Wednesday, November 23, 1994

Monochromatic Rainbow

Azure bays
Vermilion skies
Verdant grasses

Oh vivid Earth,
Oh dull me!

Monday, July 11, 1994

Ode to the "O"

Ode to the "O"

O the loneliness of the lone O.
Solitary and firm
like the last outpost guard,
waiting for more letters or words
to swarm across the page.

O, the profound depths
of your semantic singularity,
producing short shocked sighs
and expiating exhalations.
Or perhaps strings of your brethren
join to commiserate angst ridden existences.

O egglike symbol of our life.
Matriarch who engenders a family
of little swirly roundlings
Following your red letter lead.

O, in your artfulness,
like the open eye of the muses'
inspirational wink:
Shakespeare's dramatic
wooden playground O,
Seurat's petite colorful
pastel building block o.

O ubiquitous nothingness.
Golden sealer of marriages
and faucets.
Your cornerless presence
a signature of poetry
turned endlessly in upon itself.

O, cornerstone of the poet's heart.
Circumscribing the silent space,
emphasizing the emptiness,
preparing the way for a multitude
of equally circular stanzas.

Friday, July 8, 1994

I Love You Baby

I Love You Baby

I love you baby, but I just can’t smile.
I’ve given away all my smiles,
Back in the days of wonder and impatience
When we used our bodies like greasy brillo pads,
Scouring the world.

Our moonbeams and stardust have turned
To silence and lint.
Our promises seem meaningless now
That I can’t remember our faces' smiles.
Until we have more than smudged words and fading memories,
I can only rejoice in the palm of my hand.
And wait.

Monday, June 6, 1994

Beat The Time

Beat The Time

Two warm half naked silhouettes sway softly
Circumscribed by a small circle of time
Confined by its shortness.
Background lines of music,
Unaware of the two now tightly clung bodies
Feverishly trying to melt into each other and the rhythm
To forget that tomorrow will part them neither friends nor lovers
Just a helpless memory and fervent hope of tomorrow —a year,
Twist and veil the hour.
Frantically, with neither shame nor regret,
They hold each other close through the warm wetness of their mouths
As their bodies, try to beat the time.

Tuesday, May 17, 1994

Aveenu Malkenu

Aveenu Malkenu

I
Aveenu Malkenu, my father my friend.
Unconditional is your love;
unsoundable your kindness.
For all you have done, peace be to you.

Aveenu Malkenu, my father my friend,
like a warrior of peace
yours is a tree of life,
and happy those who hold fast to it.
Proudly you stand in fertile soil.
Humble roots firmly planted,
trunk gently bending in the winds of change
and branches reaching,
you point the way towards the stars.
Your noble stance suggests an ideal
balance between earth and sky.
You connect grounds of reason and stability
to space of dreams and passion.
If ecologists could see into the core of being
and read there a story of life
recorded in rings of growth,
they would find fifty-six concentric chapters,
tracing most humble beginnings
to fruitful present.

II
Guide and vessel in unsure waters,
you are my navigating hand.
The parted waters
and the dry land.
You have set the example,
matching form and essence
word and deed.
O sculptor of flesh and blood,
O companion of the heart:

Had you brought me into the promised land
but not consecrated a temple of security, Dayenu.
Had you blanketed me in warmth
but not sent me through the gates of Wright, Dayenu.
Had you given me an education
but abandoned hope after Mother's passing, Dayenu.
Had you continued living
but not continued loving, Dayenu
Had you given of yourself
but not believed in the future, Dayenu.
Had you encouraged my dreams
but not supported me in failure, Dayenu.
Had you bedded my fears
but not pushed me to excel, Dayenu.
Had you wanted the best
but not cared how I obtained it, Dayenu.
For this legacy and all you have done, Dayenu.

III
Once more cradle my hand in yours,
and let us return to the chosen asylum,
that pebble laden pond of our youth.
There, our small saucers of rock
carefully chosen for flight
shall continue skipping, perhaps
never letting the water catch
and swallow them down.

Let us return again
to that bed-time fantasia,
that fabulous never-never-land of imagination
Let me run to you once more
and climb your trunk
and swing from your branches
and eat of your fruit
and dream in the shade of your gaze
like so many times before
just before slipping into the land of nod.
Aveenu Malkenu, more father more friend
let not my seed fall far
from your giving tree.

Do not let us go apart.
Let not the bridge we form,
a crossing of hands and souls
tumble to dust.
What if memory should not be enough
to guard your voice's smiles,
your eyes' laughter,
your brow's bloom
and the imprint of your warm embrace.
All of you that is dear to me,
Aveenu Malkenu, my father my friend.

IV
Neither builder nor blacksmith
I would like to make you a poem
that isn't one.
Words fall heavily from my hands
blunt unfaithful tools
betraying meaning.
Nor constructor I
stacking beauty
stone by stone,
word by word
in aspiring form.

I fear slipping into Babel,
and losing you in a labyrinth of lines
from which these Daedalus thoughts might not escape.
I am an architect without plan
building structures of word,
without rhyme or reason.

V
Dare I, Dear I
Continue to offer
these words of a feather,
flocking across pages of blue
too hollow to ring true.
Carrier pigeons,
bearing messages from the heart
in a pitter-patter vocabulary.
A coded language,
filling in the flat lines
with a syncopated pulse for you;
it's message barely audible,
and rarely understood.

Lay aside your science,
it won't help you decipher
this cardiogram I send.
Instead, close your eyes,
press your ear to the page
and listen
to the two beat measures take flight.
Let them course directly to your veins;
from my heart to yours
a glad gift, a transfusion of love
for all you have done
Aveenu Malkenu, my father my friend,
peace be to you.

Thursday, May 12, 1994

CWA Paean

I walk slowly through the front gates and up the road that encircles the campus. For fourteen years I knew no other world than that encompassed by this not quite circular strip of pavement; it was the horizon of my entire universe, the known and knowable world.

As I look around and back through the past, I realize that at one time or another during those fourteen years I explored every corner, every nook and cranny of this campus. Though now empty and quiet, in my mind it is filled with the faces, voices and smells of the past. The playground still rings with savage shouts of triumph from a time when a slide was a dark mountain to be scaled, and a sandbox could contain an army of orcs. The fields, with their heady smell of fresh-cut grass, or slick with rain, seem filled with countless soccer balls from recess pick-up games, to summer soccer with Gil, to a state championship hanging in the balance of a shoot-out.

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Monday, April 4, 1994

An Early Marriage

Does it still count if you got married in the third grade, and have never been formally divorced? I ask this because I was married to Ashley Orth during recess one morning in the fall of the third grade. At the beginning of fourth grade Ashley left Charles Wright to go to a public school, and I haven't seen her since.

Even though the whole affair didn't last more than two weeks, I remember the wedding quite clearly. I remember how after the wedding I kissed the bride then ran away to play soccer, like going off to war. Soon after, the bell rang and we all went in for Math -so much for a honeymoon.

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Friday, March 25, 1994

Acting

In first grade I was dubbed, motor-mouth, and by third grade I was the acknowledged class clown. I, like everyone else, craved attention and respect, but being the youngest of two brothers and also very short (vertically challenged to use the vernacular) I learned that it was difficult to get attention academically, athletically, and/or by miss-behaving because someone was always one step ahead of me. Namely my two brothers. I quickly learned though that I could get attention by being silly and making people laugh with or at me.

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Sunday, January 23, 1994

Lunar Eclipse

Lunar Eclipse

A lunar eclipse is a misnomer.
I know, I saw one
last night before bed.
Imagine a sort of un-magic trick.
I, planted in the courtyard
assisted the spectacle,
yet there was no slight of hand in sight.
Perhaps it's the moon who is had,
and we on earth the accomplices.

Come one, come all
and don't be late,
for once a century
with the aid of the eclipsing earth
the moon succeeds in fooling us all.

Outside the authoritative presence of the sun
she shines brighter than ever.
Normally flat facial reflection
moon is transformed before the world,
into a luminous and independent orb.
Chinese lamp of my memory
full of hope and honey.

Child that I was
and will try to remain,
I remember playing trompe l'oeil.
Game of light and imagination.
Squinting through chopsticks
to trap the silhouetted lamps
little retinal planets
simulacre prefigurations
a lunar eclipse suspended
in a dimly lit Chinese restaurant.

Tonight with my chopstick fingers
I tried to possess the moon
and put it in my pocket,
but she escapes my grasp.

The moon is not white
she is yellow, out of modesty
veiling herself by light of day.
The earth, a jealous lover
hides her in his shadow,
sole spectator to the metamorphic strip-tease.

And the sun, eternal voyeur,
throws its projector light
on the moon half undressed.
The surface blushes orange,
the sea of tranquility blusters.
The moon isn't trying to be a star,
she simply wants to prove her existence.
A recurring rite of passage.

Shortly after, the curtain of light
falls back over the scene.
The monologue now finished,
the moon regains her poise
leaving us with the memory
of a flash that will wait
eons for another chance
to unveil itself for those
who are ready to pay attention.