I watch the sultry desert drift
Through the narrow waist of an hour glass,
And wonder who has the nerve to count the sands
Which pour like sugar’d dust.
a clock....
unnatural thing.....
I once saw a tree tell time.
I once saw a beaver shed its timepiece in direct order.
Did they say, it’s half past four, let’s shed it?
A ray of light from Betelguese I see;
Yet, old light this;
For distance may have dimmed it
And Orion’s shoulder may now be bare.
Who gave it leave to disappear without informing me?
I once saw the hills go to tea,
Resting for a moment’s second
Allowing us to paint their pressed-flower images
On a blue-grey morning’s crisp.
Yet, Vesuvius ends tea-time.
In my pocket regulates the outer frame of man;
The proper properties from Greenwich help us
To gridiron football field impressions
On every item given us charge in Genesis.
In my heart ticks the Universe,
The quadrants real,
A summer thud, a chamber which fails in wintertime;
My heart is not much different from the Chinooks or
The Miao tribesmen, yet
They tell time without looking at their wrists.
They watch the beaver shed and the tree molt
And mount their nightly steeds in the marriage-bed
Told by the old, old light
Dimmed from Orion’s shoulder.
In Groves of Autumn Foliage
In groves of Autumn foliage
We sit, my dog and I,
Watching the sun descend the heights,
Tumbling into the willowy pool
As autumn foliage.
Billows ring on the lilied lake;
The surface breaks anew;
I sigh and my dog sighs,
For although apart in mind
We both know autumn’s foliage.
Over the bridge departs the Swan,
Last Summer bird to flee;
Yet, I stay by my hound for another degree,
Awaiting Winter’s nudity.
The Fire in My Loins
The fire in my loins have led me to the gate,
To the gates of gayest feast,
The Festival at Thebes.
And I wear my brightest frock,
The flowery invitation,
And I flaunt my pearls and baubled ears,
And dance to the midnight sun.
The drum beats steadily all the eve,
And I drink the health of the many men
Who find me irresistible in my writhing, rhythmic step.
And the viols strum for me alone
As the lights shine on my hair;
And I strut with my friends to the naughty waltz
Until the morning trumpets blare.
I return to my business suit, the pavane of the dead at heart,
And I see the players from the previous night,
They wink their quiet knowledge of me,
But we keep our coral lips sealed;
To no one straight revealed,
The fire and flame of the Theban ball,
Which grey pin-stripe must gall.
But again the torchlights come,
And the festival begins,
With a hope to lead to my very best love,
Who will carry me off to the setting sun
Where the pin-stripes never intrude
Upon our passionate mood.
Where is that Nervous, Ill-bred Boy
Where is that nervous, ill-bred boy
Who never washed or watched his weight,
Or worried who would see him pick,
Or cared if the world saw him unshaved?
Where is that dependant of dependant’s now,
Who never chose, but let others choose,
Who was always sorry for who-know’s-what,
And who sought everyone’s love on their own terms?
Why he’s gone, ne’er to return,
Gone to the Festival at Thebes,
Where the body’s washed in gingered wine,
And the head is turbaned in forest green.
He is free there,
Dancing to the midnight strains,
Choosing his own partners on his own terms;
Sorry now for nothing again,
Not even for the boy left behind.
So, come with me to the festival,
As I wear my bright red frock,
The one which sweeps the desert clean,
And keeps the band on meringue.
For through these gates I am forever free,
Singing a song uniquely mine,
Sharing it only with those I choose;
And for the rest,
I leave it behind!
I was a Calm and Gentle Soul
I was a calm and gentle soul,
The still pool unmarred -
The blind shoot unblossomed -
And the fire within me lit others
And drew them no where but to a calm pool
A blind shoot.
Then, I saw those brown eyes -
Those twin stars -
Like silver heaped into the sunlight
And the pool still becomes a flood-tide
And no more sought I to be
A blind shoot.
Truth to tell this calm and gentle pool
Was a surface tale unseen by all
Least by me -
For under the stream the conflict grew,
And I like a maelstrom churned beyond all measure.
Now, I am a gentler soul -
Lost and searching in the sunlight -
And the tidal wave rocks my silver sense;
Then, I think of the fire in those brown eyes,
And I blossom.
Comes the Heal
Comes the heal,
The balm spirit felt -
The net to catch me should I fall;
And the mountains sing to the welkin;
Yet, the rain comes not -
Only comes the heal.
And to this heal,
When the tide is ebb -
I will yield my spirit’s balm
And the sky will cry and careen;
And the heal will never know
How close I came to pain.
Together come,
The balm and heal;
The fire and ice to end this world;
And I mount this boat at sunset,
Touching the soft silken mountains,
Cheeks caressed with thankful praise
As balm and heal together come.
Have You Ever Noticed
Have you ever noticed, or do you care,
That for every hole there is a plug
And every broken plate has pieces fitting.
To every day there is a night-
To every laugh there is a fright -
For every hand a shake exists;
For every fall, there is a mist.
Have you ever noticed;
Or do you care?
And I, on my ass, view the confines -
And know beyond the fence a heart exists;
Which compliments my hand shake,
My night fall, my fright and hug
And even permanently fits my plug.
I have always Wished to Write a Verse Perverse
I have always wished to write a verse perverse
Filled with “shit” and “fuck” and lots of spicy
idioms
Like cuming of age
And pricking one’s finger into a cow’s cunt -
But, somehow the occasion
Never arose ‘til now,
‘Cause I’ve burned my Webster’s
That whore’s lap of a cocksucking book.
And given a preference
To a street reference.
But, I bet with a better pen,
A clever reference to mountains and trees,
The birds and bees,
I can get you hotter
And harder a lot faster,
Than this poem will,
Which pisses in the wind.
The Plan was Never Mine
The plan was never mine
To know too much,
But I never cared to seek the lesser bone;
I picked the tree of knowledge,
The sacred vine, which says it grows
From sides which bleed on one recorded.
But, I am fortune’s pet.
Her prize in shotgun,
Her plague as well.
She whispers in my right ear;
She blasts me in my left;
She calls me to the arbor,
But builds an oven’s ember
Over my chief interests,
‘Til I no longer wish to know the one,
But to know the many.
Alas! The land of lore o’erspreads my feet
And it can never be traversed.
All the roads my love has said in favored moments
Are abandoned!
Are abandoned!
Away with you sweet knowledge pit!
I tremble from your cold and sweep.
You burrow in my bones
And spread me thin above the lamp!
Now I need sweet ignorance
To save me from the crow,
Who feeds on unmatched trivia!
The curse of all I know.
The Wind Swept
The wind swept my hair!
No bother! I’ll comb it again
With fingers wreathed in silk veils
Warmer winds study still
My hideaways, my sylvan ignorance.
I’m sure the breezes hold a summit conference
Somewhere in the stratosphere to discuss my grooming.
I’m sure they do.
I rode the roller coaster at Coney last week
And another wind mussed my hair.
The free fall, the blast of the leaves
Blown circling as birds in a funnel.
The world was streaked in speed
And I can still feel the eye filled with nothing,
The ear filled with shouts
From wind fearing customers
Riding from the summit.
I was once in a tunnel blasted by a gale so fierce;
Also on the Verrazano bridge in a hurricane,
When the center ramp as rubber band,
Snapped like a child’s swing
And the cars hopped like grand opening banners.
That was a day awe filled and fear touched.
But, as in all, I comb it again.
No bother,
Strand by strand,
Minute by minute,
The winds will always hold their summit and hit me with their best shot,
And when I can comb it no more,
Some one will do it for me
And leave coin in my mouth to pay the ferryman.
I’m a Jersey Poet
I’m a Jersey Poet now,
Caught in the blast of a Monmouth breeze,
Kept by Hopatcong,
Swept by the dells;
Meadows and pleasures nearby all my life
Known only now since my secret rebirth.
Cupped by the gentle down by the pool,
My appetite whets on the edge of the dunes,
From Brielle to Sussex, from deep Essex Fells,
I hear the new song of a people in me,
Who whisper the secrets behind the sweet bogs,
And shout on the virtues from Hook-line to Gap;
That a new day has dawned for an urban plagued man,
Who was raised under brick in the Empire’s lap.
So, I’ll pipe the flute silly
On my careless find
As a new Jersey poet
Leaving Gotham behind.
I’ve Made Acquaintances in My Time
I’ve made acquaintances in my time,
Serviced in Franconia’s keep
Far from home in country’s want,
Lost in reverie’s gilded days.
Good friends were they
Lost in reverie’s gilded days.
They drank in solace with my shadow,
Minds were cast across the sea
As if in some dim middle passage
Returned we home as good defective.
We!
Cognac spun us
Over midnight’s candle
Chirping drunk about the rooves
Like Maryland and Michigan and Breukelen,
Wafting smoke with waking cheer.
Glasses lifting, hearts endeared.
We!
Hours passed apace,
Day on day, sec’ on sec’,
Time mounts as power ‘til old timers we
Bottling friendships on the cupboard shelf.
We!
Who then are we, as time spends its golden sheen
Into the wind’s cold chalice.
Ten years have passed since then,
I think of soldiering man
Who spends his hours dark in drink
Breathing not, nor thinking wild
Since wine has passed about the room
In chug or mug or helmet case.
For I have never seen again
Those dear old friends,
Thos soldier men
From Michigan and Maryland
And fifty places much like them -
They’re erased!
As if I died or they did,
Never to be here again
At the day’s long end,
By their long returned home chum,
Their once upon a time, dear friend.
Atop the Twin Towers
From the top of the world of man
Steel arched and graced by girder,
I see the river race,
The placid calm of the market of mammon,
Coming afar about the island’s tip,
Seeking trade in cargos gold,
For precious agate, amber rare,
Through old Palmyra’s gates,
Dawning over Hecatompolis.
Mighty mistress on the flow,
Raising high the towers two,
Receive the caravans of man.
Bactria sends the dragon steeds;
Silken skeins from Serica come,
Glass as precious as your steel
Weighed in balance oft’ maintained
By the greatness of your name.
Honor in the holy trade
In unhampered, commerce free,
Has now come to they scepter’s twain
And passed unto your dynasty.
Note: This Poem was written in 1976 and published in the Poet
Bergen House
I pause in the room, lit by the hearth,
The warmth casting quiet calm
Into my heart traverse far,
A distant chamber bridged by closest friends.
Here I breathe in growing wonder,
Pannelled by peaceful slumber,
Cuffed by the sky’s grey luster.
I pause and hear my friends upstairs,
A part of my heart, each and all,
And I watch the snow edged panes,
Drapped as webs over Sycamores;
Watching the sparrows marking their lives,
Printing their souls in the snow.
I pause in my work; the faucet’s off,
And I know the sparrow’s wintry sate
As they steal some bread, the sparsest spread,
In the chill of the calendar’s head.
They chirp, the birds and taste the meal,
Revels in some toasted grain;
Then, fly above the terraced rooves,
Briefly noting the place of pause
In hope of taking bread again.
I pause, and now I break the scene,
And move onward to my mundane things,
But, touched by these walls, I mark my time
And smile before the pane
And hope within this house of peace
I may chance to pause again.
Fingers Press His Lips
Fingers press his lips,
Hushing all objection
That worlds say wrong
But fingers press to lips say
Right.
And suddenly, the air is flowered
With the scent of the Nile,
The moon lit banks are silvery at the river’s shimmer.
And the lotus calls to the lips to press
And the flesh of a thousand years
Secumbs in a moment.
The road to Thebes is paved with marble statues,
Quarried from the oldest mountains on the moon,
While the Queen attends the celebration
As virginity seeks higher ground;
And the cymbals crash as the trumpet’s blown,
Music never heard so sweet
Nor so hotly received by the hollows of the earth.
The eagle soars upon its prey,
But the prey begs for talons, not for mercy,
And deep in the Valley of the Kings,
It is buried, near the slaves quarters,
As the drum beats the rhythm to the Memphite hymn.
Isis, silence’s god, seals the act with a godly kiss,
And the passage from death to life is complete.
Kisses silence my lips,
Embrasses calm my heart
As this passage leaves me in the sunlight
Known to the ancient sky.
Metropolis
Breaker of man’s hearts,
She proudly erects her head upon the rock,
Beckoning, she tells of moments warped in pleasure;
Of new-born reverie, of radian promise.
She lures the dreamers to the hardened rock
Where virgin hopes are dashed on concrete blocks.
Her mountainous chest heaves the feeling
Inviting comers to the glass divan.
Upon this wench they spill their passionate purgings
Investing their rich ransoms in cold stone;
But, these joyous moments surging, are but moments
For the trollop catalogs her paramours.
Cooling night perfumes her at a distance;
But to near her reveals the stench unholy;
Be advised, her beauty is unsurpassed and peerless,
But, her cruelty is parried by the plague,
Which wastes them all, knowing none, upon the rock.
Bed her once young man, if the change prevails;
Come to the edge of her laced tight thighs.
Eat of the fruit of the dewed lips and pursed patches;
But, while in the recesses you swell with pride
Recall if she forgot to lock the door.
Scratch Earth
Scratch Earth; grow grain;
Sustain us through this sphere,
So we may pass a day
Scratch Earth again;
Produce more grain.
They work from dark ‘til light,
No pause
To think of ghost cycles,
Evidence by their worn cages.
Backs bent as set table,
Born humble fare to feed a careless world;
Planting, no moment’s rest
To ponder over things -
The state of things;
The world’s states;
The dilemma of states.
Yet, in their name, States flourish.
The gyrations of a people
Move them upward slowly,
Lumbering toward the heavens,
Flowing over the lands,
A rage of blind opulence.
Anachronism
I have often thought, and well I may
Of days gone by and lost in clay
And dreams of dawning’s feeble fate
And curse my day as born too late!
Such is the greenery fallow foul,
Which teams about the mason’s trowel
And builds the boneyard of my hope
Which would be best at end of rope.
For, as the nights go passing on
I feel my time has long since gone
And has been seen and has been torn
Away from me ‘fore I was born.
If I were here in yesteryear
With little effort to adhere
I might have been a ruling force
To change the world upon it’s course
And breathe a bit of common sense
Of chivalry and love intense
Into those who choose to waste
The lives of many in their haste.
But, alas we are too many!
We cost by ten a-penny
Who teach and bleat about the barn
As scholar’s lost in kitten’s yarn
Spinning surplus ‘bout the poles
Representing living holes
In yards of empty silken maze
For I was born above my days!
And so to waste my talents go
To sit behind the plow and hoe
But, behind that engine lacks no fear;
For despite the time, I am still here.
Weep, o Weep, o Bethlehem
Weep, o weep, o Bethlehem,
For your children are slain by Herod’s hand;
The cold desert wind now howls through the land,
Maternal sobbing - father sighs,
For youth has been ruddied,
Their flow runs the gutters
Spilled on the highway for Rome.
O! Bethlehem, your sorrow is now deemed,
Poured into the flooding, insanity stream;
Call the author of this ferrous plot;
Barring steel into the children’s hour;
Grim the sweet petals as chants they did sing,
Prime the dear flowers for the nerves of the king.
Weep, o Bethlehem weep!
For you have steeved the fatal test;
But, be content for one escaped
To reap revenge for all the rest!
The Sunlight Streaks
The sunlight streaks across the selfless waters with faultless radiance
As my bark skims cotton crest and ferrous wave;
My canvas shadowed form is freed by wind and wave,
As bee near sweetened vine or leaf at harvest dawn;
With speed my eyes caress the distant line of earth and sky,
The welkin blue of my resistless self.
Far from the darkened shore of doubt am I,
A spirit filled with gusts which bear me true;
Away from the dismal brick heights, which trick and taunt,
To pristine depths which catch a falling friend.
The wine of Summer’s spume, of Autumn’s hope
Embraces my reddened frame, my hardened mast.
I, who dwelled in rooms attached to rails,
In artificial dampers made of steel,
Trapped by sweltering tunnels, darked by age,
Glowered at by species doomed in swill,
Push my face to panes of sooted glass
To view the reflection of my tortured soul.
Swift! Strong! and free, these sails of mine;
They catch the gale and give me peace.
They swell me passed a rippled world
I neither know nor fear to see.
And yet, I wait upon the crimson shore
Casting out my heart to wind and sea.
Where is my crew?
My pole star fast
To turn the capstan for my restless self?
They Crowd the Sky
They crowd the sky, the birds,
Each trying to find a domain’s spot
Above the pines in circling lot
Squaring out their own;
Their little territory
Claimed by none but birds.
If chance another feather musts
The air in hapless accident
Within the circle charted,
He’d be ignored for aiding’s claim
But pecked and clawed for violate
Until he passed away.
And thus they scrap and caw all day
Until the world is won.
And they may selfish dominate
And Empire begun
Which spreads from where the orb does rise
To where there sets the sun.
But, give them just one Autumn rain,
The winter calling fate
And every selfish winger
Charges forth evacuate!
So, what are all these ravings for,
These petty sins in herd,
For when the snow sounds clarion call,
They crowd the sky, the birds.