the scar on my forehead is a thin line
the others, deep and mysterious
are buried under the blazing light
of another continent, where I was just
a number to be extracted from existence
today, i drift from smile to smile
sharing a kiss only under the full moon
closeness belonged to another life
i have my stories, ghostly and precarious, they arrive
with candlelight and wine when curiosity peaks
and each man cries out when caught in their spell
terrors of my past… my tears are dry and spent
my voice calm and too matter-of-fact
for their comfort, I speak of independence
and suffering when there is nothing on the table
they nod, as if they truly understand my tale
and pose a warm hand on my shoulder
thinking to comfort what should still be my distress
in response, I tell them
each of our lives is a piece of tomorrow’s puzzle
but mine is merely the shadows cast by the clouds
masking the thin line of the horizon



a question of comfort
[2010.10.7…a]




 

the wind whispers between our sighs
it gently fills our silence with secrets to tell
in the turbulent storm of our new desire
our torn souls must be cleansed
hesitating, we cannot ignore the wounds
for love has learned to growl in our hearts
I gaze on your ethereal peace, you are my treasure
an angel to heal the spaces of doubt so often tortured
tell me how you tire of finding new ways to hide
I offer my arms, my tears and my questions
your answer, like a sunny day, does not tarry
together we may imagine the nakedness of honesty
and when our souls no longer hide
we may speak freely of love


when the soul no longer hides
[2010.9.7…a]
for The Asking Boy


 

in the heat a young man fans himself
with a newspaper, he sprawls, lethargic, sweating
fluttering the thirty-five degree centigrade air
in faux freshness, an empty water bottle stares
at him abandoned on the seat facing the opposite direction
the train is rush-hour packed, surprisingly silent
my packages sit at my feet, selfishly I gulp fruit juice
purchased in parched urgency from a scandalously
overpriced newsstand, on of many traps for thirsty tourists
and city dwellers, alike, who, while wandering
the commercial streets close to La Madeleine
had already swallowed the liter of icy water
brought from our dwellings… I avoid ice cream on the street
smile at two Chinese children sporting “I love Paris”
rainbow-striped umbrella hats and notice others lounging
in cafés under parasols or mist machines…
soon enough I’ll be home under a cool shower
spending the evening wrapped in the still humid bath towel
hours later, when the sky has lost all its blueness
the languid heat clings to the city, and sleep treats
no one to rest, I water my plants, indoors and out
counting new geranium buds fully opened by the sun’s
glaring afternoon heat, now there is no moon, the stars
hide among the city’s smog, the streets are silent and muffled
lazily, I push aside the unopened parcels littering my bed
and lay atop the sheets, waiting for morning’s freshness



afternoon in the city
[2010.8.7…a]


 

i remember, slowly, like the sunset
color comes and goes
the souvenirs return, tearless
i didn’t suffer that day, too unreal was your exit
from a world we both mocked…
your laughter
never a care, the entire earth was your friend
not immediate family, no shrink talked to me
about the shock of violent death
i don’t suffer now, your name is tucked inside
of my heart, a protective teddy bear…
we had changed
mutual friends by then, even so, no one
could have told me if there was agony…
         in your last moments…
                   was the water frozen…
                             did you survive until then?
no, of your suffering i knew nothing…
i do not know if angels talk
of these earthly details, and when i join you
in our new moments of eternity, if your answers
will be important between us…
until then, your name has the echo of sunrise




no suffering
[2010.7.7…b]
In fond memory of Joe Martin


 

This isn't completely new, so maybe I'm cheating.
Here's a variation of yesterday's theme. Cat mentioned combining the last two poems into a singe opus, the "Joyce" style working well for extra clarity. I've started the process, but the central part here about Joe (a true story) gets in the way of any idea I can have for making a single memoir style poem of the two.

I'll post something new if the day's migraine lets me.

six buttons to sew, silly for a pianist
to be all thumbs with tiny needle eyes
and diversely colored threads… in the meantime
eight more shirts summersault in the machine, no iron
for pleats I pull them taut before hanging them
in the balcony’s breeze traps
suitcases to pack, places to discover
farewell home sweet home
bienvenue hotel rooms
my heart pines for Italy since the last visit, Napoleon’s
exile on Elba, the leaning tower
other fortified cities en route
the wine is good, they say — spoiled by Bordeaux that I am —
pasta at every meal, feast-like maybe rebalancing
the scales afterwards
one day at a time
in the interim
Beethoven’s Pastoral calls my fingers
to nimble readiness, I would prefer the Tempest
but it disappeared along with Joseph in a plane crash
twelve years ago, deliberately, I have never replaced it,
to honor our friendship…
now other people make claims on my heart
its strings, like the piano, sing a thousand songs
each more precious than the next, each weaving tiny parts
of other souls into the foundation I call me, each anchoring
today with loose ends from the past and bright mosaic patterns
I will create for tomorrow…
then I’ve planned to hang sheets in the balcony breeze traps
the post meridien weather will be hotter than now, drying a cinch...
I should fill the ice cube trays for the water pitcher
I’ll likely fill it with tea instead of lemonade
unless I draw blood with the needle
and die, an accident of some fairy tale’s gender crossing


the path from buttons
[2010.6.7…a]




 

I've decided to try, for only the second time in my life, to read James Joyce's Ulysses. I'm a bit scattered by his style, but it's left an interesting imprint on tonight's poem. And for once, a properly punctuated text!

frozen in stained glass
battle for eternal love
evensong’s desire

evensong’s desire
surrendering hope and faith
so rarely attained

so rarely attained
a design for ultimate
illumination

illumination
captures life’s timid prayers
magnifying all

magnifying all
tears for simple broken souls
bound by angel hymns

bound by angel hymns
joined in vast celebration
man’s joyous temples

man’s joyous temples
caress universal pain
freed behind stain glass


the solitude of mankind
[2010.4.7...a]

 

suddenly the exchange —
every opposite crashes and crumbles
blinding blue unravels into a dull white
greyishness, a fluttering cloud of mosquitoes
that hovers in a subtle dragonfly hue
while catching the receding light, backlit
by the bark of thunder and spider web sky illumination
hell jousts with heaven in planetary battle
where the elements explode in aggressive duel
heat splits the pavement and makes it steam with rainfall
its pounding purifies bodies covered
in the stench and sweat of city filth
drenching each creature caught under its driving force
in an electrifying shower that binds each soul
with the reminder of its power
and still the night tales inhibit sleep
constant dripping of water on leaves overcomes
last night’s repetitive click of crickets
a new lull that stretches one’s torpor
into groggy tiredness, a hangover of
high and low pressure systems cavorting
to strew the jigsaw puzzles of peace
along the raindrops of insomniac distraction
when a spring-like storm replaces
the dog days of summer



night tales
[2010.3.7…a]


 

I weave threads of silence into our conversation
that allows us to meditate the space caught
between double rainbows and smiling women
you evoke a place where we run barefoot in high grasses
immobilized in the serenity of a perfect landscape
to enjoy pink ribbons of color in the sky
that depict both dawn and sunset
reminding us that we can share joy
and that our pain is just another way to bond
precious sentiment into new friendships
we laugh about inconsequential gossip
and philosophize on love after death
our time together closes discreetly with new promises
to create a ritual encounter for old friends
words float from my mind to your dreams
like butterflies posing for a photograph
immortalized in a moment we will all remember


all in the sound of your voice
[2010.2.7…a]


 

the fields beyond the volcano
have turned from ash to verdant
sheep graze tonight while sunset’s
cream and baby blue color the sky
the melted glacier has taken life elsewhere
to places where only water can stream
now the mountain is merely a wisp of gray-blue
with random spurts of hot air warming just so
the cool Icelandic summertime
the jolt of life is over, the earth’s need
of effervescence is done, life has triumphed
in the cycle, overturning death this time
and the simple things
like wildflowers invading prairies
where birds feed on insects
have regained their expressions
letting us almost forget having feared
for peace, while the idea of prosperity
threatened the necessity of survival


from a far-away island
[2010.1.7…a]


 

no swallows, no sunset, no rain
the heat wave happens, more and more often
fear the weather-casting wizards, no more talk about the World
Soccer Cup or the neighbors already drunk on Bordeaux
dining with opened windows, their proximity distressing my calm
no sleeplessness, no drugs to avoid it
can I abolish pain?
no second liter bottle of bubbly water to replenish
the body fluids I’ve sweat or eliminated in less noble ways
no quick witty sitcom on the TV, the CD player is silent too
no need for any form of entertainment
that only catapults more muck into
my tired, indifferent senses —
I am exhausted by these endless impressions of living —
and my heart, yes, with its wounds, scars and promises
is all that matters, for when love leaps at me from across the miles
I start to believe once again in the power of hope
and in a short while, when you and I can hold hands daily
nothing else will matter


when, in a few weeks
[2010.30.6…a]


 

blue paper litters the floor
dead leaves too, but that’s more conventional
my study has too many piles for heavy stones
to weight the pages, when the wind comes to life
opened windows everywhere create a smooth breeze
cooling my indoor accommodations from hot
to luke-warm, allowing me to sleep more peacefully
some nights I'm even a bit chilly by sunrise
and as I reach for the sheets just now
a bug bites my foot, it's slight jab
waking me with a nightmare start
they also come inside through open windows
maybe in passing they toy with the idea
of leaving foot prints, or wing stains
on the blue paper arrayed on the beige carpet
I don't have a magnifying glass
to check my theory of insect games within human confines
after all, we don't speak the same language
and their signs are certainly as coded as my “ouch”
when they decide my skin is fit for breakfast...


when I open the windows
[2010.29.6...a]


 

no release
has come to this hell
the peace is unsettled and eerie
skies remain heavy and humid
a pregnant gray pulsing visibly
letting nothing caress the stifling
slow, dull footsteps
resonate
on sweltering concrete
sweat evaporates before touching
skin glistening beneath
opened shirts and blouses
a naked wisp of wind, tension swelling
the promised climax of thunder growls
lightning quickly hues
the thick blanket of cloudwork
sudden visions patched with water
expulsed in a frenetic madness
that staggers onto the dead ground
farther to the east, or the west
but never here where the city waits
nothing to sedate its nervous souls
but sleepless summer night
and a slight dance, no release
from the breath of a storm


where the city waits
[2010.28.6...a]


 

there are no more thoughts, I have spent them
like pennies for a beggar and at last I am silent
only the swallows activate the mugginess
of mid-evening before the sunset
their ballet is with invisible bugs
that have flown away with pieces of my mind
and left only the dream possibilities
that the moths and owls create with their fluttering
when at midnight sleep finally claims me
the swallows pirouette this way and that
hundreds tonight, like words following no logical order
a goldfish in a virtual aquarium
the snafu of train timetables
and a late departure in the morning
because neither of us heard the alarm
lunch with friends, their twin daughters a delight
and once again departure, the word I have come to hate
the telephone rings, speech overcomes me
and I speak to you of the things you are missing
from my windows, though some of my thoughts have followed you
to your corner of the world where part of your happiness
is no longer dependent on my presence
we speak about my train ticket going south
many months before the swallows leave their nests
close to the place where my heart is left alone
and I smile in a way you remember but only imagine
the stickiness drapes me in early symptoms of sleep
a yawn, already I lie on the floor listening to your voice
I say goodnight early, hang up and wish …


when my wish has lost words
[2010.27.6…a]


 

and when against all odds
a single moment of truth arrives
while death hovers between love and life
its awakening calms all doubt
the only possible response beats strongly
from faith, or heartache, or the utter grief
of losing a child, and all we can do
is stare down the adversity, trump it
with the swoosh of a falling star
and scream out against its injustice
I will prevail…


nothing more to do except…
[2010.26.6…a]



 

Not in the mood for writing, so I tried my hand at something completely new.

a hundred brightly colored tee-shirts
as many cute smiling faces ready to sing, at first
long before tonight’s excitement, no one
understood the words, not even on discovery day
when the music teacher came and taught the strange sounding
words and tunes nine months earlier, but when june arrived
after months of rehearsal, they had molded them
into their own personal story invented from melody and sounds —
no one would believe it anyway, but that wasn't the important part —
the music, ah yes, the flutes, the drums, the cellos and the horns
woven into a tapestry of sound around the words
and songs were born, mesmerizing them with meaning
that became universal — for every child sings on the playground —
and a hundred colored hearts vibrated at the same time
together united as a single scribe, they created elephants and space ships
people with purple skins who lived under water, a shaman who could make
children so small that they could run into the dreams of their lost parents
and reunite the family in a fantasy of a hundred imaginations
filled with happy ends when turquoise feathered eagles
took you to heaven to ask favors of the angels

five times as many people watched as wishes were granted
hypnotized by their song-story-fairy-tale with outer space twists
we applauded long and hard afterwards not wanting to break the spell
a hundred children had created just for our happiness…
and quietly we each took a brightly colored tee-shirt home
a flag to remind us never to stop looking
at ordinary made-up words without promising
to find a world of magic within, like our children do


a hundred tee-shirts
[2010.24.6...a]

 

I am determined to wear a permanent smiley face
chatting in English, Spanish, French and Chinese
with people whose paths rarely cross mine
I spend the afternoon patiently waiting for eight pm to roll around
the last obligation before holiday strikes a bargain
and frees my ears from the sound of the choir’s garbled songs
their plan is to trail me to a karaoke bar hoping I'll sing “My Way”
and begrudgingly I'll comply astound them all by knowing
the importance of singing in tune, a special feat after slugging one glass
too many of cheap wine to drown out the ambient ennui
then we'll part each with our plastered smiles until the cooler weather returns
yet as the clock strikes the proper hour, all l really dream about
is to curl up in bed with a good book and the smile of someone truly special


plastered smiles
[2010.23.6...a]


 

wisely I wait in a comfortably decorated royal blue and dove
grey room, but my patience dwindles as I sit in a burnt orange
leather armchair, more comfortable than the yellow chintz ones
adorning my salon at home; I too would prefer strolling in the park
I spy across the street from my window, to breathe in the early summer
air and taste its balminess scented with the jasmine that grows there
but I am a music teacher with absent students, happy, it’s true,
for the silence without their bothersome and tuneless wrong notes,
but next time please ext me on my phone, leaving me instead with the choice
to run across the street and listen to birdsong under the poplar trees



wasted time
[2010.22.6...a]