Late night fog hung over the field and obscured the wood like a veil of ancient mist from which the earth had not yet emerged.

I heard the midnight train brood slowly down the track.

I packed up my dreams and sent them ahead, somewhere, intending to follow them, later.

********************************************************I am smitten by your charmsand wonder do you knowhow thorougly your eyesso bright and dark disguise your thoughts and shroud your feelings, yet your beauty shines like the stars.

********************************************************Our love shone warm and bright, memorable as sunshine that washed over us and sang

like a soft sea breeze as we lay silent, still, together on the beach in July.

Our love disappeared slowly, more slowly Than the sun that day when dark, angry clouds

Obscured the blue sky, banished the sun, and Poured torrential rain into an impervious sea.

Our love faded slowly when summer Slipped into a colorful fall and died Away leaving these cold, snow white winter Nights that we now spend alone and lonely.

*****************************************************************Her heart

(showed in her eyes with her every smile and she liked to smile;

she glowed when she spoke of her childrenand her grandchildren,

one a college graduate, another a graduate student,

one a late surprise,a boy, of whom she was very proud.

She deferred,toward the end, to her husband who could still hearand she leaned toward him to see what she might have missed,

and they beamed together as they stood side by side In their eighties now)

Gave out at the last after 83 years,and he said,

“I close my eyes and look down fifty years and the best I can do is cry.”

********************************************************

Fuzzy Chaos

Stripped of old illusions I sat in a corner of myself Looking out on my confusion:

my thoughts shown like shards of fractured light strewn about the street: I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening to recall—a rundown sandstone dwelling

2

with mirrors on narrow walls.Each spoken word re-echoed like shrill screams at night.A woman, a cat, a baby cried out loud with random shrieks of fright. If not monks with quills, surely

Silent Renaissance sculpturestanding deftly in long corridors with thick carpet to lure old men in black velvet gowns, grown impervious to the echo of age-old folly. Grim, aging, in long vestments, Father

Wicker stood outside his church and extended a hand, his large wide hand with thick fingers, like the fingersof the milkman whose hand I have shaken once or twice--what a large handful of wide fingers. Can these be the fingers of a rogue priest?

********************************************************The Rose

The rose is perfect in its fluid scentAnd blossoms with plush contours In elegant shades of yellow, red,

Pink, silver, though never blue;Yet beneath the bloom grows a thicket,Thorns that will draw blood

From the embrace of the inexperiencedOr the naïve.

********************************************************Eden

Now it’s eat the apples and fear the animals(Too numerous to name);Grow your own and bear up under The entropic orbit of body And chaotic movement of soul. It’s mystery over wonder, time,

3

The elements: we’re not safe; If the earth’s faults don’t a tornado Will, or a parching drought sun, or forty Days of rain, high winds, treacherous Snow, tidal seas, Cain killing Abel, fire, Garbage and seagulls, deadly sinsTo trample beatitudes gone slack To platitudes: “the meek shall eat Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homelessThrough dark allies as if in frantic Search of someone.” The morning Sun rose white hot, a perfectly round, Platinum ball that burned through dense,Floating fog, looking small, like a roving moon. The Yucca bush sent up long snakes of buds To bloom sudden white flowers that struck The first burning strokes of summer; in the evening, Fire flies sparked golden lights that twinkled Briefly above tall broad grasses in the field That sloped from the road to the low land Near the brook and the woods. We found a crow’s Feather in the garden near the house, and Joe Returned with cantaloupes, a hand made serape, And his smile. We brewed coffee and laughed About the crows that ate all the bright red cherries In the tree top and spit the pits to the sidewalk Where they left red stains. The moon rose full Just before dark and shone that bright yellowish White some say promises a hot day, but I reveled In the warm, silent stillness, compelled by all The summer moon inspires, conceals and reveals.

********************************************************Mystery

Mysteries abound. Consider: “Give Unto Caesar Those Things That Are Caesar’s.”Who better deserves Caesar’s things?

There are joyful mysteries of annunciation,Visitation, and nativity, mysterious mysteries, Illiterate mysteries, long-legged mysteries, Glorious mysteries, astronomical mysteriesOf politics, economy, religion, psychology,Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance, Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.

4

What things does Caesar want?

One rather glorious mysteryIs the perfectly proportioned Symmetrical mons delicately carvedIn the stone of Stella’s marble belly. Even dry, it looks slick enough.

Who might want Caesar’s things?

A short, round cleric in black cassock And cloak topped with an egg-shaped head Gone bald, his lips pursed and oysterEyes magnified behind thick glassesWalked by ignoring his students.

He taught mythical mysteries: Circe And her Sirens, who touch the magic wand To pleasure or distress the hunter, the thief,The juror, the milkman, the witness, The carpenter, the writer, the priest . . .

Father Hennessy walked with eyes downcastHis head bent to one side as he picked An unencumbered path through clustersOf laughing boys.

One young girl, a teenager wakesTo find herself pregnant. Who will believe She is a virgin? Joseph? An angel told her, She said—quite a mystery, that. Je vous salut, Marie . . . Amen.

Suicide is a sorrowful mystery. Ernest Hemingway shot himself. I felt the cut. He was dead on page One in large, bold, black, dark thick print. I read his books. Now he’s dead. He took dead aim and shot himself: quite a good shot, too, but he was a hunter.

A mad scramble for Hemingway’s things ensued. I looked the other way. It was all right to read Huck Finn: Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s goneA long time, but Hemingway just shot himself

5

and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself; He had to rely on someone else.

Lazarus died and Jesus criedWhen he arrived. Lazarus, aliveWalked forth and sighed, “Oh, well.”

Father Hennessy liked the old fish story: Jesus told his men to pass round their fish And bread. All were amazed that so few loaves of bread and so little sushi fed so many. A dry affair. No grill. No talk of beer or wine. He reserved spirits for weddings.

Cold water over ice; A drag from the exhaust of a clean Carburetor white with smokeSuddenly gone. Sit back to rock;Maybe have a red wine. Too much is too muchEven when it’s just enough.

********************************************************Your fear scares me Most; not your moods, nor their swings:

It is your fear That scares me most.

********************************************************When you feel awfulI feel awful too.

I cannot help itAnymore than you

Can help feeling so Awful when you do,

But it worries meWhen you feel awful

On our one day off.

********************************************************

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Highly polished verseReflects what it observes, like a large sphere, an oversized mirroringOrnament on a Christmas treeThat distorts what it reflects

********************************************************

Fall 1992

Those were the days—before the launch, yes-Terday or the day before, when books Were read, and songs were sung—radio;Before television. Now it looksAntique, like a chair in need of glue;They spoke of Modern then, and they thoughtModern meant new: Avant-garde, DadaSurreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They foughtOver a word, an idea, a turn Of image to make better prufrock.

We’ve brightened up Michelangelo—Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clockEither back or forward or around. Turned up a stone age corpse kept on iceThese five thousand years. Someone knocked Off his scrotum, took his boots—a niceWelcome to this nameless age of rap. Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’sImagination, a myth that cutsThe road to Rome and the scrotum, too. Beware the aged prophet whose handsReach toward your pocket: feeble fingersQuick as a humming bird that darts, landsIts feed and disappears all in oneSudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist,And politics!

Rhetoric gave way To the coy, segment-sensitive twist. Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots.

7

Lipstick girls in slender undress begLess disbelief than “VOTE FOR ME” spots. We’ve had George’s war, and Ronnie’s naps,Jimmie’s piles, Gerald jokes, Richard’s crooks,Lyndon’s spooks, Jack’s back, Ike’s golf, Harry’s Bomb, Franklin’s wheel chair—history booksWill call the game with retrospective Calm: a slow curve (the deep recession),A black-door slider (pretty Flowers),The inside fast ball (a concessionTo incumbent powers): fall chaos Played out like the World Series’ last game.

These are the days of commercial spin,Cosmetic tucks, uninspired nameCalling, shrewd strategies, cynical Calculations designed to sell Hope. Better were the days before the launch—Before the Enola Gay cut loose the rope that moored today to the sturdydock of yesterday and the day before.

********************************************************Sometimes it is hard to be amused

Or even crack a smile.

********************************************************She was hard,Pure hardLike stone, Like crystal, Like lightning,Like diamonds.

********************************************************More than the sunriseMore than the mountainsMore than the thinnest crescent moonMore than the blue light of duskMore than the spring’s first rainMore than the faint light of dawnMore than the willow’s first yellowMore than the daffodil’s first blossomMore than the oceanMore than the summer’s first roseMore than the pink gladiola

8

More than the autumn’s riot of colorMore than the early setting sunMore than the winter’s first soft snow

I love you more and our love is endless. Our love transcends time.

********************************************************The poet felt the oceanAnd praised the ocean’s purity. He saw the moon spread A wide beam on the waterAnd stop at the surfaceAs if the black depthOf the ocean at nightWere impenetrable, discrete.

He rode the tideAnd his blood tookIts rhythm and his shipRolled at once with the ocean.

The ocean heaves pure and blind,Faithful only to the moon:It casts its song to every windAnd sings its airs like the witch That conjures life.

And the ocean is untrammeled.

********************************************************

There are two distinguished "T's"in "Literature,"and like stanchions in a bridge,they uphold their suspended"era,"

but never have "T's"held forth with such swayas those two tipsy "T's"in "Tits."

Love Poem

You're the milk in my oatmeal!

9

(I hate love poems).You're the sun in my heart(But I will persist).

You're the rain on my garden,The bloom on the rose.You're the crease in my trousers.You're the stars at night

When the moon is new;You're the morning breeze(One metaphor is good as anotherTo a reluctant poet).You're the blue in my skies,The colors of fall,The white on the snow.You're my recurring dream.

********************************************************Consternation

Every now and againto my complete surpriseI find myself behind the not so mythic rock.

Never have I enviedSisyphus' aerobiclot. Up that hill he'd go:strong legs, strong back, and will

for the climb. He'd not beundone by hill, his rock,fate, or the gods. Atopthe mountain he'd look out

over the fields and watchas his work came to naught:did he sigh as his rock, letloose, rolled down the mountain?

Or did the spectacleof a huge rock jumpingand bounding, gathering speed as it fell down hill

10

please him, make the journeyworth his while? Did the godslaugh at him? Or did they too, in time, grow weary

of the repetitiousspectacle of a manpushing a rock uphillto watch it fall back down

to the bottom where hebegan. At least he knewwhere to push his mythicrock. I have no idea

what to do with my own.

********************************************************Once it was an issuebetween the lady and the man;who held the sway domesticwas said to wear the pants;

In time, the clothes designersput the ladies into slacks,to which the fashion factoryfor skirts needs must fight back;

Thus in this age of woman's right,in this the age of rockets,the skirt designers taught us allit's not the pants, it's pockets!

********************************************************

Whatever happened, the trees would not tell though they whispered softly to a passingbreeze, nor would say the chipped concrete sidewalkand curb that lamented disfigurement in stoical silence, nor the shallow brook that flowed slowly in hushed ripples past a wooden bridge, round curved banks, cascading quietly toward the dam it had ruined, and the gorge it cut in turbulent times when the winds blew and clouds fled hurriedly, oblivious, as if summoned away

11

suddenly to answer a cry for help like the police cars, and fire enginesand ambulances, that raced with flashing red and blue and white lights and loud sirensscreaming, screaming, to the road by the streamnear the walk bridge late last night.

********************************************************Ordinary Time

Simple grey boatanchored, afloaton still water;

a grey perfect skymerged with tree tops'rich subdued green;

white grey lake fogrisen;

an old wood dockgone blackwith age,

we sat alone,at peace,away.

********************************************************Never Knew A Hooker

Never knew a Hookerdidn't say that she was clean;never struck a workerdidn't lose more than his gain;never blew a blow-harddidn't blow the final scene;never grew a gardendidn't get some heavy rain;never sat the juror wasn't guilty of some crime;never lived the poetwouldn't kill to make a rhyme.

********************************************************

12

I forget where I’m fromI’ve been here so long.Life can be sad sometimes:What you forget, andWhat you can’t forget;What you remember andWhat you can’t recall:There are places I’ve beenAnd people, more peopleThan places, whose namesI forget. Some peopleMade me angry and someMade me smile. SometimesI see a familiar face but can’tRemember the name. Now and thenI meet someone who knows mebut can’t recall my name—I’m perfectly happy thento let the forgotten pasttrouble someone else.

********************************************************

Some motives run deep--unfathomableas oceans, decep-tive as keen edged seasthat cut the skyalong distinct horizon lines.

********************************************************Steering By The Meteors

Everyone ought to have heart, lips, sox, soul, one dominant trait;, a rifle, baseball cards, gas, fingers, feelings, tulips, spacemen, a beach ball, toes, lake front property, sex, snow, grandparents, luck, candles, "it'sneverbeenlikethisbefore," at least once; shoes, shoulders, strawberries in June, a fancy car, moods, no need to care for one full hour, Irish Whiskey, felt-tip pens, birthdays, luxurious lamb skin now and again, a flat tire, Lenox, a nice carpet, remote control, peace of mind, one pink rose, elders, a full portion of fish, God, cabbage, an adjustable wrench, rest, style, hair to last a life-time, daffodils, cheese-cake,

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an elegant guitar, birds, sea air, children, a light drizzle, autumn leaves, grass, a wooden bat, Ice skates, one long slope to ski, Ovaltine, annoyance, soft hands, a bookcase, cherries, neighbors, cash, a dog, split infinitives, good teeth to chew a steak, a walk along the brook, no sense of time, a long coat, wine, feet, Ds in math, a waltz, pain, boots, chocolate, jeans, Waterford, fountain pens, rocks, dreams, tennis, good legs, cognac, books, ghosts, sunshine, ties, an understanding of James Joyce, a rosary, video tapes, a bike, trash, paintings, one chain saw, memories, a cell phone, remorse, a good baseball glove, a little fear, Knicks tickets, bank hours, purpose, silver dollars, Halloween candy, one gold ring, true love, warm nights, sound sleep, and a good laugh!

********************************************************I saw you on the street last night;although we've not met for a long time, your face was pretty as ever it was, and you saw

me, too. I caught your eye and yours met mine, but I could neither stopto say hello, nor rememberyour name. I walked quickly away

to my next appointed chore. I tried to conjure your name. I dressed you in a white uniform, placed you behind a store counterto no avail; I sketched your face and searched for your name like one walking through dark library stacks searching for a familiar title,

but I could not find your name, and today, your look of recognition,your brief look of disappointment when I failed to acknowledge you,

whose smile so easily comes to mind, trouble me still.

********************************************************Late Winter

Sometimes we endure,

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without joy,without pleasure,though the sun shines brightfrom blue skies,and crocuses tempt cold march windsto bloom white,blue and yellow,and daffodils budand floweryellow besidepurple hyacinths.Sometimes we endurewithout joy,without pleasure,though love shines constantas the sunfrom cloudless skies,and we endure likethe dormant rosein winter, awaiting the sparkthat will bringus back to life.

********************************************************Meticulous fish, schooled in the arts;no word from Fathom who studied the starsto chart his course between Venus and Mars.

Who knows the scent of fishing boats,the slippery feel of live bait?Who knows the endless hours afloaton oil-slicked bays in hopeful waitfor the subtle bite that rarely came?

The Bookend Diner's thin chicken souptasted like puddles, but it was worthFathom's dollar to be out of the rain,a tranquil summer day's shocking turnwith sudden lightning, thunder, and wind to make the city howl!

No rest for the weary, thought Fathom,hearing Sandra's scorn blasting the sunfrom bright blue skies with torrents

15

of bitter invective spit like this wind driven rain against the Bookend's glass facade.

Some things still make sense, he thought,sipping weak Red Rose tea. There's nothingunder heaven like a pale blue fifty-sevenChevy. You could trust Ted Williams to hit.Count on Ray Charles, Henry Fielding, Portia,Marilyn Monroe, Little Richard, John Lennon, Davie Crockett, Constance Reid,and Premium Saltines in cellophane wrappersto kill the taste of thin, bitter red tea.

Fathom watched an old man, freshfrom the sea, the scent of fish on his hands, he sipped the Bookend's tea, and listed to one side and then to the other like an old boat rocking gently on still waters.He seemed not to notice the storm.Fathom bailed out his shallow soup bowl with quick scoopsas if to keep his ship afloat.

The Lone Ranger did not ride alone,Fathom thought, chewing his saltines.Things are not always as they seem--there was Tonto always near, and Ciscohad Pancho, Don Quixote had his Panza,and who knows what went on betweenBeatrice and George, Tom and Sophie,Rochester and Bertha, Les Paul and MaryFord? Well, there's always Natty BumppoAbbey Road, Saint John's Gospel: it maybe so for all I know, he thought, as he pushedhard to open the Bookend's glass door and walked out into the wind blown rain.

********************************************************Early Spring

The new year bounded along like a rockjumping, bouncing down a severe incline.The sun seemed to lose its way; it settled in the south west sky as if gone astray.

By March the Sun eclipsed the moon and Hale-

16

Bopp's comet appeared like a misguided star, too bright, too close; it forcibly stepped on the brakes and kicked up enormous clouds

of trailing star dust as it skid acrossthe sky. Crocuses bloomed, and then came wild yellow daffodils and forsythia, purpleand white hyacinths. Magnolia trees

blossomed pink and the dogwoods flowered white. Easter rushed up like an over-eager child in pursuit of chocolate, and then Vas died, as he said he would, on Easter

Sunday. with overcast hearts and tearful smiles, we walked with him to his bright, Spring Grave beneath a blue sky and a brilliant sun on Friday, a little numb, a little stunned, sad and lonely to be without him.

********************************************************a blank sheet of paperhas marvelous potential

possibilities aboundlike the stars on a clear night

when a new moon tugs at the tides from

invisible heights

********************************************************Nothing dries sooner than tearsnot the rainnot the dewnot the first frost of fall

********************************************************Hypocrisy’s blinding glare toooften obscuresthe hypocritewhose face appears

17

In the mirror.********************************************************

Love

Too close for words to say what we mean;too close to mean what words can say:is that love, or is that love's ghost: the old cherry tree that failed to blossom, or the recurring echoof a rose?

********************************************************Evening Song

Twilight descends like a delicate threat;the silent breeze whispers an ageless taleof darkest night--harmonious discord evoking quivers of unrememberedfear. Between the moon and night runs Venusdripping sea-brine, the brightest star, astraylike an errant diamond, rife with cosmicsentiment. There's magic in the echo of the Jimson lily's silent song--sunglike the sirens' symphony to enchantthe moon. The ocean rushes a high tideto soothe the weary shore: wave after whitewave smooths its face worn with foot prints and sandcastles: fleeting dreams wash away like bright clouds blown on late night winds. Faceless figures of sleepless dreams emerge from within tallancient oaks to cast deep spells and weave oldyarns of joyful days and estrous nights when Brigid danced and Patrick sang and Hope rodea brilliant white stallion from North to Southacross white lily fields and rainbows archedthe land from sea to sea and happy werewe then, yes, for one brief, lasting moment.

********************************************************

Sunsetburned gold

18

without glare;

spring and sucha dry spell.

The lawn turned earth's best greenbut sparsly;

rain came, light, fine;

half-a rainbow--formed then fadedslowlyimperceptibly;

a sheer cloudhung before a perfect round, pale,setting sun;

we watched with wonder,near fear, to see the sunlook so like the perfect placid, deadfull moon.

********************************************************

The Salem Witch

Once I'd seen the witchit was difficultever moreto findthe comelyyoung woman

19

in fur and plumewho first caughtmy eye.

********************************************************Long standing intolerancebegins to look like patience, in time.

Conflict and contention,the ritual argument,create one sort of intimacy,

but a smile,a kind word, an uncalculatedkiss will do as well if what you want is intimacy.

********************************************************Christine and cookies,Oh, Margaret a lot,Hester’s green tea andThe morning was shot.

Breathless VirginiaCrammed plans into plans,Fifteen for dinnerAll stuffed in three vans.

Clara rode donkeyIn boots with her smilesWhile Bob kissed the princessIn back of the files.

Stale chocolate cake Was what we all got. Jane cried out loud:

20

“This coffee’s too hot.”

********************************************************Gallery

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

Brassy, old, imperious, a woman set on thinlegs waked an aged strut, impervious,her look pursed in thin-lipped wrinkles:"Tell me how I can assist you."

I could not tell, had no idea, wondered . . .and smiled.

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

The far wall was full canvas: clouds.White and blue, tops of clouds:deep contrast: bright to one side, darkto the other. More clouds to the right.Two walls of clouds, tops of clouds"It's like being in a plane," saidan elderly woman with a happy, bright smile,as she felt her way along the cloudsto find a door.The curator slouched in his chair,worn down with his rounds.His tough-barked hostess had vanished,leaving the room still as its thick carpet.

Alone above the clouds, I wanderedand was startled to find two long poleswith rocks tied to their tops, leaning precariously against the clouds:ancient missiles from a simple timewhen we threw rocks.I found myself pacing from window to cloud,cloud to window, window to an overlookedwall with a small canvas: two beetleson daffodil, one atop the other, in "Yellow,Magenta, Cyan."

Catherine came to mind: she liked to grit

21

her teeth in pleasure. Her eyes alight,her front teeth slanted forward, her jawset, tense, triumphant. There was somethingunseemly about Catherine's mouth whenshe grit her teeth in pleasure.

Like an apparition among the cloudsthe thin-lipped woman reappeared,"Would you like a champagne?"she urged with her head slightly tiltedtoward the right, her thin lips pursedshut with wrinkles, her dim eyes narrow,estimating, calculating.

"Thank you, no."

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

I felt my way along the clouds and followed the path of the bright-eyedwoman whose ageless smile shonelike the sun above the clouds, until I found the open door.

********************************************************

At times the dead are real,Their presencePalpable as music to the deaf,Color to the blind,Song to the mute.The dead are real And incomprehensible As death.

********************************************************

We agonized along hot city side-Walks in summer and picked a careful way Over ice in bitterly cold winter Winds to find tea and scones while we studied Ways to explore, perfect, perhaps justify Intimacy. Were we intimate Then when we wondered aloud if this con-Fusion were love or what might it be if

22

Not and why such fascination, why such Urgent desire, why the desire To check desire, why the concentrationOn one another when we were apart? Why the cautious first moments each time we met?

When we were together, Sensitive to one anotherProtective of ourselves—We saw ourselves as if in an oddLight that shone in two directionsAt once and revealed one thing to youAnd another to me.

********************************************************

The stone behind the dark glassesOn the snow cone is the KingThe queen is in her pantry Eating pies.

Crawling down the hallway Past the butter, past the sink,The prince is having visions With his eyes.

The Joker traded motleyFor a pin striped vested suit;His wife puffed out her cheeks and Picked his ties.

The priest is running groceries To the revels in the hills.The nuns are painting checkersOn the skies.

Princess Carolina dressed In crinoline contrives To raise her skirt and wink at All the guys.

Robin Hood lit Marion’sDessert while the friar Drank a punch that blackened

23

Both his eyes.

********************************************************The inevitable,Always comes

As a shock.

********************************************************

I have arrived at that point In my lifeWhen the need to be polite, Diplomatic,Inoffensive to prevailing sensitivities,Sensibilities,Is exceeded only By the inveterate need To have my sayRight or wrong.

****************************************************************************Random, random, random in tandemA coke can rolled down the road.

The circus train crept past the parkHeavy, like a tanker sitting lowIn the water, inching up riverExhausted, on the last leg of its long journey.

The phone rang. I woke. Lost. Where am I? What time is it? Dream merged with waking:I was in Cincinnati when the phoneRang and I ran to answer and wokeFrom my dream more real than The ringing phone.

“Tending bar is not respectable.He should not tend bar.”She spoke with disgust on her face.Disgust easily found its way to her face. A smile struggled with her ready-made Lines of disgust. She could not distort Those lines to make a smile, so deeply carvedInto her face were the aged lines of constant disgust.

24

The paperboy walked stiffly, his back to the wind,His cap pulled down to cover his face. The wind cut through his blue jeans and icedThe front of his legs till they were numb and stung. The wind sliced sharply across lawns buried beneath Snow that obliterated boundaries and hid concrete Walkways and curbs and streets. Snow drifts roundedWhite by the wind peaked and sloped as if they covered A long, plush meadow that rolled uphill from the brookBut the heavy snow could not disguise the small, Uniform houses that shot up suddenly like patches Of corn that divided the field into barren lots Where greedy men planted cinder blocks.

Christmas came like a winter stormOf wrapping and bows and boxesAnd it went in light black plastic bagsWith empty wine bottles clinking together.

********************************************************

Conversation with the Wall

In mocking hesitation,old Whiskers bowed his head:"It's mostly of this erato live in fear and dread

the push along the subway,the stranger with a gun,the organized militiaarmed and having fun,

the nuclear reactors,the IRS, and more,the nagging threat of livingthrough the very last world war.

No telling what they're thinking,down there in Washington's Mall,but everyone who goes theresits on Humpty's wall.

25

So fare you well this fun house,wisely choose your way: we'll know you by those things you do.Not by those you say."

******************************************************************

Whiskers and The Victorian

She was a shallow stream,a wader's dream,and he liked fishingup minnows.

Hers was a fetching gleam:the moon's full beamconjuring a steadyunder-tow.

He splashed on self-esteem,to an extreme,and thought to give hera good row,

but, t'was her secret schemeto reign supremewhilst he was bathinghis ego.

Their puddle sure teemedand raged, till it seemedlike oceans aboutto overflow.

********************************************************Vietnam is a memory now: remote as Korea, World War II.

Once Nam was everything:once, for a long, long painful time.

"A brief war, as wars go,"

26

will say the books. Hard to face then, Harder now: men, grown from boys, eighteen, haunt

street corners like lost souls, they beg in frayed uniforms: spare change can not change a life spared in war, doomed

to haunt lost souls, victims themselvesof private wars, wounded, scarred, numbed,their own horror haunting them,

they cannot hear the anguished voice: "Spare some change for a vet, friend?”

*********************************************************************Ordinary Time

Week Six

Have you seen that homelessman shuffle off to bed:cardboard on a subway gratehis hands around his head?

Have you seen that tunnellady advertise her breast:she winks a blackened, swolleneye that says she needs some rest.

Have you seen that drunkenman talking to the wall?Have the windshield raggersscared you with their drawl:

"May the good Lord bless you, Mister.Merry Christmas one and all.”

***************************************************************Apocalypse

27

In the end it's over. Done.

If it starts up again as something new,

it's not over and done.

In the end it's done. Over.

28