing
Can’t make me go faster.
I wave to my children
Who wait on the front porch
For me to return to our home from the storm.
For their sake I do it.
At least that’s what I think.
Perhaps I’m mistaken?
I moisten the soil with my wrath and my bounty.
I flame at the playground, deserted below.
For I am the storm and the lightning.
And the sound of the low-rumbling thunder’s
My voice, coming back to the front.
The playground’s deserted.
I sow dragon’s teeth in the rain and I wait.
Everyone talks about the weather,
But no one can change it.
April 29, 1996
The 60’s
The old revolution is over.
All the prizes worth winning are won.
The old revolution is finished,
And the day of its heroes is done.
The gallant young boys are now balding,
And the high-minded lasses are fat.
They begin to resemble their parents,
Who were once pretty gallant at that.
They believe in the cause of their struggle,
And remember dead friends from the war.
But should any young fellows have questions,
They abruptly are shown to the door.
For the goal was a powerful fortress.
And that fortress now lies in their hands.
Gone for good are the rulers before them.
But the blood-spattered fortress still stands.
And they, too, were just looking for justice.
And not they fired the first shots, of course.
And since they wanted nothing but goodness,
What’s it matter, the use of armed force?
For the rulers before them were cranky.
They had grown too accustomed to power.
They would not even answer a question,
Or tread softly when walking through flowers.
But somehow we are still not in clover.
Quite a few things are worse than before.
And the towers of the fortress hold captives.
And the young men aren’t young any more.
Heaven help us if we do not
Have a revolution every twenty years.
- Thomas Jefferson
April 25, 1996
LATE NIGHT SUBWAY RIDE
You boarded back at Fulton Street.
They got on after that.
Two shady looking fellows;
One a python, one a bat.
Those two gave you the creepy feeling.
You don’t know how, but it’s always right.
They both woke up the danger instinct;
The voice inside that cries out “take flight!”
They’re crowding you. Make your move this instant.
Duck this crew. There’s no point in dealing.
Switch your seat. Now just act all right.
Don’t be scared. Look up at the ceiling.
Stretch your legs out and be all right.
And keep your guard up on trains at night.
April 16, 1996
SPRING
It is the time for tilling furrows.
It is the time for planting seeds.
It is the time for smelling earth-scent.
It is the time for killing weeds.
It is the season of the rooster,
Much to the sorrow of the hen.
It is the season of the hatchling,
When all the cycles start again.
It is the time for all things ancient.
It is the time for all things new.
It is the time for creaking bed-springs.
It is the time to pray for dew.
It is the season of the ram-stars,
Equatorial hop-scotch,
Celebrations of Redemption,
Furtive scratchings of the crotch.
March 26, 1996
MARIA
Maria, we knew that you’d make it.
So I came in to see how you are.
The world dishes it out and you take it.
And soon all that is left is the scar.
You recall with a horror the coma.
You recount operations with fear.
Then you show me the scar and the trauma,
Which will probably be there next year.
And I tell you of my wife’s birth labors;
How she bears the knife marks to this day;
Giving life to three beautiful children.
And you say you’d prefer yours that way.
But you did, as I should have insisted.
You gave birth to yourself all afresh.
Without scars you’d no longer’d existed,
And abandoned us here with your flesh.
March 20, 1996
REQUIEM FOR A CAB DISPATCHER
Art Lonie has gone up to heaven
Where his heart beat no longer will tire
Though he’s pulled his last shift for the 7’s,
He’s now dispatching charriots of fire.
But down here by the subway we’ll miss him,
And his rich barritone on the horn
Like the voice of the Earth from a cavern,
Could It speak like a woman-child born.
Well, Art Lonie’s ascended to heaven
Where his unit broadcasts static-free.
He has pulled his last shift for the 7’s,
As we all do eventually.
He was not very rich, wise, or handsome.
He did not have a college degree.
But he always looked out for his drivers,
As perhaps he’s now doing for me.
So Art Lonie ascended to heaven,
And he picked up hot drinks on the way.
Though he will not return to the 7’s,
We will all get to see him some day.
March 18, 1996
JUST DO WHAT I SAY
AND NOBODY GETS HURT
They say that Men are strong and mighty.
They say them Men break and destroy.
But deep down at the roots of the strongest,
Every man is a scared little boy,
Reaching out to his lover at midnight,
Or the wee hours preceding the dawn,
Saying “Hold me, my mother, I’m frightened!”,
And she shoves him aside with a yawn.
And perhaps that was just what ailed Shaka,
Atilla the Hun, Genghis Khan;
They reached out in the darkness for comfort,
And their wives turned their backs with a yawn.
So if you want your man sweet and gentle,
If you wish he’d spent time with the kids,
Ladies, please, don’t drive your husbands mental,
Like Atilla’s and Genghis Khan’s did.
March 14, 1996
POLICE HORSE ON FULTON STREET
Who are these puny creatures?
They surround me and ride me like flies.
What are these metal monsters?
They growl and they menace like dogs.
Who is this on my back?
I remember this morning so clearly;
The barley, hay, water, and pill,
The grooming, the saddle, the bridle,
The bit and the rider - that’s right.
Now I know. I forgot. He’s the rider.
Why is that one staring at me?
Will he eat me? Leave me alone!
Wait! A friend! I can see it
In his smell - perhaps with sugar -
A friend! Please help me, friend!
My rider is cruel - with spurs -ow!
Yesterday was like this, too. I think.
How did I get to be this way?
All I remember from before is Smallness
And Freedom. Nuzzling near mother
For a drink. Skipping through the
Open fields. Tasting grass for the
Very first time. Then came the day
The Creatures started climbing
On me. Decorated me with
Horrible, painful...things!,
And made me do what they wanted.
At first I was frightened and fought.
Then I got used to it. Sort of.
But I remember a time.
A time even before that.
I remember the days before
I swam the warm pond of Comfort
In the dark, quiet waters of drumbeats.
I remember running with my family,
No one to stop me, meeting the
Challenges of the young wannabes,
And sending them limping away
Every time, and then growing
Old and losing that one fight
to a big stallion, my own son,
Who was much too quick for me.
My son. Leaving the family,
Wandering for years alone,
Until, starving to death, I was
Eaten by wolves one winter.
Now I’m decorated and driven
In pain and bondage by men.
A heavy, cruel rider sits on me
With spurs, telling me what to do.
But I am fed well and brushed.
My house is warm and clean.
When I am too old to ride,
A Frenchman will eat me in brown sauce,
Or so I’ve heard whispered by others.
March 4, 1996
A PORTRAIT OF BARUCH IN INK
I love a young child
In a faraway place,
But my name’s been reviled.
Soon he’ll forget my face.
He entered the Covenant
Right on my lap
And the mohel gave him wine
So he’d hush up and nap.
I loved that young child,
But my name’s been reviled.
When we meet once again
Years from now-who knows when?
He will not know my face,
So perhaps we’ll be friends.
Then I’ll tell him the truth
And explain what’s been hid,
And he’ll know me and love me
Just like he once did.
March 4, 1996
A PORTRAIT OF MY FIRST BORN IN INK
He’s all boy. He’s a boy’s boy.
But not just one of the lads;
A boy riding a tigers back!
A tiger treading the jungle paths!
By the light of the moon.
He’s all boy. He’s a boy’s boy.
And that just cannot be bad.
A boy who knows each secret hiding place.
A boy who rules behind the backyard fence.
Who kens the meanings of runes.
He’s a boy’s boy. He’s all boy.
He’s all boy. He’s a boy’s boy.
He sings the songs of creation.
And sings them loud with elation.
A boy who doesn’t know fear.
Perhaps he’ll learn it next year
By the light of the moon.
He’s all boy. He’s my boy.
He’s a boy’s boy.
February 27, 1996
Second prize winner, Iliad Press Winter Open Poetry Competition, ‘95-96. Published in companion anthology, . All rights retained by author.
THE GULF STREAM OF SPRING
I crow like a cock to the Gulf-Stream of Spring;
Like a boxer begloved at the bell in the ring.
It blows the warm airs of Key Largo to me,
Made more cool and more violent by a brief trip at sea.
It beats me with furious passionate strength,
But I keep to my feet and I dance and I feint.
I cry out, “Come on! Give me more! Do your worst!”,
And it buffets me backwards with one awesome burst.
It sings the wind song in the tops of the trees.
It’s the very same tune as a wintery breeze,
But wholesome and fresh, like iced peppermint tea,
Brewed and chilled heading North by a brief trip at sea.
It whitens the bay with its passionate strength.
It plows moving furrows by width, making length.
They flow with a rhythm reserved for the ocean,
On loan to the harbor for a day of sea motion.
I open my arms to the Gulf-Stream of Spring;
To the breath of warm air; to the treetops that sing;
To the peppermint taste; to the waves in the bay.
We embrace like two brothers and wrestle and play.
February 26, 1996
Scheduled for publication in Portraits of Life,
National Library of Poetry. Author retains all rights.
A PORTRAIT OF AARON IN INK
My son is a Hercules Carrier,
Heavy laden with freight in the hold.
He taxis the length of the runway,
Then slowly lifts off towards the sun.
My son is a dammed mighty river,
Content for a time behind walls,
That slowly give way to corrosion;
A trickle that warns of the flood.
Let me surf on that wave of his power.
Let me wave to the pilot so high.
Let me drown in the flood of his freedom.
Let me dance my great love to the sky.
February 19, 1996
ORIENTATION
(Special thanks to
Jerome A. Rambert
and Lois Migkin)
Which way do I turn?
Though much that I have lived and felt
are things that I have earned;
Served as I’ve served in blows and welts,
Don’t say “I told you so”.
For all I really need to know
Is which way I should go.
Which way do I turn?
For over half a century
That question’s made me burn.
Is circling ‘round all there is left to me?
Can I spiral away from this pole?
Where lies the direction to liberate my soul,
Let it loose like a bird or a foal?
“Which way shall you turn”?
“Look no further. Ask no more.
Open your mind and learn.
Forget the compass, roof and floor.
The way. It’s in the way.
East tomorrow. West today.
Forget it. It’s in the way.
Embrace weightlessness.
Enter the twilight zone,
‘til you’ve become a spectator
At your own show,
Looking down at yourself far below
performing, like someone else has borrowed your body
While you hover like a cloud and watch.”
Any way you turn
With an open mind
You will learn.
January 31, 1996
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
(With apologies to A.E. Houston)
Coach...Coach? Coach! Can’t you hear me?
It’s Me. Sean Robertson, Coach. Remember me?
Of course you do. Since I was little.
Coach...You were right. You were right.
You warned me about this. Can’t you hear me?
I’m right here. Look at me. No. Not over there. Here.
That thing over there isn’t me anymore.
You think that’s me behind the orange ribbon, Coach?
It was, sort of. But no longer. I’m free.
I don’t need it. I’m better without it.
Soon they’ll cart it away and leave me here.
Watch! See this? See this? This is me!
I can do things that Michael Jordan never dreamed of now.
‘cause I’m free! You think Magic Johnson could do this?
Hey! You weren’t even watching! You just ignored me.
Listen to me, Coach! Now watch me! Listen! Watch!
Before, I couldn’t do half what I’m doing right now.
Before, I’d be panting like a dog in heat.
Before, my pulse would be pounding in my ears.
If a girl were watching-Lord-
If a girl were watching, I’d feel hot and proud.
If she’d touch me, or make eyes at me,
I’d feel that burn, like an egg breaking over me,
And spreading and running slowly, ‘til it covered me,
From head to foot, and in deep. In every inch of me.
Then I’d feel good. Like doing the whole game over again.
I’d only get tired later if it was a fine girl looking at me!
Wanna see something, Coach? Wanna see a slam dunk?
How’s this for a slam dunk? I don’t even have to come down.
I don’t even break a sweat no more. Isn’t that great? Isn’t that something?
So who needs it? Who needs it? Just a mess of meat lying there
With a hole in it. Who the hell needs it?
All it did was hold me back.
All it did was slow me down, mess me up.
Gawd. I’m scared, Coach. Can’t you say something?
You warned me about my attitude. You warned me.
Say I told you so, already. Rub it in. Come on.
You said - I remember this - you said:
“Anytime you want to lose that attitude,
You come back and play some ball, son”.
You said it would get me in trouble -
my attitude would - no matter what I did.
You were right, Coach. It did. My attitude did.
I acted like I didn’t care about nothing.
Disrespected things that deep down I loved.
I was afraid of love. I hated so I could avoid loving.
It got me in trouble. On the court. On the street.
But now I lost it, Coach. It’s gone.
Can I get back on the team now? Please?
I’ve changed. Really. You said I had talent.
What’s the matter, Coach? Didn’t you hear me?
You walking away now? After what I just said?
You said I could come back. I lost the attitude.
What’s wrong with you, Coach? What is it?
Wha-You know what’s wrong with you?
I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you, you old fake!
You don’t wanna give me a second chance! That’s what!
You’re just like my mamma! Just like her!
I’m disappointed. Thought you were different.
Well, be that way, Coach! Walk away! Forget you!
Yeah, you heard me! Forget you!
I can get along fine without you.
Don’t need no one! Don’t need nothing!
Hey! I’m talking to you!
Don’t you turn your back on me!
Don’t you spit on the ground and turn your back!
Don’t you walk away from me!
“Damn fool.”
What did you call me?!
Don’t you disrespect me! I’m talking to you!
Dammit, Coach! This never happened to me before.
I’m scared. Can’t you hear me? Can’t you help me?
Okay! Be that way! Be that way!
Fine. Be that way. Treat me like garbage. Just like...
Just like everyone else! You’re just like everybody else, Coach!
You know that? Well I don’t need anyone anymore. I don’t even need me!
Coach? Wait up! I’m sorry. I won’t ever do that again.
I’ll make good. Promise. Please let me back. Please.
“I can’t change what’s happened, son.
The Lord has ended you, and maybe that’s good.
You were just getting worse and worse. Every day.
Maybe He stopped you from ending someone else.
But you had promise, and I wish you would have let me-
I wish - I wish you would have -”
And he could not go further, choked by hot, bitter tears.
Coach ‘rome - Lost. A promising young man. January 4, 1996 The end.
January 22, 1996
Scheduled for Publication in Recollections of Yesterday and Sound of Poetry, National Library of Poetry. Published in Coffee ‘n’ Chicory, Winter, ‘95-96. All rights retained by author.
a portrait of estie in ink
I can’t seem to capture your smiling, dark eyes,
Your innocent mouth, or your smooth, ample cheeks.
My hand isn’t trained to reflect different shades.
I’m not much of an artist, I fear.
In words, not in pictures, my soul can run free;
Portraying to all how your face looks to me.
A child’s with the memories still there of the days
You were swaddled and coddled in mama’s embrace.
Your eyes are now dark with the secrets you’ll know.
They smile at the beautiful places you’ll go.
Two exotic beasts screened by long, gentle fronds,
Peering out at the man who’s discovered their isle.
Through the gaps in your bangs they look out.