The Notebook

Opening an old notebook,

Ink stained and brown,

I found a note from myself

Like a private code

Barely readable,

Sounding like a stranger

Who once used my name.

Philosophy says “I think

I was, So therefore

I must have been.”

Nearly forty years ago,

In student days with

With a bearded frown,

For only the young can

Waste so much time

In a studied state

Of seriousness.

I spent a lot of time

Jotting down quotes.

So many pages of

Thoughts profound.

Now they all

Sound like postcards

From a clown.

The past so often

Stays elusive.

It's like bumping into

A forgotten mate

Who knows your name.

They speak in such familiar

Tones of days you find

Best forgotten and you

Quietly wait until they leave,

Seeking inspiration from

Their absence.

Maybe Sometime

Maybe sometime,

In the last and

Lingering light,

Where fingers

Roam

In child like play

Across a pane of

Icy glass,

Tracing pinprick paths

Along the frost.

Brief trails

Connecting you

And me

In lazy rivulets

Intertwined in

Merging circles

Of warmth and cold.

Nouvelle Vague

Always in Paris

Gray and chilled,

 Just after a rain

With mist in the air

Like a smokey room

Filmed in thick grains.

The sheer stark beauty

Of Tri-X film

Pushed two stops

Like a slow jazz riff

In black and white.

The cafes seemed better then,

So littered with American signs

And the pre-Mersey beat

Of early rock n roll

In a post-bohemian sigh

Laced in Gauloise Bleu and

Where the women were

Sleek as sorrowful fawns

With Botticelli eyes,

So studied in the ways

Of Montaigne and Marilyn Monroe.

The frantic roil

Of each New Wave

Childish in its feelings

And ancient in its thoughts,

Until it vanished

In the Merry May

Of a Maoist haze

And a Los Angeleno

Daze.

Each Day

Each day
Dissolves
Like dew.
Each day
Descends
To darkness
Falls.
Each day
Repeats
Its dawn.

Scattered lives
Entwined like
Webs.
Scattered thoughts
Unwound
So slowly
Like tumbleweed
In a desert
Breeze.

Nothing last
It seems
And nothing
Adds with
Interest
Till all the
Zeros
Tally in an
Endless row.

Once, in the
Facing mirrors of
A barbershop
I could see the
Future.
An Infinite loop
That stretched
Forever
Like a dream.

In a Time of Disorder

We live in a time of disorder

Where every feeling has been devalued

Like tarnished gold in the back

Of a cluttered closet with a door

That has warped from a long rain

And the water pooled along the floor

Soaking old diaries till the ink bleeds,

Like tears smudging every page.

It is a time of disorder

As people lumber through life

As sullen movie-fried zombies

Staggering in shock and stupor

In a panic search for some

Dim memory of passing joy.

Perhaps forgotten love or

Fleeting glimpses of vague

Passions that once seemed real

Like an old aching bone

Until a terrible shadow stirred.

A rude awakening that was neither

Real nor dream but some poor

Land strangely in between.

Neither act nor shadow,

Neither life nor dream.

For we live in a tide of disorder

And the old bearded man

In the junk yard screams

That the dialectic is not a dream.

More a burden, it sometimes seems.

Never ending, sight unseen,

Relentless and unbending.

More remote than any star.

More relentless than any sea.

The River

The muddy river

Spirals like a striking snake,

The shore always moves.

The Deer

Deer in the cross-hair,

Eyes focused on the twilight.

Life should be so calm.

A Bird

The bird trills each day

In dank woods and dry fields.

I can never sang.

Early Spring

The cherry blossoms
Fall and drift in currents free.
I must sweep today.

Occupy

Occupy

Your life,

Your honor,

Your world,

Your soul,

Your mind.

So occupy

Your dreams,

Your hopes,

Your thoughts,

Your fears.

You must occupy

Your present,

Your future,

Your now

And forever.

In Memory

Old beliefs die hard,

My friend.

The workers paradise

And all

The glorious future

You once invested with

Hopes and dreams.

Mere objects that have

Stumbled into the furnace

(Like that stupid sled

At the movie's end).

During the waning days

You often asked me

To close a window

That wasn't there

While you enjoyed,

In your hospital bed,

A pleasant bus ride

Down Fifth Avenue.

I spared you from

The priest you didn't want

(But only because you

Had to beat the doctor's

Estimate – patience may not

Have been your biggest virtue).

Later,

Once the bed was stripped

And empty,

I was left with many things.

Old clothes and socks

And many, many clocks

(None of which were in

Agreement).

In Winter

Frost cakes the roses,

Snow makes lace upon the glass.

The robin couldn't fly.

Age

When I look in the mirror

My hair is black

(so who is this

gray haired man).

When I peek in a glass

I am sleek and trim

(so who is this

fat old man).

Youth, they say,

Is wasted on the young

And the young has

Much to waste and spare.

First time a tooth

Fell out during brushing

I wept

From the simple fact

that it insulted

whatever slim integrity

I had left.

Age is wasted

On the old,

Like a withered rose

Covered by frost.

Revelation

"...And the name
of the star is called
Wormwood...”

A broken dream
In a hillbilly burg
So depressed
That the rust seeps
Through the water
Leaving grit in the mouth
Until every spoken word
Is bitter and terse.

“...It were a sea of glass
mingled with fire...”

All faith has gone
To the lost and found
Where it wanders like a stray
In the bad part of town

“...And there were stings
in their tails...”

Eden was once
In Ohio, right next
To a Dairy Queen.
All nestled in a valley
Of corn
Like a farm's boy dream
From the combine seat.
Softly whirls the thrasher,
So swiftly twirls the blades.

“...Who is worthy...
to loose the seals thereof?”

There is a silence in the heavens
In which the stars shall dim
And fade.

Once a Girl

Once a child
And once a girl,
Innocence still made
Its claim.
To dream
Like a child,
Like an angel,
Like a fawn.
To see the clouds
And feel the rain.

Each memory is
Like a precious fragment
Of fallen, gilded gold.
You would spread them
As little tokens
Across a fanciful map.
Each marked a place
To dream of,
Each mark a wish,
Each spot a hope.

Young you were
And never young again.
A brief reveille
Before the autumn
Before the chill.
A brief repast
Before the grace.

Cyclic Journey

She takes a lover in the summer
And leaves him in the fall.
In winter, the bedsheets are washed
And dried
And the covers are changed
Every spring.

Next summer, she takes another lover
And he lies between
These sheets.
The fresh wash scent is new
To him
As he mistakes an annual courtesy
For a lasting place to sleep.

Journey's End

Journey's end in lovers' meeting
In shady lanes
Or lonely country roads
Or open plains
Or simply some small
Coffee shop
Where the latte is warmer
Than the heart.

Journey's end in lovers' meeting
Unless it rains
Or shines
Or simply turns into that
Partly cloudy which is
Never really fish nor fowl
But always cool
And indecisive.

Journey's end in lovers' meeting
In paperbacks for sure,
Or occasionally in Dear Abby,
Though she sent the last
Three lonely hearts to smell
The coffee
At the same place where the latte
Is always warmer than the heart.

Journey's end in lovers' meeting
Unless the bus is late
And the car breaks down
And sometimes, simply sometimes,
The effort goes to waste.

Shiva's Dance

It's a gnawing feeling,
The last of one's kind,
At the ending moment
Of ending times,
Where birds fall
Like snow flakes
And the stars begin
To dance
And water turns
To brine.

Most prophets are
Like a broken clock
And most clocks
Are bound to break.
Besides time itself,
Has ceased to tick,
Stopping for a smoke
Beneath a banyan tree
Where a pleasant breeze
Drifts cool and sweet.

From the shores of Allegheny
Across the Pennsylvanian sea
You talked about your life
Among the dunes of old Nebraska
And the sands of Iowa.
You said you once found a fossil
Beneath a banyan tree.

And then you told us tales
About the lost human race.
Strange creatures, you said,
Who fell from grace,
From carelessness,
With little trace.

Holiday

One Christmas Eve
When Santa got too merry,
He fell off the pogo stick
(or so we were told).

Strange holiday, indeed.
Like snowflakes melting
Into streaks across
A muddy street.

Grandma died at
The Five and Dime
While next in line
For lay-away.

Sweet smells of almond cookies
and pungent whiffs of pine

Andy died in a fire
On New Year's Day
(smoke hung thick
in the frosty air.)

Pretty papers, pretty lights,
All shimmering in the night.


Grandpa died around
Black Friday
(which is why I never
understood the phrase.)

Silent nights
So holy bright
(if only the drummer boys
would be quiet.)

Strange holiday, indeed.
Like the slick and icy hue
Of snow bathed red against
The sun on Winter's eve.

Of Hope and Fear

Hope is a gift
So rarely given,
Mostly hoarded
Like money kept
By proverbial misers
Stuffed beneath a moth eaten
Mattress, turning into
Crumbling remnants of
Dead presidents, smiling
With their inky green
Faces encrusted by
History's lost pages
Where they slowly learned
Each secret handshake
In sullen observance
Of bogus brotherhood
Ruled by its unblinking eye
Floating across the dollar bill and
Filling checkbooks with dim sums
(Dim ditties diddle-dim)
Each figure glaring
Like the tuneless melody
Of St. Anthony's fire
Blazed in a single mind.

Fear is a gift
Freely delivered
Like an invite to a tea party
Behind old Bedlam's walls
Where the end of history
Led to a minor pause
Next to the edge of reason
And the cliff-jumping lads
Took to zip-lining
Across the land
Leaving only a faint trace
Like a human face etched
In the sand
Till high tide
Worked its way.
Just another day at the whaling station
Before the Pequod sailed.