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A folder in which to store some old poems written before 2003 |
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** Image ID #410147 Unavailable ** Inside this book are the poems or rather relics exhibiting earlier or discarded work. Most of these pieces had their own items at one time, but now, I decided to fold them into a book for housekeeping purposes. |
| Yesterday’s cheering hymn, In today’s grateful song, Blessings, laughter, praise, dreams, With flares to us belong. Such bitter tears we’ve shed, The earth appeared bleak, Yet we restrained our force, With kindness to the weak. We the people who strive For just laws, side by side, We make peace, avoid war, In liberty and pride. Life is sacred, we declared, For mankind, independence, Respect for humanity, Contentment in attendance. Beams of light our treasure yields, Majesty in days ahead, One nation here under God, Mantle of mercy is spread. Tomorrow is owned by us, United we shall stand, With love and awe, fireworks, For “We the people” so grand. |
Guess who skips in micro steps etching Myriad designs in the damp sand, Laughing at human fallacies, Flapping his wings, Feeling superior? When the unscrupulous surf washes away His artwork without an apology. No sulking under stress, A screech, that’s all, Open to the sun. Dashing on the beach to re-create sketches, Wildly singing every word of a prayer, A fading infinity symbol, His immortal gladness, That wild seagull! |
| You smile like irreplaceable crystal, in multicolored hues, your blond curls catching the sun. My child of joy, delicate and kind, I need your magic to ease my mind. I attempt to smile back, from the opposite side of hope and calm, with thoughts out of line; yet, you search me with playful ambition, weaving together my loose strands. Shame on me to dream of only my own useless history! And you smile, your lips curled, in your eyes, a thousand birds are chirping. Into that enchantment, I soar, broken wings, working again, I proceed with all my might, into your angelic delight. My laughter, a high wire act without a net, I dare to forget raindrop tears, scorching flame, a soul in solitude, bleeding, and from my ashes, I rise to claim a celebration held in gratitude. |
| Under a blurred moon, a chaos of celebration, as the spotted owl sings. At night, a pillow of tears quenching the burning inside. She thought loving was her salvation. Seeking the sun, her son in her arms, she skips on the beach, smiling her way back to life, adapting to the nature of the wind. Love is not a cold stone to throw away. No sun or moon, but the stars twinkling in her last glass of wine, this crimson gift given in darkness, seven decades, a repository of truth. She has no possessions left, no youth, but the peace of eternity, and all so worth it! |
| A primitive priestess I am, with a passion for motherhood, on the old wavy road hugging a river that sings a fugue in adoration. My tires hum along, the engine whirrs, and my thoughts invade the tall grass by the waterside. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I drive and reflect on the son I’ve raised for eleven years, tailoring his thinking; hoping he won’t be stranded inside any darkness, hoping, his breath will always stay sweet, hoping, his team bus will arrive early, so I won’t have to wait too long, hoping, before midnight, he can rest his soccer-worn body, curled-up on the sofa, and dream starlit dreams with his head on my soft lap, while I offer prayers and rose petals to the altar of his soul. |
| Right when p.m. turns to a.m. she droops by the hotel room window, staring at a midnight drizzle lavish the pavement with pitter patter. The fragile sleep has deserted her eyelids like a vaccination that didn’t take. So she, a crab away from her native shore, watches the intersection, moving sideways, and she shrugs at the flickering lights outside, and at the sounds of love from the next room; weak songs of two people faking for each other’s sake. Staying on the margin, her favored stand, she searches through unsorted gaps; her mind, prowling in the dark, is a cloud that thunders but cannot rain, since she let her tears sink inside to build a wall stone by stone for a tale that didn’t end well, or just because he is part of nothing that passes. |
| Let us trot together up the hill, Avoiding the spurs of a lifetime, Love-knots thrown away with outhouses, Old mattresses, and “nickel-and-dime”. We’ll look down on this town one more time, Your wet nose sniffing the frosty air, The frumpy fur, head bent toward me, Those pawprints on the snow with flair. With my cane in my droning old age, The last rocky hill I’ll dare to climb, You, my anchor, I have dragged along, My pet, my friend, my kindred sublime. Struggling to release my ninety years, Sometimes I imagine myself a ghost, There’s no particular next-time-around, Shadows of presence with poetry lost. I weep, you whimper, two troubadours, On a movie screen with future blank, Landscape bleached white, color of nothing, Stories shiver; life has been a prank. |
| Autumn comes calling again with: moonbeams scheming through soft sketches inside the haze, croaking, droning, frogs,insects, rainbows of hues on rusting leaves, tiny branches bared in silver lace, pine needles crackling under foot, weed pollen in the air, a robin’s feathers in the dust, scattered stones, high wave forms, hoof beats, beagle barks, snow on the mountaintop, first blaze in the fireplace. And without any frustration, on the trail to retrospect, glistening sidewalks mirror the steps taken through the years, as homage to recurrence of another change of season, of another change of life. |
| For a mirage foolish, overstepping its bounds, when minds were phantom threats and everyday lovers were thrown to the lions, over puffs of dust on an unpaved road, over facing illusions “eyeball to eyeball,” we boomed into the callous earth, as if we could change the world, to “make love, not war,” discovering the power of a fragile flower and fairness in a small hand. Since we’re the Wall inside granite, since we’ve flown to the moon, since we trusted the stars, the Gemini and the Age of Aquarius, why do we still say: “When will they ever learn?” “When will it ever end?” Does happiness bite, over and over again? |
| In front of a bay window, with the clean painted stucco around its frame, he watches the parade, sitting in a VA wheelchair, his forehead wrinkled in stripes, in his eyes stars gleaming. To a brass band marching, dancing, prancing, horses, firetrucks, majorettes, brownies, boy scouts, ladies auxiliary, policemen, kids on bikes, but only a row of Vets... His gaze climbs to the sun for another parade, a patriots' parade: faces of the fallen, interrupted lives. He hears bagpipes weeping. Who won, who lost? So iffy, when bugles mourn Taps... Row by row, “Amazing Grace” the torch he held up high, his pledged words: liberty, justice, sanctity of peace. While some lend a hand to salute, he has given his heart. |
| "I spend one whole day in the tent...while icy rain pours outside." Edward Abbey You feel a petty delight in trusting the gray sky, which fumes after the eloping day. As you untie your sleeping bag and labor to nod off, the manipulative wind tries to take your tent off its stakes. Yet, your stake will remain, since you were always after solitude, the virtue in your center, and self-appointed spiritual truths with the fading of the light. Now the only way to brave your undeniable loneliness is to tumble over rock slides. |
| Maybe it was a drastic attempt to enter a drained bar wearing a skirt hemmed above the knee, but she was never as miserable in her life. Maybe it was the wretched phonies, clamoring in the corner under a lamp dimmed and blue like a dead sun, or the way the bartender unfolded the dollar bills to make one lame drink stumble in her throat. Maybe it was the absence of heroes, or she lacked a story to tell, or she unwound same as the threads of her shawl… who knows? Suddenly, she left through the neon door with a wreath of holly, and the season ended before it began, just when she was ready to believe in hope without a single good luck penny. |
A soldier, She, recruit with goodwill, a source of light, sacrificing her calm, for life unpredictable. A soldier, She, in action against hatred, seeking peace, inside crowded barracks, in brave solitude. A soldier, She, a feminine form, to tears and sighs inside the gloom, offering her bottled-up sunshine. A soldier, She, in emancipation, to spread purpose, and understanding, joining a combat; controversial. A soldier, She, carrying her training, her weapon, her ration; yet, still knowing all she needs lies within. A soldier, She, on the battlefield, with stripes or not, with medals or not, holding the highest rank of humanity. |
| As he writhes about to read my aura, I empty all his boxes like Pandora. His bow tie crooked, nudging against the lapel of his plaid jacket, he kneels in front of me, stars in his eyes, “Forever, I’ll serve thee. . .” whispering lies, “Fits to a tee.” It’s all a myth, no true desire, all chant and babble, through his tongue breathing fire, that dollar dragon. Still my hopes have wings, “Yes, I can snap, but not those glowing things! This heel, so upsetting. . . like a skyscraper on end. . . curling my soles. . . one clever twist of the ankle strip tempered with pain. Can’t be used in the rain.” Inside the store, trying on shoes again. |
We watch through glasses tinted in hope, As Sarah skates enraptured on ice, Rhythmical stint, her triple twists, From her flintlock a charge of surprise. Conjuring shades of angelic spins, Hoisting on her toes, a jump, a glide, A silken serenade, starburst hinted, Threading secret paths in her stride. The whole world, a lover’s story, Cold ice softening in her warm flow, Slim blue feather with magic soars To a glamourous golden glow. To mint a spell with roses and joy, A beginning spun inside her heart, Long moonbeam slides, a sweet smile, A star’s enchantment with heavenly art. |
| Time sculpting its surprise, a picture frame in twilight zone: pine cones opened by gauche gales, the lake by the castle covered in snow, thrashed old sails, splintered wood chunks, underneath the ice. Image of beauty sunk low, drowned on the path of destruction. This fierce façade breaking brittle glass slippers in an empty world of repeating patterns. Into the midnight mist, one mortal architect bitten by the faithful mice, The Prince, shivering, wails: "I still have many joys in my castle!" With wild gestures he stumbles drunk in the darkness to the howling woods. The ogre has taken over and the carriage broken. Love shattered, turned to ice hopes in rags, dreams reversed to ashes, Cinderella slips away, running from fate, tearing through gloom, freed from weight, in a single stride. Then, she gapes at herself, amazed, for she sees her strength, her consciousness, abiding spirit, and instantaneous courage. She is a true princess, fairy-tale tough. |
| They rummage for secrets and trade intimate confessions, while jaded stories clatter inside the gloom’s nursery. Souls’ dragged up roots from the soft compost of rotting weeds, blown to bits, writhe, as slimy reflections pry into Cyclops’s eye, to tickle the sight, to strip through layers for sprouting seeds, to lift the loss, to find solace. One sad freedom, not for poetry, thumbs up, APPLAUSE flawless, aristocratic, with distinction, TRUTH has no regrets. |
| An outlaw bushranger's declaration from the other side Roused from my slumber, I still rumble, “Such is LIFE!” my rage spawned with warnings, through beastly passions, wrapped inside my Irish heart. Repression’s counterpart, hiding in the bush, against ill-treatment and neglect, is free-man’s battle; yet, I digress. The struggle for survival, all it took to fight with the Chinese Ah Fook, to be marked by pigs, those Australian prigs. For three times the earth orbited the sun, hard labor; though noted by none, the robbery of a horse set me on an endurance course. Indecent behavior, my foot! Tiny trespass, yes, I confess, but against whose laws? Divine order is just, for we must share, if we cannot spare. My presence silenced the Constable, as two banks got cleaned out, Euroa, Jerilderie. On the news, simple folks along the bush made merry in dance and booze. To me this was such a hoot, to this day Australian Brinks is still looking for the loot. But, when on my head big money was post, Ned Kelly got double-crossed. My family dressed in steel, alone, ambushed in Hotel Glenrowan; an inferno’s breach of humanity set inside hearts of stone; I still roil for I hear them broil. Twenty-eight bullets in my body, I stared at the Old Melbourne Goal, on the gallows, as I hanged, my mama’s words all came back “Mind you die like a Kelly, Ned.” Given my last rites at twenty-five, a Robin Hood of the bush, I still object from online sites, against deeds unconscionable, to people of my breed. I daresay, came the day in the highest court of all, I’ve met finally that forgotten Judge Barry; so to boast, I said, "My effects, in perfect state, are in the Tate Gallery. ------------------------------------------------------ Ned Kelly was an outlaw, an anti-authoritarian Australian icon. After his death by hanging at twenty-five, he was made into an idol by the oppressed carefree bush-survivors. His last words were "Such is life!" |
A trembling streetlight, at the corner of Elm and Main and one fallen of the night on the offensive, reason omitted. Her smiling mask over a sour storm, the sinking saga of the howling wolves, seeing limited. Marginal demands, gold mine drained, designs strained, clumsy pagan hands a play never ending... Through the dark I call her to say: ”Do not remain lingering in between two empties: an empty, which is not there, and an empty that exists.” This quenchless rain, looting her mind, she shrugs, a ruin charred, her ashes spilling. What if she finds her way where the swing-bridge is? If only I could manage to escape without mourning her life! |
| A crew of one hundred eighteen Trapped in a war machine... In hours of exigency, The aids of emergency, The six billion’s plea A united operation... But the powers that be Refused a possible salvation. To a stone one cannot teach, Neither can heavens preach. Nature here is not to blame. Honor is tarnished. Shame! Who are the living, who are the dead? You conceal and drown in oceans What cannot be said For threadbare reasons... Maneuver of the mighty, Twisting men slowly, Out of their breath... In agony, to death... Nature here is not to blame, To those tainted ones, Shame! Pressure as oppressive as the water Men were caged, mastered over. Matters of lives, the liquid grave... That raging indifference in the plan... The mysteries of war Worthier than the dying men. Now this madness hides with them, Cheap secrets lie with them. Don’t tell me nature is to blame, But murderous indifference. Shame! Evil has grown not gone The dragon we’ll never tame This torment will live on As long as war is a game. Kursk was the nightmare, Kursk was the hell... Inside it humanity’s pain Will dwell. Don’t tell me nature is to blame. An offense to us all! Shame! |
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