My Twentieth Year - 29. Appendix - the complete book

.

My Twentieth Year

Poems Written

when I was 20 years old[1]

by AC Benus

 

 

 

 

Poem No. 1

 

I live in a world

in which my words

are plucked from a limited

sea of intellect

 

I sit in a room while

my fate sits in another

I'm too lazy to get up and

go and look for it

 

 

Poem No. 2

 

Two doors down

lies a specter of my hopes –

they mingle

amongst his fellowship of brawn

in open, jock-boy gropes,

never wondering why he's single

 

How he came,

I can form no idea of –

why he came,

I can only dream the same

as above,

yet, I want to confront him by name

 

Down two doors

lies a hope for my fate's way –

I wish I knew him,

for his shyness seems not very poor

and very near to me, so I say

I simply wish to know him[2]

 

 

Poem No. 3

 

I see you in a dream of blue –

the color a hazy melody –

a vision, set anew,

given me at a price hardly free.

 

 

Poem No. 4

 

"It is that rare thing, a perfect composition,

satisfying in its completeness, precise in its

detail – solid without weight, lightness sans

frivolity. It is like a last movement

by Mozart when the master pulls everything

together and brings off another miracle."

 

 

Poem No. 5

 

There was a case. In the Great Shop

it was filled with beautiful jewels,

also a bright red line painted down the center.

 

The Shop-owner said unto me

"You may pick any of the jewels,

as long as you pick from the left side of the case."

 

The jewels on the left were grand,

each one a lovely and divine thing,

each one purposeful and filled with subtle beauty.

 

The right, oh the right, had beauty unmatched,

for every one filled my mind with joy,

for on every face, there burned tenderness, undenied.

 

Poem with too many names

 

 

Poem No. 6

 

It rides on the mists of sleepy nights,

shows itself, and mysteries unbar,

 

Images of ghoulish fate and Elysian heights,

ambiguity unknown, buoyancy wide and far.

 

Such masks seem to disappear at twilight,

as sweet and calm then return,

 

Showing a glimpse of ponderous things out of sight,

the Universe seems as one, no ambitions, no lessons to learn.

 

 

Poem No. 7

 

Ship of Tyre[3]

 

I see a wall

its bricks make a translucent surface

clean and smooth are they

so smooth I can't see or feel their grout

 

I can come close

but I cannot go beyond the wall

Why? I ask myself

fingers on their surface sense them so cold

 

Visions betrayed

are so lovely and so very close

refined work is there

judged crudeness lives on my side of the wall

 

I see a wall

that I cannot break

mediocrity

I wish I've wings to fly to vast regions

beyond

the wall

 

 

Poem No. 8

 

Adventures of my Umbrella

 

When I was but a child,

I had an umbrella.

I was seven; it was new.

 

I remember it when

Seeing it the first time;

Downtown is where it was,

In some ritzy display.

 

In a place with glass doors,

The shop like the ‘brella,

Was black – how elegant.

 

My mom bought two that day:

One for her; one for me.

She had had some before;

For me it was my first.

 

What mysteries were in

That black new umbrella;

How I longed to use it.

 

Then finally one day,

Rain was in the forecast;

Out of the closet it

Came for its first big use.

 

It wasn’t easy though

To convince Mom the need

Of taking it to school.

 

But I argued, saying,

“Why did you buy it then,

If I can’t ever use?”

She swayed; it came with me.

 

It didn’t rain, but what

Did that matter right then,

For I’d still showed it off.

 

Boring school, like always,

Made me long for day’s end,

And “Who knows, there could still

Be a massive downpour!”

 

Marian looked after me

Afternoons until my mom

Could pick me up from work.

 

So, though a rainless day,

The school bell rang and I

Collected my things to

Trudge my way back to her.

 

To get to Marian’s house,

I went the high-school way,

Though she told me not to.

 

I thought about how many

More chances I could get

To impress with my toy –

My new black umbrella.

 

When I walked by the grade school,

I saw the daughter of

My once-a-week tutor.

 

They lived in a big house

That wasn’t far from mine;

My tutor was so nice,

It never seemed like homework.

 

My tutor’s daughter asked

If I would like a ride home.

I said, “Sure, that would be nice.”

 

I did wonder though how

She knew to take me to

My babysitter’s house….

She started the right way.

 

She went down the right street,

But then suddenly turned

The exact opposite way.

 

I wanted to tell her

To go the other way –

But then, the whole idea

Seemed a very bad one.

 

And what of Marian?

Would she be worried when

I didn’t show up soon?

 

So, I was on my way home;

My mind raced as what to tell.

“Why are you home so early?”

My dad was sure to say.

 

These were the things I thought

As my tutor’s daughter

Sped in the wrong direction.

 

I considered this because

My Mom hadn’t given me

My very own front door key –

Wait… “I left my umbrella.”

 

This I thought as she drove

Off with my new equipment,

But, by then, it was too late.

 

Now what was I to do?

I feverishly delved,

Looking for an excuse

Where my umbrella was.

 

Not much came right away,

Then again when asked, I

Would come up with something.

 

“At school,” is what I said.

Mom replied, “Don’t forget

About it tomorrow.”

“I won’t!” was my swift answer.

 

My brand-new umbrella

Lay on the back-seat floor:

Left but not abandoned.

 

I went to my tutor

Every Tuesday evening,

After dinner, from home,

I walked myself over there.

 

They had seen my umbrella!

It lay nestled against

The others in their care.

 

I stroked it in the hall tree,

Knowing in an hour

I’d be able to put right

A mistake that’d ballooned.

 

When I left, I snagged it

To take it where it would

Be finally at home.

 

I was out the door,

And way down the sidewalk,

When I realized I

Had a major problem.

 

I told my mom I had

Left it back at my school;

What could I tell her now?

 

What bold explanation

From my seven-year-old

Brain would explain this one –

What to do and not panic?

 

Starting to walk on home,

Worry marched by my side;

Suddenly I had a flash.

 

It wasn’t a good flash,

In retrospect I know,

But despair was to blame

When I think back to it.

 

In my home’s direction,

Near my tutor’s abode,

Was a buried culvert.

 

I took my new shiny

Umbrella and stuck it

In the dry drainage pipe,

But felt ill doing it.

 

Yet, I did have a plan

To get it back next week,

Barring some rain, that is.

 

The week flew by slowly

Bringing Tuesday ‘round to me –

It hadn’t rained, so I

Hoped it was still in place.

 

Tutoring went quickly.

When over, I leapt out

Her front door to get it.

 

The path was blocked instead,

Showing me my mom with

A stranger idly talking.

My mom! What was happ’ning?

 

She’d never walked me home

After my tutoring.

I couldn’t believe it.

 

After chatty intros,

To my horror, we all walked

The few blocks back to home.

 

I had no chance to get

My lonely umbrella;

It would have to wait longer.

 

The following week dragged

Slower than the previous;

It had been so long since

I’d seen my umbrella.

 

Back to look in the pipe,

My umbrella was gone –

I’d never see it again…

 

Now you see my woe,

For when I was a child,

I had an umbrella.

I was seven; it was new.

 

 

Postlude:

 

Memory of love, or love of memory

I don’t know which is true of my umbrella

 

The case now, I cannot state very calmly

Did I love then, or only hence, that umbrella

 

I only know if I were to run away

To the blue hills, what would occupy me there

 

Where the hills and my umbrella are I can’t say

I only know they’re gone, yet still they are there

 

Where are the distant, rolling blue hills of my youth?

Where do I look? To Memphis, Lincoln, or Duluth?

 

 

Poem No. 9

 

Lyrics:

 

You are a radiant sun shining on an unworthy shore

warming sweetly regions benign

hidden though they are in the cold dark

You stimulate them with your light.

 

Your light draws love from a very deep place hidden from even me

sweetly warming regions benign

which I didn't realize were there

Your light, so gentle, do I need.

 

You are a radiant sun shining on an unworthy shore

with your light can I take on wings

with you can I create dreams coming true

Your thought makes words dull in contrast.

 

because

 

You are a radiant sun shining on an unworthy shore

 

 

Poem No. 10

 

If I could burn my soul,

all that it means to me

 

If my spirit were made of paper

and evil said its lines

 

In fire could I be born

into new life

 

Free from pain,

and free from strife.

 

 

Poem No. 11

 

AISLING

 

She stands upon the hill so fair,

lightness dreams for her,

Of soft, sweet, distant air,

where a wafting breeze makes her stir.

 

So gently she comes to moor,

as a thought in slumber does,

A heartened pang to adore,

a silent lady, forever to love.

 

If a tree moans, I know she nears,

her fragrance scents the air,

A perfume, subtle, familiar, and dear,

I know she comes so fair.

 

The Lady's calm will in me stir,

a grateful tone to bear,

For lightness dreams of her,

the Lady of the sweetened air.

 

 

Poem No. 12

 

She stands in misty darkness still –

silence is her breath

gentle motion, whitened will –

she of calmness does request

 

An effortless sea of white does fall –

she covers all so tenderly

a gentle scene that sings to all –

of peaceful, blanched tranquility

 

Her soul clings to the branches of trees –

traces still of her movement

a silent lady forever to believe –

sweetened white to give deludement

 

In darkness still does she stand –

colorless oblivion

her motions gentle on the land –

her calmness envelops all thoughts of sin.

 

Winter Snow

 

 

Poem No. 13

 

I have seen you everywhere

countless times a specterful sleep

the world's not real to me

I want to be what I can be

already.

 

The weight is smashing me

how I long to be what I can be

I simply face the morrow wanting

God in Glory to fall asleep

already.

 

 

Poem No. 14

 

Haiku:

 

Fiery-winged fowl,

A goose of wordless feathers

Flees his woes by flight.

 

 

Poem No. 15

 

If God be in a bug,

we'd all better stick ourselves

under the rug.

 

If God be in a bug,

and he's squashed, we've all got our

burial dug.

 

For if you were a bug,

and had your brains smashed out by

a fool from above

 

You would feel a grievance done

if you were God and a bug

then squashed from above,

so,

 

If God be in a bug,

we'd all better stick ourselves

under the rug.

 

 

Poem No. 16

 

Six ā to the zee, bee to the zee minus ten bee to the zee

minus –

Three ā to the zee, cee to the zee, less five cee to the zee

 

Six ā to the zee, bee to the zee, minus three ā to the zee, cee to the zee

plus –

Negative ten bee to the zee plus five cee to the zee

 

Three ā to the zee, times two bee to the zee minus cee to the zee

plus –

Five times negative two bee to the zee plus cee to the zee

 

Three ā to the zee times two bee to the zee minus cee to the zee

minus –

Five times two bee to the zee minus cee to the zee

 

Two bee to the zee minus cee to the zee

times –

Three ā to the zee minus five.

 

Ode to a Polynomial

 

P.S. God help me…[4]

 

 

Poem No. 17

 

Moonless midnight

and memories

 

Phantoms in flight

difficult to keep in solidity

 

Too many memories

to remember

 

Such wicked abstractions

to which I have no identity

 

 

Poem No. 18

 

Prelude:

 

I hate to be alive,

how more simply can I say it.

 

I have nothing for to strive,

no happiness in which to simply sit

 

What possible gifts do I have to give,

when I take space and do nothing but stare

 

So I ask, for what reason do I live,

to cease such a life, do I think to dare

 

My problem with that, is this,

the world is so damn beautiful, why did God

 

Put a scourge like human kindness

on the planet to muck and mess up the sod.

 

All I know is that:

 

I hate to be alive,

how more simply can I say it?

 

 

Poem:

 

The blood rushing from my arms

making me impure by its super purity

rushing until perfect bliss be found.

 

 

Poem No. 19

 

i.

I might have been first

Instead I am the worst

 

Did God make an illiterate writer

a painter with no hands

 

Did he make a critic for his creator

a simple fool with no fans

 

What exactly did God make –

a quivering mass of self-pity?

 

No, not God. I did that despite his sake

he is love, and cannot be flighty

 

ii.

The rain is coming now

How nice it would be

to be washed clean by it

but

I lack such soap.

I might have been first

Instead, I'll remain the worst.

 

 

Poem No. 20

 

Sweep and pound as hard as you can

wind, throw them at me

 

Sweet pungent smell, clean my mind

fury of the storm, make me see

 

Wetness awaken me, frighten

me with the cold

 

I don’t like the air I breathe now

fill me with newly brisk air

 

Rain help me see me

anew!!!

 

 

Poem No. 21

 

They…

 

…squeak, and squawk and rumble,

and they fly.

Oh, I'd like to be an elevator humble,

and live in the sky.

 

 

Poem No. 22

 

The spring is beautiful

As I watch her dress the Earth

In emotions I had almost forgot

Using colors stored in careful places

Kept safe from the frost of the soul

Safe in the warmth of knowing

That no matter what, her day will come again.

 

The spring is a beautiful reason

Not that she has any cause to be

Wars are still being fought

People are still hating many things.

 

And yet, she comes

Offering her gift to the world

No questions, no bills

She comes for reasons unknown.

 

With a million secret colors

She paints a million emotions

Far too many to write

And so I'm left with nothing but…

 

The spring is beautiful.

 

 

Poem No. 23

 

Each day a million thoughts are born,

each needs prove itself against reason's scorn

 

Wrong or right, they are our history

 

Filtered through the mind like sand,

they are the eternal story of Man.

 

 

Poem No. 24

 

She from a dream does stir

to awaken what was forgotten

with those gentle fingers of her –

the land and dreams forsaken.

 

She in calmness does fall

into this, our raging world of life

till she becomes part of it all –

the point of instinctive strife.

 

When she moves in her first step

all others must dearly pay her heed

for her birth, and her first breath –

only then may they proceed.

 

She stands in airless anticipation

bringing all to the cusp of the hour

returning to recognition –

for the Lady has such power.

 

Spring Thaw

 

 

Poem No. 25

 

Poems have dealt with life and love, and a lack thereof,

of pretty things, and heroic man that sings

 

I want to think above, of what's not been thought of

besides the same old fling, there must be something

 

How about some hogs, or a wagonload of logs;

Infested with lice, or with some such device?

 

Puppy dogs, and little-girl frogs;

ants, and mice – now, how do those matters entice?

 

-------

 

Shall I ever write newly of unspoken things truly?

after all, what's left, but burglary and theft?

 

Hey, now there's a thought duly, of something new and unruly

and if I fail with heft, at least I've tried to be deft.

 

Oh well, with that cavort, back to mundane things of sort

of love, of life, and songs of strife

 

Perhaps I'll just write of Mort, who drank a bottle of port

and fell out of sight, from a cliff of some great height.[5]

 

 

Poem No. 26

 

Is there anyone happy in the world today?

What happened to the children who used to play?

And the preachers who used to gossip –

They don’t anymore, they don’t speak of it.

 

I know why the children don’t play today;

It's because I'm not a child's stature, per se,

And why the preachers don’t speak of it –

They haven’t seen me in church for a bit.

 

What changes; the world or the people?

I have, for I've lost childish glow,

And it hurts the more I know –

Being of the earth makes me a cripple.

 

 

Poem No. 27

 

I look for beauty

but can find only the beast.

As children we are told to avoid it –

only purity for purities sought –

unforbidden duty

but the wrong offers such a feast

that only children can avoid it

and I am not a child with a child's thought.

 

coming out

 

 

Poem No. 28

 

Sweet embrace of a horrid thought

a simple one, one of immense truth –

its presence revolts me

 

The thought is entirely there

though magnified by the night so still –

the thought of who I am.[6]

 

 

Poem No. 29

 

You know of course I meant to go

before she went

but then she went before I got the chance to go

so now I'm going after she went

oh, no.

 

 

Poem No. 30

 

Portrait…

 

My God, what a lovely face she did once possess

filled with all the emotions we could ever need

Now is it drained of charm from every recess

by those who claim to be her rightful seed.

 

All that she had, she gave; nothing is left to assess

yet impatient fools, who only think of their greed

Try to draw blood from her every abscess

for when she doesn't look, then her children feed.

 

She was young, and oh so sublime, not so long ago

but then she bore the frightful scourge of herself

And her children, they sucked away her blooming glow

while she raised not a finger to say no unto their pelf.

 

She used to be proud

and held her head high,

but now covered with a shroud,

her children ask with a sigh,

'Is this the beauty who raised

my sisters and brothers?

This? Torn so by motherly duty…?'

 

My God, what have we done to our most important,

life-giving mother? Please forgive our earthly sins.

We thought we would never be accountable

and reduced to the status of your orphans.

 

…of our Mother Earth

 

 

Poem No. 31

 

Beauty is of itself, a whole thing.

It can't fight its enemies

And we, too stupid, don’t know

What they are.

So, Beauty suffers, while

We do nothing.

 

 

Poem No. 32

 

In the mist, I think I can faintly see

a vision that perhaps is of me,

but since I know myself not at all,

in mystery it lies with my wherewithal.

 

 

Poem No. 33

 

Loneliness' song is slow but sweet,

its voice, ever-constant, eternal –

Through the history of Man, its beat

pulls us to ourselves most fraternal.

 

 

Poem No. 34

 

The night the poems died

it happened all once

everything just shriveled up inside

all of it, at once.

 

It wasn’t as painful

as one would think

but then, I've forgotten that pitiful

can lead you to the brink.

 

I wasn't prepared to face the truth

I'd rather lie and make believe

and with my soul strike a truce,

but, that I can't, I want to believe.

 

Malingerant coward that am I

to hope I could cower and die

what a sick and pain-filled lie

because all I can do, is sigh.

 

 

Poem No. 35

 

I lie awake and spy

on visions of burnt dreams

flashing boldly in the empty sky

of my mind, bursting its seams…

 

To be anything less than a success

is to have failed totally;

not to go forward, but to regress

is to show your shame boastfully…

 

I've lost what I was going to say

but it doesn't matter, I'm sure,

for there'll be another day

of tortured tolerance with which to endure…

 

And I imagine I shall too.

 

 

Poem No. 36

 

I need a cure –

Does anyone know

The cure for self-contempt?

 

 

Poem No. 37

 

In the dreams of men

thoughts are born

specters of fame and fall

and of none at all

it merely depends on the storm

of a mind that needs a mend

 

Visit my tonight?

Who knows what will –

whatever it is,

whoever it is –

well, I’ll remember it still

when I awake in the daylight

 

Should I be afraid

of phantoms unknown?

I won’t wake

in the same world

I went to sleep in;

memories will have flown

and I think they haven’t stayed

 

Then again – maybe

I’ll see sweet, soothing light

that will calm and quench

my spirit’s ideas there they entrench

and illuminate my sight

to enlightenment most free.

 

In my mind

thoughts are born

specters of fame and fall

and of none at all –

it all depends on the storm

of a mind that needs a mend

 

 

Poem No. 38

"Dwight"

 

When subtle things move behind a smile

beckoning for a chance all the while

but still unsure is he

who thinks, but wonders what could be

behind the cheerful expression that's grave

a fantasy to treasure and save

 

When subtle things move behind happy eyes

that try to hide deeper things by disguise

but leave looks to remember

as calling cards from the lender

visions I dare not think be true

imaginings of immensities misconstrue

 

"I am very confused to meet you"

when your eyes speak before they let you

when your smile denotes something special

that I can approach at the same level

am I to act on subtle clues of hope

or should I stop and give up any hope?

 

 

Poem No. 39

 

The Materialist's Love Song

 

Prelude:

 

Sweet sound of the VCR –

click

rurrrrup

and then a steady purr

 

From the hollow within

come visions

created by

workmen unseen

 

I come to the VCR

when days are dark

for I know that joy is never far

from my friend who doesn’t smell or bark

 

Happy days from the VCR –

click

and then a steady purr

all this, and I never have to call it sir.

 

 

Poem:

 

Things give pleasure, how can I deny?

Money gives power, as great as the sky.

And what's the price? Oh, not much –

Well, there's no lice or stuff such –

All you have to do, my wondering dear,

Is give up your chance to know why we respire here.

 

So, you want to have? Well, have it all.

Most simply done; ignore your conscience-call,

Life can be a daze of contentment,

So forget the maze of fulfillment.

I say forsake all; live for the gain of money.

What else can matter as long as the days are sunny.

 

 

Postlude:

 

Pleasure marked on a physical basis

can be no more than painted faces.

Happiness doesn’t lie on a dollar bill

unless it's used on the poor as a pill.

Then happiness will come to both

the Christ and the giver of hope.

 

         

Poem No. 40

 

Prelude:

 

When love's not love…

And has apathy only for hate…

When the sincerest insult is to tell the truth…

 

 

Poem:

 

On a summer night

When the heat is past its height

I lie awake

And wonder just what's at stake

 

My dream's a depressing sea

On a boat un-tethered but still not free

Sailing through a fog I cannot master

Because the mist simply rolls in faster.

 

I float along in the windward lee

Sensing the weight of utter despair, she,

Is a power that I won't be able to shake,

And could sink me perhaps before I wake.

 

 

Poem No. 41

 

Prelude:

 

In 1941, the City of Peter

was laid siege upon;

900 days later, it ended.

As the Nazis left

they burned the home of Peter

and his descendants, and his people.

 

 

Poem:

 

What monument could befit

Mikhail Kraminsky?

Not stone or brick, marble or glass –

Wood's inadequate from ages past

steel and cement aren’t the clue either –

for what he has done, has made man seem bright.

Mikhail Kraminsky,

for immortality you are fit.

 

How can the role of hero be filled?

In you it showed simple enough.

You are the restorer of your nation's monuments,

you rebuilt what once was present,

what once was ignorantly destroyed,

but after, you saw and had no anger to display,

you only knew crying wasn't enough,

and with a hopeful sigh, sad: "We will rebuild."

 

In forty not-so simple years

you've built a monument to yourself

through your tireless love to restore –

from piles of rubble, towns again stand,

gilded in majesty, not remade, but reclaimed –

and you, Kraminsky, for us made it the same

palaces of others, but as a monument to yourself,

you have struck away all the tears.

 

The greatest triumph of Man –

you have done no less –

where others would have only anger,

you had only conviction that's stronger;

where others would fill with concrete,

you had a vision only to restore complete.

What other monument could befit a man

who has done the greatest triumph of Man

and no less?

 

 

Postlude:

 

Let this be my memorial to you,

Mikhail Kraminsky,

And please accomplish what you have to do,

Not only for Russia, but for all to know that dreams come true,

Mikhail Kraminsky.[7]

 

 

Poem No. 42

 

Sonnet:

 

The world calmly shouts what it has, and always will –

a question pleaded since the first wave of God's hand

with a fearlessness that's been called anything but bland –

time has not removed it; the question is posed still.

In the future people like me will get their fill? –

Doubt will come to the next, and be as sure as sand;

believe me, I see only pain from where I stand,

where so many others felt their hearts break and spill.

The question simply put: what is beauty; what is love;

Can beauty be in everything, say perhaps a foot?

Can love be in everyone, in their personal check?

The answer's seen by people who know what is above –

a joyous work of longing whose seed has taken root –

the world sings it's an unfulfilled emotional wreck.

 

 

Postlude:

 

What is it in the face of man

that proves he's more than simple sand?

 

 

Poem No. 43

 

The gentle drift of a thought

slides silently into bed

and whispers things that were said –

thoughts and wonderments of the dead,

their lives spent for what they sought.

 

Darkness brings the visitor

that lies besides me every night

that brings visions of ghoulish fright –

and with the birth of day will take flight,

and leave behind, less of a shell, and no victor.

 

Night Thoughts

 

 

Poem No. 44

 

death

embrace me

take me away from my lover

lonely

aggress me

death

trees I do not need

grass I do not need

so what's there to hold

me

peace I cannot find

love I do not want

help us death

embrace me.

 

 

Poem No. 45

 

Qu'est-ce que l'amour?

that is the principal question

asked by some before.

 

I saw the door ajar

and wished I could

pry it some more –

to inch it with purpose.

 

-------

 

Only once was man given the sublime

and he can't see it;

thinks it's in something else.

How wrong he is.

I hope he finds the spark

of the true rhyme

that was given to us.

The one spark, that was given

and not made.

 

 

Poem No. 46

 

I.

When the City of the Saint

Was the city of the West,

When all was fresh and new with paint,

This and the spring of '46 were at their best.

 

From the East a young man came

For an adventure to find,

Francis Parkman was his wealthy name,

And a guide is what he needed to be signed.

 

From the West a young man came

To the city that gave him birth,

Henri Chantillon was his name,

And a guide from the age of fifteen was his worth.

 

The two men came to the western city

One in search of his manhood in the West,

One for a break in his life of things pretty,

They didn't know they'd meet; they couldn't have guessed.

 

II.

Different men they were for sure

One a happy Easterner,

Who had never a hardship to endure,

Indians and Adventure were the West's big lure.

 

For the other had become

A man among his brothers,

His heart was one with the meaning of the Chisum,

His mind saw as brightly as the others.[8]

 

…..

 

 

Poem No. 47

 

What's the matter?

Money again,

or shameful sin.

What's the matter again?

 

 

Poem No. 48

 

We dream to become what we're not

look for visions to be sought

it doesn't matter if they're our own

as long as we have them sewn

with the thread of hope in our thought.

 

 

Poem No. 49

 

If in days yet to come,

no one can recall our face,

or know what we've done,

can't fit us into a space,

can't know what we've sung

if, they knowing we were unhappy

or know unfulfilled,

if they know we were daffy

beyond the normal still,

then they will find a common thread

to link them to us, at least in the head.

 

 

Poem No. 50

 

Like a song that wove itself into a soul

Like a glance that set into a mood

these are abstract thoughts

that express what I feel

 

 

Poem No. 51

 

You can give yourself to God

Only if you give yourself to your brothers.

 

 

Poem No. 52

 

You know of course I meant to go

before she went

but then she went before I got the chance to go

so now I'm going after she went

Oh, no.

 

 

Poem No. 53

 

Prelude:

 

Today I watched

the sun be born.

In words, it went like this:

 

 

Poem:

 

I.

Fizz and fuzz and chill a-snap

it's sad above the trees

Will and wile and still a-chap

It is cold enough to freeze

Fizz and fuzz and chill a-bap

the sun nothing more than a tease

Will and wile and still a-snap

only a cold light edges the breeze.

 

II.

Hint and hue of burning blue

an amber coal gives rise

Brace and bob of hinting hue

through misty, drowsy skies

Rick and reel of sighing sight

rousing thus by its color

Sent and steel of wronging right

forgetting what was duller

Moan and moat of changing chance

half an ellipse raises its voice

Choose and change of manly stance

asking all to make a choice

Heat and haul of blaring new

an amber coal gives rise

Burning off the hinting hue of blue

ascending misty, drowsy skies.

 

 

Poem No. 54

 

I walk into my room the same as always

Set down my drawings too, just the same, I thought,

But I didn’t know a mystery lurked for me.

 

Something that was changed from all the other days,

Some subtle hidden thing, something not the part,

I accidentally walked by, but didn’t see.

 

I addressed my roommate: "How are you today?"

"Better than usual;" he's been ill you see,

Still I didn't see it. On my way I wanted to go.

 

Before I left though, before I could get away,

I needed a drawing; get it and I'd be free.

Bent down to get it, I saw it and said, "Oh."

 

A pair of black shoes. "Oh, are these yours,"

I said to my roommate. "No, I've never seen them before."

"If they're not your shoes, then why are they here, and whose?"

 

I could say no more about such strange occurrences;

A pair of black shoes visits my room, what a strange scene;

Not my shoes, not his shoes, we look and wonder who?

 

 

Postlude:

 

Yukio, my strange and subtle friend

who doesn't know how to pronounce 'lend'

but can read hearts and knows what they have to send.

 

 

Poem No. 55

 

This is a rhyming test, so don't sound the alarm

So do not be distressed, don’t sell the house and farm

 

I'm simply trying a scheme, to see what I can do

To think of something that's new, strange as that just might seem

 

So to begin I will, let's see…I'll start it this way…

This is a rhyming drill, and that's all I have to say.

 

 

Poem No. 56

 

In slumber days

the sky was pink with excitement

because innocency lived in a sigh.

 

 

Poem No. 57

 

Prelude:

 

A lady does her nails, in a class about Death

and then leaves

They're ugly red nails, in a class about Death

they match her sleeves

Her ruddy color pales, her throat swallows a breath

and then leaves

A lady did her nails, in a class about Death

to match her sleeves

Turns pale and leaves.

 

 

Poem:

 

There's a leaf on the floor,

All the way in the corner, under the window,

And I wonder how it got there.

  

 

Poem No. 58

 

Lyric Sonnet:

 

What's beauty for,

if I can't embrace it?

and still the more,

to what can it befit?

why need it be,

it seems out of kilter

far beyond me,

why doesn't it filter?

So I must ask,

what can beauty be for

if in it I can't bask;

without it I can't soar?

I have one gentle task,

to know beauty once more.

 

 

Postlude:

 

To come to a dream

and not to recognize it

Is not knowing how to live

 

 

Poem No. 59

 

There's a stillness in my heart

that I can't draw on this paper.

 

It is made of buttercups,

or vagrants lying in the street.

 

How very stupid I am,

for if I can't see it, how can you?

 

So, a mystery it'll remain,

and we're better off not knowing.

 

 

Poem No. 60

 

I'll dream of you in the sometimes hour,

About those days of years gone past,

A haunted melody, meant not to go sour,

Dried a quiet memory in a mind dyed fast.

 

Your eyes are set eternal in my hope,

A thing never meant to fade,

There I see you always;

What eyes can say, when words simply fade:

 

a cruel glance bared its bitterness,

and lasts as long as a bad Coffey dreg;

a glance if chance held the newness,

a glance of hatred lingers like the plague.

 

But. I'll dream of you in the sometimes hour,

About the ones I've seen in years gone past;

Some a joyous thing, others can go sour,

Dried a quiet memory in a mind dyed fast.

   

 

Poem No. 61

 

Prelude:

 

Muscle and bone, that's all it is

blood and brains, that's all it is

put together in a way

that makes my humor and mind

sing of them:

 

Poem:

 

A note of amorous kind

passed with a smiling nod

that says more than the note

 

she opens it like a great find

her eyes dart, a smiling nod

that says more than he wrote

 

gleefully she gets a pen

finds a paper that's almost blank

and jots something then

 

a note most amorous sent

passed with a smiling nod

that says more than the note

 

he opens it like a great event

his eyes dart, a smiling nod

that says more than she wrote

 

 

Poem No. 62[9]

 

The King of Brooklyn

 

What if he were born in Brooklyn

On a morning like all the others

What if he said he was free from sin

And told us we are all brothers

 

What if he were born black

And said that he loved us all,

The son of us, the entire pack,

Said he’d come to teach us not to fall

Would we listen to his call

 

In a public institution,

What if that is where he was born,

Would wise men kneel before his position,

Would others decry his birth a Medicare scam

 

What about his very young mother,

Would we see her pain in the knowing

That her son was born to in death hover

And think him the lamb of the coming

Would we see his calling

 

What if a poor child in Brooklyn

Were the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace

Would we listen to him; could we him know;

Could he fit our pre-fab image

 

Would he be let in the Thanksgiving Day Parade

Would our Fifth Avenue welcome him;

The bishops and shopkeepers, would they delay

The celebration till his birthday began

Would we recognize a Christ if we saw him?

 

 

Poem No. 63

 

A Holiday Postlude

 

Toe trimmings and tree trimmings

lay together in a bag.

After Christmas, after New Year's,

they're considered something of a nag.

 

What if there were a Christmas tax:

on sack, box, and carrying crate

on ropes, ribbons, and Scotch tape

on bows satin, and angels in pose

on pictures of reindeer, and on Rudolph's nose

on Christmas tunes, and church to attend

on tinsel gold, and cards to send

on 'good ole times,' and many a friend

on trees green, and carolers in white

on sheep, and every shepherd in sight

on wreaths holly, and berry mugs

on mangers, and clearance sales in floods

on jolly elves, and seasonal duds?

What if there were a Christmas tax

on the things that mean Christmas to us?

 

 

~