Dawn: the heat of day
is still a rim of morning.
Here, in Algeria, Camus
rises with a headache. There
is no compromise - he realizes
this now and his strangeness is
suddenly strange to him.
Midday: the air and body
diffuse water and salt. Here,
down a Paris sidestreet, Sartre
bangs his fist on the desk just
to hear the noise. The glasses
tremble forward on the bridge
of his nose. He will notice when
vision becomes as important as action.
Twilight: below, the jungle
deepens in green-black shadows.
Hammarskjold, wary but unafraid,
remembers flying over the desert;
there had been so many places
to land.
He could not find the slightest crack
on the idol that he picked up from the floor
wiping off the dust
he put it back in the high niche
Last night's earthquake
caused the downfall
that shook his faith
Now that all is well
no doubt he will go on with his worship
But the goddess who descended to earth last night
knows the man has failed her test
by repeatedly turning and inspecting
he has shattered her inner parts
irreparably
Julie sat quietly in the little white schoolhouse;
She was a pretty girl with long golden curls.
Beside her sat a boy with a devilish grin;
He didn't seem to notice the fair-haired girl.
Deep inside, Julie felt a strange new stirring;
She wiggled restlessly on the old wooden seat.
When she'd lift her eyes and glance at Bobby,
Her innocent heart seemed to skip a beat.
When the teacher entered and sat at her desk,
The class was startled by a sudden scream--
"Bobby, this will get you another ten licks;
I see you've put gum in my chair again!"
Tears began to roll down Julie's sad face;
She raised her hand and spoke respectfully.
"Teacher, I guess I'll take the licks today,
Cause the one who put the gum there was me."
At recess, Bobby found Julie on the closet floor;
She was lowering her pretty blue eyes in shame.
"Julie, you know I put the gum in the chair;
Why'd you lie for me and take all the blame?"
Julie's soft hand touched his guilt-ridden face,
As she whispered, "Bobby, I sure wish I knew;
You see, I've never felt this way before--
Do you think it could be because I love you?"
Part Two
Sixty years later, Bobby gazed at Julie,
His golden-haired angel, sent from above.
She still hadn't lost her innocent smile,
And she'd definitely learned about true love.
"Julie, my dear, come sit here beside me;
Please read to me before I fall asleep."
She slowly made her way over to his bed,
Reached out her hand and caressed his cheek.
"My dear Julie, I know you must be tired,
But could you manage a page or two somehow?"
Julie reached for her latest novel on the table--
It was titled, Loved You Then, Love You Now.
If I had to come
back to Earth
and I could choose
what I wanted
to be
not saying it's true
just if I could
I'd like to
come back and be
a tree
exiled deep in a forest
remote from civilization
aware of self
meditating
on what life
truly means
I remember you, do you remember me?
Do you remember us the way we used to be?
I remember your smile and love so fine.
Do you remember your love for me
the way it used to be?
I long to be a new memory for you
and you for me.
Cause I will always love you.
Will you ever love me?
Or leave it just a wonderful memory
to be remembered by just you and me.
My love,
You don't love me, I
fear.
But I honestly love you,
That is so true.
Please believe that I
do,
I can't do anything
without you.
You are just like me,
That, you should be
able to see.
How long have we been
together now?
We've survived somehow.
Our love is just right,
I don't want you out
of my sight.
You will soon see,
I am not going to let
you get away from me.
Faith is a creative act
It courts the spiritual muse
It is an imaginative self-sacrifice
To peer into nothing and find everything
As astronomers seek the edge of the universe
As geneticists dance in the footprints of creation
As a flutist blows the perfect breath from perfect lungs
That thrive in utter darkness
There is nothing more perfect
Than to imagine the sound of light
As it reverberates through the body
The most receptive ear imaginable
Once connected to the invisible
To reconnect is the only thing
It is the first fire that heats the soul
It is the soul itself
To love is splendid; love returned divine.
What games we play to find our future mate!
With luck we find the perfect Valentine.
The lovers' spirits bubble just like wine
as breath and pulses now accelerate.
To love is splendid; love returned divine.
A mystery no skeptic can define.
Impossible to reason and debate.
With luck we find the perfect Valentine.
Be sure it's not all shadow and moonshine
that lasts a night but then will soon abate.
To love is splendid; love returned divine.
The stars and moon in heaven will align
when given love one can reciprocate.
With luck we find the perfect Valentine.
It's all a part of heaven's grand design
that those who love will surely validate.
To love is splendid; love returned divine.
With luck we'll find the perfect Valentine.
Rain.
His rump is planted firmly on the floor.
His pleading eyes look up to me.
He wonders if wagging his tail plaintively
will help his cause.
"No, actually I would put out a dog on a night like this."
My foot pushes him out the door onto the deck.
Rain.
I wake from sleep hearing
rainwater rattling along the downspout.
Seldom is there lightning or high wind.
Just rain.
Water stands on the lawn of clay.
The dog’s towel scarcely comes
out of the dryer into the cupboard
before it emerges again to dry him.
Rain.
Flowers, grass, shrubs have forgotten the drought,
though river and groundwater remember.
Hard rain drives the dog down two steps
from the deck onto the soggy ground.
Rain.
After a month, some complain--
Enough, already! I still celebrate the rain,
uneasy only about all these animals
gathering two by two.
Life after rollicking life
I have littered
and frittered
but mostly learned
within unclosed loops.
The room where I work
is a monument to
get-out-and-leave-out
and all my other rooms
imitate such open loops.
Shall I dare to suggest
that every spiral
is an unclosed loop?
And point out that spirals
are the basis of life
on all of its planes?
Closed-loop people
I have seen, dazzling
in their neatness,
smilingly prompt,
dickensly proud
of their punctilious
buttoned-downishness.
Do devotees of closed loops
expire with a snap, I wonder?
And will I expire someday
with an ambiguous sigh?
Let's broadly hint that
perhaps people never do expire
but instead subscribe over time
to suitably-spiraled-up bodies,
incremental costumes for playing
parts in this human drama
of infinite run. "Death" is all
the rage these eons, but only
for those who think their eyes
see all there is to see.
Let's even risk wondering
whether supposedly closed loops
might be minor quanta within major
evolving spirals.
Unclosed as my loops are,
I admit to irritating the tidy.
Closed, the tidy may enjoy
their control, but beyond
their cubishness a universe
swirls with intranesting
spirals that may little praise
the painful righteousness
of an organized desk drawer.
Now, where is that CD
I bought yesterday?
Has it spiraled off?
Copyright Notice: Copyrights for all of the above poems remain with the individual authors. No work here is to be reused without permission from its author.
