Encounter

We are alien to one another:
Our visage,
Our turns of phrase,
Our customs and flourishes,
Our dishes,
Our mien,
Alien is our being. 

The alien brings the fear -
And wonder;
Fear that screams and wonder quiet,
Fear that seems to trail our footsteps
And thicken the evening air,
Wonder drives our fingers outward
To touch each other's hair.

In fear our eyes avert and dart, alert.
In wonder our lips curl - a grin or smirk.

Wandering, walking in the starlight, I think
If we could touch each other's faces
We could build the safest places,
Our strife and turmoil soon to sink
In the knowing that forms our link.

Torn Veils

Winter takes the warmth from everything.
And the lush veils that hide
The eternal mysteries
Wither and fall.

The dark, jagged shape of the trees:
The monsters that walked before history.
The winter sky gray and wan:
The smoldering glow at time's dawn.

The people of the city, puppets of the stars:
Indifferent as the winds of Mars.
The people of the farm, keepers of the faith:
The lonely miles of outer space.

All the souls surrounding me await,
Like nurturing vultures,
My untimely death;
Every boon, every kind gesture,
A gentle prod on the plank at the chasm.
Your trouble does not concern us,
They imply, sly fangs dripping:
Not your aches, cares,
Fears or nightmares.

In the dream I am falling, hurling
Down the chasm filled with millions
Of falling souls, all wrapped
In a mantle of cold, and the voices
Whispering, shouting, calling:
Choices prisons make;
Memories shimmer and break;
Long days of brief sleep-
Fitful, ungrateful -
Your fury is silent and deep.

The eternal mysteries knocked and hissed:
As you failed to forgive, all those chances you missed;

As long as the days are the lines on that list,

Down the chasm of time as you tumble,

With the weight of the sadness you stumble,

As you fumble to shoulder the rock of regret –

The sentence of days that you cannot forget.

December 7, 1941

A day that will live in infamy

Drowns in the ocean of oblivion

That is our collective abandon of history. 

Old photographs of human misery

Fail to move a generation

That never grieved and never learned

What their parents failed to teach -

The ships in Pearl Harbor burn

In old and musty newspapers,

The human cries forever beyond reach.  

Seventy-two years

Have dried all the tears

A nation had once learned to shed.

The years since then

Have filled us with dread:

The screams of the war planes

In truth never ended;

While history remained unattended

Days of infamy for years descended -

We all are the Pearl Harbor dead. 

 

 

Thanksgiving Day

The history of injustices,

The endless reign of terror

That is the march of wealth

Sought by every Nation,

Is a cause for celebration. 

Let us thank the Lord our God

For the blood that we have shed,

For the tears the vanquished shed,

For the breaking of the bread

From our newfound fruited plains. 

Remember always the great pains

Our ancestors surely suffered,

By their swords our lives they buffered

From the savage, godless stain. 

The unbelievers that remain

Are a shadow of their evil empire.

Now as their own our God they claim,

Their heathen errors cleansed in fire.

And thus the traitors we brand as liars,

They who brand us a nation of thieves.

The hunger of Indians is not so dire -

We send rice that piles like autumn leaves.

 

Dance

Muscles ask no permission
but show you the way
as you sway,
this way and that way,
across fields of worry,
oceans of pain,
mountains of sorrow.

Tomorrow
the dying world
rises around and above.
But tonight there only the love
that raises the walls
and calls all to know,
amidst the lights of the show,
the joy within.

 

Noon

He died alone

In a faraway land,

Left to lie

In an unmarked grave

In the slowly sifting sand.

He'd left his home

In a faraway land,

His spirits high

On voyage to save

The poor in an alien land.

But the aliens cried

When they saw his gifts;

A savage rage of waiving fists -

In a hail of stones he died.

His gifts were books

The villagers feared

For their dark foreboding looks,

Locked in a box

And piled with rocks

On a dune the sun would sear. 

No avian eye, no scratching claw

Could see what the villagers saw:

The myth of civilization

Belied in a book of war,

The tale of a god's creation

Destroyed in a jealous roar,

And the senseless doom of saviors

Whose lessons we all ignore.

 

 

Columbus

The stars fall in India at night.

Our end to behold that sight,

Glorious purpose surrounds these ships

In the vast expanse of ocean;

The smallest drop cannot touch our lips. 

Guided by the Hand of God

Mysterious in its dispensation

Now caressing,

Now striking tragedy

Into his sublime creation,

We hold to our mission of revelation.

What wondrous nation will stand

Revealed in the light we bring!

What treasure rich and palace grand

Will make the angels sing!

What ancient, mythic land

Shall know my mighty king!

 

For this purpose our course will hold

Though we face dangers ever bold.

We sail in truth as God's instruments.

So the stories will be told.

And though history may lament

My men's untimely death,

Still to me it shall be kind,

The one sent forth to find

The road to destiny, so far,

The cradle of the evening stars.

 

 

Colombo

What does my future bring?

Where ends this ocean road?

What if I fail to please my king

Or if my shoulders sink

Beneath this captain's load? 

The anger of God surrounds us,

The water we dare not drink,

Taking us to the brink

Of a thirst as terrible

As the torments in hell. 

No one must I tell

Of this gnawing doubt within me.

If God himself these lands has hid,

Perhaps reflecting we should bid

Goodbye to dreams and what now seems

The voyages of fancy.

 

 

Laptop

The words appeared, noiseless, on the screen:

“We are witnessing transitions

from social-welfare states

to social-control states

around the world. 

“We are witnessing a global crisis,

unprecedented in its magnitude,

ecological degradation

and social deterioration. 

“Unprecedented

in the sheer scale

of violence.” 

The words waited, quietly,

while I drained a glass of pinot grigio. 

The hydrangea bushes

nodded softly in a late summer air,

a bee hovering without sound across petals. 

A long row

of men and women

walked past the sidewalk café

in sharp suits, carrying laptop cases. 

Unprecedented

in the sheer scale

of silence.

 

 

Sunset

We sit together on the pier,

With our legs swinging,

The water lapping, glinting.  

We watch the sun sail

Across the low horizon

And sink beneath the sea.  

But that is not the passing of time for you

Or the passing of time for me.  

For the sun flies a little slower for you,

Child of tomorrow.

It sinks a little faster for me,

Man of yesterday.

How many sunsets have I witnessed?

How many sunsets have you missed?

How many sunsets until you read my name

Upon a list?

He was kind, the print will say.

He was brave,

(Though at times he played the knave). 

When you see the sun set in a blazing hail of color,

Shades you never knew you’d see,

Know that time is surely passing.  

The colors at the end of the sea

We see at day's beginning.

They fade to sunken mystery

And rise at day’s cold end. 

 

 

Work

What you do as work, with your hands,
Matters,
As the sun goes round and round
The sky.

Whether you wash the panes of glass

Of the rich on a ladder,
As the sun goes round and round
The sky.

Whether you mix poisons in glass

In time to be home for dinner,
Or build a bomb for a bigger blast,
And leave church a pardoned sinner.

Whether you bake the bread millions eat

To live,
As the sun goes round and round
The sky.

Whether you plot the crimes you ask
The world forgive,

As the sun goes round and round

The sky.

Whether you know or not,

Workers sit in a faraway land

In a circle working by hand
Making things worth nothing in gold.

Yet the things will still be sold

Amongst each other,

Bringing joy to friend and brother.  

When the sun shall cross the sky no more

You shall be remembered far, far more

By the way you put your hands to work.

And if your fingers knew no dirt,

Pray that they opened many doors.

 

 

Red Glare

The children were led,
on a bright summer day,
to the front of the school to sing.

The flag had been raised and voices were raised
in gleeful adulation.
The children then learned it took courage to turn
a village into a nation.

And the years, they were long.
Now, just snatches of song
haunt the children, now men,
in the place they were sent
to burn.

Stern was the glare of the men as they stared
at the village in conflagration,
at the bodies of strangers who could not be spared;
a danger they were to our nation.

And the rocket's red glare,
the bombs bursting in air,
gave proof through the night
that our flag was still there.

The clouds of smoke from the barbecue fire
provide, from the glare of the sun,
some relief.
The old soldier stared at his plate, now bare,
and tried to shake his grief.

As the clouds shield eyes from sun,
So do lies shield minds from truth.
But to ears that hear cries in the burning
no help can be found by turning
to the lies in the songs of youth.

Moon Clouds

Summer moon,

Your face blurred behind clouds

That move with a soft white glow,

Your quiet splendor lost

On the faces below.  

Embroiled in the heat of revelry,

The abandon of night,

The exhaustion of forgetting

What could have been,

What might -  

Souls turn to one another

With eyes that barely speak,

Worn by intoxication

Of sound, and light, and drink.  

The mind can barely think.

The nose has lost its sense.

But the mouth moves

In the hopeful present tense: 

You are beautiful, the most beautiful.  

Let us love tonight 

And escape the sight  

Of our memories.  

Summer moon,

Time is late to feel regret.

Don’t look upon my yearning.

Better yet that you should set

And make my shadow die.

 

Commencement

Embarking now upon your lives,

As if setting sail on ships

To cross the known and unknown seas,

Recall that with each passing day

You move beneath the endless skies. 

Up above the world so high,

Beyond your earthbound, narrow sight,

Fly colossal, fiery stars

That burst with unimagined might. 

In the infinite sea of space,

Light years and ages away,

Conflagration scars the face,

Of worlds so monstrous in size

That ours is like a grain of sand. 

These worlds the stars do thrash and break

Like hapless, brittle, fragile eggs.

Then they, too, tremble, roar, and shake -

Their final cries the eons take. 

What care the stars for your accomplishments?

What care the stars for your sad failing?

They are blind to your emoluments

As they are deaf to your sick wailing. 

Thus, if you cannot even once

Impress the closest living star,

Seek no man living near or far

To flatter with your learning. 

For if you took one instant to inspect

The make and rudder of your ships

You'll find those ships, like all the world,

Are hapless, fragile, brittle eggs. 

Therefore, have a care for how you tread.

Live your days in awe of nature,

Though free of dread.

Brilliant, young, you are still creatures -

Alive like stars and one day dead.

 

 

Windbreaks

Holiday weekend.

Everyone driving to the sea.

Long rows of cars.

Fashionable colors: red, white, blue.

Through small towns

where letters were sent, received.

Returned to sender.

Everyone driving out to sea.

Wheels carrying everything east.

Luggage full of fears.

Buckets of envy.

Sacks of indifference.

Everyone to the driving sea. 

Where the world meets the sand lie

the windbreaks.

Stretches of taut fabric.

In long rows red, white, blue.

Protecting everyone from the east.

And the driving wind.

The cleansing wind.

Everyone faces the sea.

For a moment or two.

Everyone driven from their cars.

And their fretful umbrellas.

And their fussing hats.

For a moment they almost hear

what the wind came to tell them. 

Then the windbreaks flap.

A sound like a slap.

Taut faces turn away.

Someone calls out.

Laughter from a bottle.

Chatter spreads.

Glasses are passed.

The wind blows past,

over the windbreaks,

into the sky.

 

 

No Words

We cannot see our eyes

Waking in the morning light;

We cannot see our eyes

Sleeping in the darkest night. 

We cannot see the world

Walking and walking in it.

On the other side of stars

Lies our true sight.

Clown's Lament

When I was a child
The world did whisper:
You are just not fit to live -
Better yet that you should give
Your throat a good slash,
Your head a good smash,
And bid the clowns good-bye.
 
And I listened to it all,
Making mask and silken cloak,
Lined with mocking childish jokes,
For the eternal Devil’s Ball.
 
Within the clouds of acrid smoke
In that red-veined marble hall,
The mouths of other children spoke,
Whose heads hung all along the wall.
 
They laughed and jeered
And howled and cheered
To see me cloaked so like a fool.
Upon my head they spat and drooled!
 
And in the years since leaving school,
Under sway of fevered dream,
My heart’s desire has been to lure
Cruel children into hell’s ravine.
 
I lead them into little boats,
With clownish acts and silly jokes,
And send them gently down the stream,
With self-effacing sad routine.
 
And in their rush to mock and gloat,
The children strain their leaking boats.
They wail and flail in hell’s ravine,
Sinking deep and never seen.
 
Alone now in my dressing room,
I feel the sad impending doom
That condemned prisoners do fear.
My place in hell I will take soon,
Though death itself will feel a boon,
I cry at each child’s laugh I hear.

Turbulence

The voice called out with mild insistence,
Announcing the fact of turbulence,
A promised inconvenience
Of only slight duration.

And in the rattling of the world

That followed
My prayer to God was swallowed,
With all my guilt and sorrow,
Before it could be born.

Before the world was born,

When the sun shone upon endless sea
In a silent, starless sky,
Did God consider and decree
That Man was meant to fly?

If God-given mind is able

To bend steel to metal wings,
Then God perforce must favor
The inconvenience of things
Like turbulence -
Along with the malevolence
That from human mind does spring. 

Love and Power

The love of power is not cognizable.
Love knows nothing of power.
And power cares nothing for love.

Confounding fool and sage alike,
Avarice wears a cloak of love,
Seizing power like a cunning raven,
In the guise of a tender dove.

The beloved king will not disown his crown.

In time the tyrant,
So mad with power -
It will take the love of martyrs
To bring his kingdom down.

Wanderer

Behind a solitary man
Lies a tragedy
Concealed in the grimace of a smile,
In the polite nod, all the while
The eyes look elsewhere.

On the other side of his silence

Lay, tucked and forgotten,
Tales – a day or year – of violence.
Eyes look across the distance
Of wide open spaces
To the kindness and graces
Of people long gone.

Now he walks down that road,

Unseen in a crowd,
Where each one bears a load,
Where each one holds a story –
Quite mundane, without glory –  
Like the trinket he will carry
From the one he said he’d marry.

Suddenly

There is a thing that we do
To get on with our days, we do.
We hope.
Though we don’t know
That we hope.

On the other side of that slope,

Will I see you tomorrow
At this time?
And if not, what will I find?

Phone calls unanswered,

Letters returned –
I did not know enough to learn
The name of your mother,
Or some friend or other,
To ask where you had gone.

Imaginary Evil

The problem of evil
Is the rejection of truth.
But we cannot agree on the truth
And so disagree about evil.

The problem is ancient,

From the days of the cradle
Where stars did form and thrive:
For all that we argue
And all that we cry,
We don't even know we're alive.

Little Rhyme

If I could only find the time
To set down a little rhyme,
A poem with a thought or two,

I would leave the world far better

If you and I should come together
And share the truth I saved for you.

Individuals

“Buy me,” said the sign.

Buy now!

Don’t ask why.

Don’t ask how.

Just buy.

Hurry up, buy now!

The limit of your credit,

The limit of your merit,

Is the sky!

Operators stand by!

Only you can be so beautiful.

Only you can be so you.

Only you can be that dutiful

In a suit of rayon blue.  

Only jewels will make her happy.

A broach of gold is just the thing.

But to really make her happy,

You must add that diamond ring.  

Money clings

To the face in the mirror.

So make that skin look clearer!

Moisturize,

Actualize,

Individualize,

And super-size: 

Buy stocks

Buy rocks

Buy cars

Buy wars

Buy fountains

Buy mountains

Buy pills

Buy thrills

Buy vacation

Buy affection

Buy rope

Buy hope. 

This is the sign of the times.

A glass of fine wine

And you reach the divine

Pinnacle,

Where dances the real you

In smart shoes

Of leather.  

So never mind the weather.

And never mind the clime.

You will end up all the better

If you spend another dime.

 

Warning

What conversation is to be had

With someone like you

Who thinks I’m mad? 

I tell you the festival will end.

So set time aside to spend

Getting to know the silence. 

It will sound, the silence,

Like that time

When your voice falters,

Like that time

When your slow legs alter

The schedule of your day. 

You won’t recall this conversation.

There will be no slow conversion

With the looks of pure aversion

That the young will send your way. 

So take time now to listen:

See how ice on branches glistens

On a crisp, cold winter’s day,

How branches full of flowers sway

In the breeze one fine spring day. 

Hear the cicada cry out its doom

In the heat of a summer afternoon

And the silence when its cry does stall

On a quiet evening in the fall. 

Take time to greet that old man who sits in the park,

Whose eyes will not let him stay out after dark,

Or that old woman tossing crumbs on the ground,

Feeding pigeons, seeing ghosts all around –

For one day time will come, without sound,

To show their faces in the mirror.

What warning could be clearer?

Time to choose which you hold dearer -

The noise and lights and thrills of the carnival

Or that hand on your hand when you’ve been left by all.