You Are
You are the sunshine
when I open my eyes
and I snuggle up beside you
never wanting to let go.
You are my heat when I’m cold
my strength when I’m weak
my voice when I’m mute.
You are the lavender scent of
a new spring day
the breeze that cools
on a hot summer day.
And you are what I need
today
tomorrow
every day
for the rest of my life.
I love you, Diana.
The Sunrise and You
Want to lie in the tall grass
in the soft dew
with you
watch the sunrise
the sun reflecting
shining in your eyes
want to kiss you at that moment
at that first newborn burst of light
so like the burst of light
in my heart
when I see you
when I hear you
when I feel you
put my arms around you
and know
in that instant
the Truth
like an ancient wisdom I’ve known
I’ve carried around in my heart forever.
Street of Dreams
Your hand in mine feels as natural
as the waves crashing softly
on the sandy beach,
your eyes eager and bright
like a newly discovered star
on a distant ancient night,
a glow I’ve stared into
so many lifetimes before,
your kiss a remembered gift from heaven
moon face smiling down at us
as I hold you here close
your cheek against my chest
both of us still
not daring to break the spell
the night surrounding us
like a navy blue silken veil,
hearts pounding out a rhythm together
holding you tighter and tighter
feeling you breathe against me
neither saying a word
the two of us
content in the moment
closing our eyes and savoring it
standing smack in the middle
of our street of dreams.
Nineteen
He was nineteen
dying in a field
in a foreign land.
That was all he knew.
He wasn’t feeling brave
but only afraid
as he felt the life
slipping out of him.
He didn’t know who was right
or who was wrong
as they argued about it
in the grocery stores
in the newspapers
at the filling stations
and he lay dying
in this field of green.
He didn’t feel as if it were an honor to die
he didn’t feel dignified
or proud,
just scared,
a boy longing for home.
He didn’t know anything now
just the pain;
he wasn’t thinking about bleeding-heart liberals
or staunch conservatives
only about all the things he wouldn’t see
he wouldn’t do in his life
now that it would all be over so soon
and the fear of the unknown
of what was to come.
He didn’t know much about politics
about “stand firm”
or “the right plan”
he didn’t know
which candidate
was better for the country
now he would never get the chance to vote).
He only knew
he was nineteen
and he was going to die
before he had a chance
to live
and he wasn’t really sure
why.
Fragments of a Day
Old discarded sneaker
lying on the roadside
as the car flashes past,
church steeple
liquor store
lights turning yellow, turning red,
old newspapers blowing down the street,
running, always running
to catch the next story,
billboards of happy smoking people
scream: you could have this life, too
for a price
a price
a price,
playground with metal tennis hoops,
a single basketball sets alone on the concrete
waiting for someone to pick it up,
skies of gray,
clouds of rolling thunder,
a dozen roses still wrapped in green paper
stuffed in a trash can,
sleeping baby smiling in a car seat,
not knowing what's yet to come,
sneakers tossed over electrical lines, dangling in the wind,
old woman sitting in front of her apartment building,
glasses falling down her nose,
knitting another scarf,
a blue-suited bell boy
opening the door of a limo
for an aged blonde-haired woman
decked in furs and jewels,
as the girls down the street
throw the stone
and hopscotch on the sidewalk,
discarded paperback novel
lying in a gutter
pages flapping in the wind,
a man in ragged clothes
sleeping on a park bench,
little boy
dressed in his best suit
as the casket is lowered into the earth
wondering what it's all about,
winds of change
swirling
lifting newspapers
up into the air
so they dance
in a circle
by the fire hydrant
and empty beer cans
roll down the street,
an unshaven old man
in his white sleeveless T-shirt
peeps out his window,
at the chaos of the streets below,
radio blaring:
"Better get out those umbrellas
because it looks like a doozy
of a storm's headed our way,"
old man scratches under his arm
lights a cigarette
closes his window
and disappears inside
and the world keeps spinning
and the world keeps turning
try to catch it
try to keep up.
Chosen Ones
I've never been one of the Chosen Ones
never sipped my soup with a silver spoon,
but have stood by watching,
servile,
hands behind the back,
tail between my legs,
watching ladies sip tea,
slipping out of stoles,
jumping,
bending down to pick them up
when the precious animal hides
fall to the floor,
grabbing them
and returning them
to their owners,
unseen
unheard
unnoticed
invisible
out of sight
out of mind
of the powers of privilege,
as they,
with white gloves,
continued to sip,
over idle chatter of the latest fashions in
dresses, soirees, and wine,
their smooth tanned elbows tilted
at just the proper angle,
quite,
47 1/2 degrees I think it would be,
munching on biscuits, scones,
speaking of all their charitable contributions,
their fund raising efforts,
smiling the pearly white smiles
that only those
in the clouds of grace
can smile,
while down below,
the rest of us carry umbrellas
or don't,
waiting for the endless skies of gray to clear.
Alice, Would You Stop?
If I saw you on the streets
would you stop
ran in front of your car
would you stop.
Called you on the phone
hoped that you weren't home
would you stop.
Showed you all my sloppy poems
about love and love and love
you didn't bat a pretty lash
said poetry?--
you didn't know much about it.
Bottle of wine
you made me drain it
until I couldn't do it
then turned and laughed.
Beat me red
took me to the edge
said the timing wasn't right.
Remember how you laughed
with your friends
as the door slammed?
You weren't supposed to be here
I wasn't supposed to see you
but saw you in the streets
would you stop
would you stop
would you stop
threw a wrench in my chest
they sewed me up neat
left the wrench.
If I was running for my life
would you stop and say
hello?
I don't think so.
If my life was on the line
calling collect
and I didn't have a quarter
would you spare the change
or hang me up?
If You Were Still Here
I could be so close to you
in my desperate clinging moments
but you're not here.
Azure dreams dreams
all day long through the night
can't sleep for dreaming of you.
If you were here now
you wouldn't let me slobber sorrow
you'd kiss my death-caked looks away
and they'd fly high above the clouds, the rain,
wouldn't let me indulge myself in self-pity,
shock me out if it with your snarl, your smile
as you did then.
The dreams coming faster, harder now
mixing with the spinning turmoil
I dress myself in daily.
Want to go back
feel your winds gently sweeping over me again.
Arms
When there ain't
nowhere to run
where do you run?
Into arms
you never left --
warm arms
dark arms.
You begin to lean
and they're gone
never been
just needle tracks
shadows
footprints in the dust
in the road
leading to a swamp
hounds hot on your trail
where do you run
frantic
come across shacks
knocking on doors
rubbing your arms in the chill night
nobody answers the knocks
the shadows behind which
someone has arms
if only they'd open.
Mental Ward
They're lined up against the hallway walls
looking like refugees from a war long past--
the woman of eighty or so on the cot
reaching up,
her bony hands like twigs
swaying in the breeze,
reaching blindly
as we pass,
on the endless swing ride of her past,
calling for Daddy: "Daddy, I wanna get off";
the ancient man of bones
shuffling along the linoleum floor in his slippers,
dressed in his pajamas at seven o'clock at night,
eyes dulled like marbles,
feet seeming to move but getting nowhere;
"Who is he? Who is he?" a distressed voice calls out
as I walk past,
her eyes on me still as I try to smile
try to reassure her that I'm perfectly innocent;
the woman shrieking some ungodly song
and conducting the imaginary orchestra
but smiling smiling all the while;
the gray-haired pale-faced woman
who can't seem to get the words out
as she approaches us, shakes her head,
smiles apologetically,
and tries for five minutes
to open the locked door,
then moves on;
the victims the wasted the remnants of
us
this is the circus from hell
the place where they go
where we may go
when we go
when little pieces of their minds
of our minds
start to splinter off
and fall to the floor
in a senseless pile
when the puzzle pieces no longer seem to fit
they're there (will we be?)
talking to no one
to their memories, to their ghosts
locked forever in a perpetual snow dome,
but we're able to leave
they, they must stay
playing talking arguing with their private ghosts
murmuring away
as the elevator doors shut
and leave them behind
but not for long
we'll be back
to see the babbling
to weep inside at what becomes of some of us
and curse our time already lost forever.
The Sky Today
It's always like this
the day after the Horror:
sky endless rolling blue
not a cloud in sight
breeze slight
fluttering oak leaves and maple
birds chirping unseen, all around
but yesterday
my father's mother--
light snatched from her eyes--
was led by a steel gray robot
to her last shower
and yesterday
Sylvia Plath turned on the gas
and yesterday
a girl I knew
who hid behind a Cheshire grin
did her Sylvia imitation
smile sparkling
before dissolving into air.
So how do I explain today
the sun high
blinding
in a cloudless sky
birds chirping
as if nothing's come to pass
before this day
this sky?
How do I explain the sky's deception
turning my insides out
making me want to touch
to feel
to dance
when beneath its cloak of blue
the unseen faces lie hidden
watching
and
waiting?
(originally appeared in Poetpourri)
Blueprints to Black
Newspapers blowing in the streets
sticking to granite walls
match stick corpses piled naked in a pit
blueprints to Crematoria # 1, 2, 3 and 4
signed, stamped, and filed
letters imploring supervisors to work faster
get the job done
invoking laws of supply and demand
there are deadlines
and budgets to meet
and finally, done!--
the architect and engineer smile,
greet each other by the water cooler
for a paper cup toast,
and shake each others hands.
A charcoal gray sky
rain falling lazily in cold fat droplets
steady, unceasing
like the transports
the constant squeal of infants
shoes of all sizes lined neatly on the racks
eyeglasses stored in great boxes
hair like hay rolled and bound
proud trademark on the oven makers' kiln
a faceless soldier bent over at the sight
counting bodies
then failing
falling to the ground
hand over his eyes
crying silent tears.
Cold night lying alone on a mattress
not a sound but the refrigerator's hum
the rain dripping against the window pane
the distant wail of a freight train
and the echo of an infant, a sea of infants wailing--
it will yet be night
it will yet be night.
(originally appeared in Hazmat Review)
Hands
He would swear at the boxes
they would never stop coming--
tape 'em, stuff 'em, pack 'em--
the routine never died
until the skin of his narrow fingers
would grow chafed, calloused, cold
from the sharp edges
the tiny blades
that blurred his vision
that slipped beneath the skin
into his heart.
And at the end of the day
he would look down at the palms
of his colorless hands
shove them into his pockets
afraid to take them home
to caress his sprightly young wife
his newborn son
afraid that from his touch
would flow the daggers
he kept locked up in his head.
(originally appeared in Innisfree and Hazmat Review)
The Necessary Strength
Surrounded by possibilities,
the lead ring just out of reach,
the past bleeding into the present tense.
Sitting alone,
Black & Tan in hand,
wondering how I got to this point.
When did the tiny crack
turn to a crevice,
and then separate the dreams
from reality?
When did the pressure push me off the ledge?
But still hanging on by my fingernails.
"It's just life," one said,
but what else do we have?
Pulling myself up by my knuckles
on bare rock,
turning them white,
climbing up with all my might,
to see what lies on the horizon --
is that a clouded sun that I see,
or just the eerie light of the moon
taunting, mocking me
to succeed,
to gain the final
necessary strength?
Hello
A man called
(I think it was a man)
he said:
Happy Holocaust you
hook nosed bloodsucking
Jew worm.
All I could think to say
was Hi right back.
And he replied:
May your children's children
rot in the cold earth like you
you slimy carcass carrion
you diseased treachorous vermin.
You have a nice day too, I said,
and hung up the phone gently
refreshed by such a meaningful communication
with an intelligent
sensitive member of
our genus species time.
Yes dear God, he's ours
and yours forever.
Let the wind whip a chill
down heaven's spine.
(previously appeared in Innisfree and Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Bearing Witness to the Holocaust (Northwestern University Press, 1998))
farewell to a friendit was raining on the pavement as
he shaved it off
the room was cold
cutting hair by hair
the fuzzy balls floating to the floor
cutting Samson's strength
left naked to the blade
a clean start
and an end
the stripped hairs
were tears
coating the floor
clogging the sink
they fell and fell
air breathing through
sun warming a new face
broiling the cement
soaking up the rain --
a hair or two remained.
I Will Never Know Their Names
It doesn't seem like too much to think about you
once (or twice) in my life
for a few fleeting moments:
you would have been here
not gassed smoked roasted
by red-eyed wolves
that called themselves men,
for what reason?
Because you were Jews?
Because they needed someone to blame for their
unhappiness
for their misery?
I think about all of you I would have known,
would have visited
(those of you I would have liked,
would have hated).
But now it doesn't matter:
won't know you,
or your children,
or your children's children (my cousins),
ever.
They won't ever be;
could this possibly be true?
Too terrible to comprehend
that men would fry babies
and mothers
and bearded grandfathers,
why?
Gas them
and pile their bodies,
their broken limbs, in mass graves
or better yet, they'd say,
let's burn them!
Let the stench of burning flesh
taint this land forever,
but save all useable parts--
the skin of the Jew for instance is tough,
would make good lampshades--
could they have really skinned us like cattle?
Yes, they could,
they did,
we must never forget.
But for all my cousins that were
and never were
now, for one single moment,
with a single tear
I cry--I never knew their names.
(originally appeared in HazMat Review)
Separate Ways
She said "Yes, I think you should go,
at least for a while.
We need to see what's what."
It said sexy girls are waiting to talk to you
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Seeking someone special
"We need to see if things are better
if we're not together."
Your sweetheart as close as your phone
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"If you feel better about yourself
and me about myself this way,
we need to see if there's anything left to salvage."
Unforgettable conversations, fulfill your fantasies
"You still love the girls, don't you?"
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"And don't forget to send some money,
when you get some,
and come and see the kids
and borrow the car
and use the computer
and stereo
whenever you want";
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"'Cause you know
you always have a place here,
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"It won't be so bad,
just for a while,
till we figure things out,
will it?"
What are you waiting for!
Sexy babes want to talk to you!
The phone rings once, twice--
I don't move
I'm afraid to pick it up.
(originally appeared in Desperate Act)
Shakespeare's Dead Too
Romeo and Juliet
took a stroll
down the wrong road
poor Juliet
walking out in a flash sunset
a world turned strange
all mirrors and wires
razor blades and empty vials
a fish-eye look
hook in a dirty bowl
forgetting: hey I never learned
to breathe beneath the surface
just green around the gills,
you might say.
So Romeo (being Will's son)
he took a stroll
looking after J
holding back a bit
following the road
afraid afraid afraid
lost
looking for a fresh trail in the dust
whispering through the trees,
shivering:
Juliet, come out come out
wherever you are.
(originally appeared in Innisfree)