Late Night Fog Hung Over the Field

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 charms and wonder do you know how thorougly your eyes so 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 children and 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 hear and 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:

2 I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening to recall—a rundown sandstone dwelling

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 sculpture standing 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 fingers of 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 scent And 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 inexperienced Or 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

3 And chaotic movement of soul. It’s mystery over wonder, time, 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 sins To trample beatitudes gone slack To platitudes: “the meek shall eat Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homeless Through 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 mysteries Of politics, economy, religion, psychology,

4 Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance, Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.

What things does Caesar want?

One rather glorious mystery Is the perfectly proportioned Symmetrical mons delicately carved In 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 oyster Eyes magnified behind thick glasses Walked 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 downcast His head bent to one side as he picked An unencumbered path through clusters Of laughing boys.

One young girl, a teenager wakes To 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:

5 Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s gone A long time, but Hemingway just shot himself and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself; He had to rely on someone else.

Lazarus died and Jesus cried When he arrived. Lazarus, alive Walked 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 smoke Suddenly gone. Sit back to rock; Maybe have a red wine. Too much is too much Even 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 awful I feel awful too.

I cannot help it Anymore than you

Can help feeling so Awful when you do,

But it worries me When you feel awful

On our one day off.

6 ******************************************************** Highly polished verse Reflects what it observes, like a large sphere, an oversized mirroring Ornament on a Christmas tree That 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 looks Antique, like a chair in need of glue; They spoke of Modern then, and they thought Modern meant new: Avant-garde, Dada Surreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They fought Over a word, an idea, a turn Of image to make better prufrock.

We’ve brightened up Michelangelo— Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clock Either back or forward or around. Turned up a stone age corpse kept on ice These five thousand years. Someone knocked Off his scrotum, took his boots—a nice Welcome to this nameless age of rap. Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’s Imagination, a myth that cuts The road to Rome and the scrotum, too. Beware the aged prophet whose hands Reach toward your pocket: feeble fingers Quick as a humming bird that darts, lands Its feed and disappears all in one Sudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist, And politics! Rhetoric gave way To the coy, segment-sensitive twist. Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,

7 Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots. Lipstick girls in slender undress beg Less 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 books Will call the game with retrospective Calm: a slow curve (the deep recession), A black-door slider (pretty Flowers), The inside fast ball (a concession To incumbent powers): fall chaos Played out like the World Series’ last game.

These are the days of commercial spin, Cosmetic tucks, uninspired name Calling, 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 sturdy dock of yesterday and the day before.

******************************************************** Sometimes it is hard to be amused Or even crack a smile.

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

******************************************************** More than the sunrise More than the mountains More than the thinnest crescent moon More than the blue light of dusk More than the spring’s first rain More than the faint light of dawn More than the willow’s first yellow More than the daffodil’s first blossom More than the ocean More than the summer’s first rose

8 More than the pink gladiola More than the autumn’s riot of color More than the early setting sun More than the winter’s first soft snow

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

******************************************************** The poet felt the ocean And praised the ocean’s purity. He saw the moon spread A wide beam on the water And stop at the surface As if the black depth Of the ocean at night Were impenetrable, discrete.

He rode the tide And his blood took Its rhythm and his ship Rolled at once with the ocean.

The ocean heaves pure and blind, Faithful only to the moon: It casts its song to every wind And 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 sway as those two tipsy "T's" in "Tits." Love Poem

9 You're the milk in my oatmeal! (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 another To 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 again to my complete surprise I find myself behind the not so mythic rock.

Never have I envied Sisyphus' aerobic lot. Up that hill he'd go: strong legs, strong back, and will

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

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

Or did the spectacle of a huge rock jumping and bounding, gathering speed as it fell down hill

10 please him, make the journey worth his while? Did the gods laugh at him? Or did they too, in time, grow weary

of the repetitious spectacle of a man pushing a rock uphill to watch it fall back down

to the bottom where he began. At least he knew where to push his mythic rock. I have no idea

what to do with my own.

******************************************************** Once it was an issue between the lady and the man; who held the sway domestic was said to wear the pants;

In time, the clothes designers put the ladies into slacks, to which the fashion factory for skirts needs must fight back;

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

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

Whatever happened, the trees would not tell though they whispered softly to a passing breeze, nor would say the chipped concrete sidewalk and 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,

11 oblivious, as if summoned away suddenly to answer a cry for help like the police cars, and fire engines and ambulances, that raced with flashing red and blue and white lights and loud sirens screaming, screaming, to the road by the stream near the walk bridge late last night.

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

Simple grey boat anchored, afloat on still water;

a grey perfect sky merged with tree tops' rich subdued green;

white grey lake fog risen;

an old wood dock gone black with age,

we sat alone, at peace, away.

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

Never knew a Hooker didn't say that she was clean; never struck a worker didn't lose more than his gain; never blew a blow-hard didn't blow the final scene; never grew a garden didn't get some heavy rain; never sat the juror wasn't guilty of some crime; never lived the poet wouldn't kill to make a rhyme.

12 ******************************************************** I forget where I’m from I’ve been here so long. Life can be sad sometimes: What you forget, and What you can’t forget; What you remember and What you can’t recall: There are places I’ve been And people, more people Than places, whose names I forget. Some people Made me angry and some Made me smile. Sometimes I see a familiar face but can’t Remember the name. Now and then I meet someone who knows me but can’t recall my name— I’m perfectly happy then to let the forgotten past trouble someone else.

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

Some motives run deep-- unfathomable as oceans, decep- tive as keen edged seas that cut the sky along 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, an elegant guitar, birds, sea air, children, a light drizzle, autumn leaves, grass, a wooden bat, Ice skates, one long

13 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 stop to say hello, nor remember your 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 counter to 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, without joy, without pleasure,

14 though the sun shines bright from blue skies, and crocuses tempt cold march winds to bloom white, blue and yellow, and daffodils bud and flower yellow beside purple hyacinths. Sometimes we endure without joy, without pleasure, though love shines constant as the sun from cloudless skies, and we endure like the dormant rose in winter, awaiting the spark that will bring us back to life.

******************************************************** Meticulous fish, schooled in the arts; no word from Fathom who studied the stars to 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 afloat on oil-slicked bays in hopeful wait for the subtle bite that rarely came?

The Bookend Diner's thin chicken soup tasted like puddles, but it was worth Fathom's dollar to be out of the rain, a tranquil summer day's shocking turn with sudden lightning, thunder, and wind to make the city howl!

No rest for the weary, thought Fathom, hearing Sandra's scorn blasting the sun from bright blue skies with torrents of bitter invective spit like this wind driven rain against the Bookend's glass facade.

15 Some things still make sense, he thought, sipping weak Red Rose tea. There's nothing under heaven like a pale blue fifty-seven Chevy. 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 wrappers to kill the taste of thin, bitter red tea.

Fathom watched an old man, fresh from 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 scoops as 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 Cisco had Pancho, Don Quixote had his Panza, and who knows what went on between Beatrice and George, Tom and Sophie, Rochester and Bertha, Les Paul and Mary Ford? Well, there's always Natty Bumppo Abbey Road, Saint John's Gospel: it may be so for all I know, he thought, as he pushed hard to open the Bookend's glass door and walked out into the wind blown rain.

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

The new year bounded along like a rock jumping, 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- Bopp's comet appeared like a misguided star, too bright, too close; it forcibly stepped

16 on the brakes and kicked up enormous clouds

of trailing star dust as it skid across the sky. Crocuses bloomed, and then came wild yellow daffodils and forsythia, purple and 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 paper has marvelous potential

possibilities abound like the stars on a clear night

when a new moon tugs at the tides from

invisible heights

******************************************************** Nothing dries sooner than tears not the rain not the dew not the first frost of fall

******************************************************** Hypocrisy’s blinding glare too often obscures the hypocrite whose face appears In the mirror. ********************************************************

17 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 echo of a rose?

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

Twilight descends like a delicate threat; the silent breeze whispers an ageless tale of darkest night--harmonious discord evoking quivers of unremembered fear. Between the moon and night runs Venus dripping sea-brine, the brightest star, astray like an errant diamond, rife with cosmic sentiment. There's magic in the echo of the Jimson lily's silent song--sung like the sirens' symphony to enchant the moon. The ocean rushes a high tide to soothe the weary shore: wave after white wave smooths its face worn with foot prints and sand castles: fleeting dreams wash away like bright clouds blown on late night winds. Faceless figures of sleepless dreams emerge from within tall ancient oaks to cast deep spells and weave old yarns of joyful days and estrous nights when Brigid danced and Patrick sang and Hope rode a brilliant white stallion from North to South across white lily fields and rainbows arched the land from sea to sea and happy were we then, yes, for one brief, lasting moment. ********************************************************

Sunset burned gold without glare;

18 spring and such a dry spell.

The lawn turned earth's best green but sparsly;

rain came, light, fine;

half-a rainbow-- formed then faded slowly imperceptibly;

a sheer cloud hung before a perfect round, pale, setting sun;

we watched with wonder, near fear, to see the sun look so like the perfect placid, dead full moon.

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

The Salem Witch

Once I'd seen the witch it was difficult ever more to find the comely young woman in fur and plume who first caught

19 my eye.

******************************************************** Long standing intolerance begins to look like patience, in time.

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

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

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

Breathless Virginia Crammed plans into plans, Fifteen for dinner All stuffed in three vans.

Clara rode donkey In boots with her smiles While Bob kissed the princess In back of the files.

Stale chocolate cake Was what we all got. Jane cried out loud: “This coffee’s too hot.”

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

20 Gallery

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

Brassy, old, imperious, a woman set on thin legs 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 far wall was full canvas: clouds. White and blue, tops of clouds: deep contrast: bright to one side, dark to the other. More clouds to the right. Two walls of clouds, tops of clouds "It's like being in a plane," said an elderly woman with a happy, bright smile, as she felt her way along the clouds to 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 wandered and was startled to find two long poles with rocks tied to their tops, leaning precariously against the clouds: ancient missiles from a simple time when we threw rocks. I found myself pacing from window to cloud, cloud to window, window to an overlooked wall with a small canvas: two beetles on daffodil, one atop the other, in "Yellow, Magenta, Cyan."

Catherine came to mind: she liked to grit her teeth in pleasure. Her eyes alight, her front teeth slanted forward, her jaw set, tense, triumphant. There was something

21 unseemly about Catherine's mouth when she grit her teeth in pleasure.

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

"Thank you, no."

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

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

At times the dead are real, Their presence Palpable 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 Not and why such fascination, why such Urgent desire, why the desire To check desire, why the concentration

22 On one another when we were apart? Why the cautious first moments each time we met?

When we were together, Sensitive to one another Protective of ourselves— We saw ourselves as if in an odd Light that shone in two directions At once and revealed one thing to you And another to me.

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

The stone behind the dark glasses On the snow cone is the King The 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 motley For 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 checkers On the skies.

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

Robin Hood lit Marion’s Dessert while the friar Drank a punch that blackened Both his eyes.

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

23 The inevitable, Always comes As a shock.

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

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

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

The circus train crept past the park Heavy, like a tanker sitting low In the water, inching up river Exhausted, 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 phone Rang and I ran to answer and woke From 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 carved Into her face were the aged lines of constant disgust.

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 iced

24 The 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 rounded White by the wind peaked and sloped as if they covered A long, plush meadow that rolled uphill from the brook But 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 storm Of wrapping and bows and boxes And it went in light black plastic bags With empty wine bottles clinking together.

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

Conversation with the Wall

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

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

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

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

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."

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

25 Whiskers and The Victorian

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

Hers was a fetching gleam: the moon's full beam conjuring a steady under-tow.

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

but, t'was her secret scheme to reign supreme whilst he was bathing his ego.

Their puddle sure teemed and raged, till it seemed like oceans about to 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," 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:

26 spare change can not change a life spared in war, doomed

to haunt lost souls, victims themselves of 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 homeless man shuffle off to bed: cardboard on a subway grate his hands around his head?

Have you seen that tunnel lady advertise her breast: she winks a blackened, swollen eye that says she needs some rest.

Have you seen that drunken man talking to the wall? Have the windshield raggers scared you with their drawl:

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

In the end it's over. Done.

If it starts up again as something

27 new, it's not over and done.

In the end it's done. Over.