For My Father

For My Father


Ariadne Auf Naxos was
his favorite Opera -- he loved
playing Chopin Mazurkas
and Bach suites -- he
was a gardener of tomatoes
and Cantaloupes, a keen
observer of his garden, a
tiller of rich soil, a
stitcher of sutures when I
was wounded; he saved
Lolita, our Brooklyn Cat
from the wheel of
the exercycle, he came
to me in my illness
and with compassion guided
me to health, always
visiting me when I was sick; I
can see him playing the
flute in the Sunlight there
where we played
flute and guitar duos -- he
always made a point
to comment on my paintings
and encourage my art -- I think
of his love for my Mother, as
Hamlet said, "So loving to my Mother
he might not beteem the winds of
Heaven visit her face too
roughly";  And he
loved my brother and me,
nurturing our interests and desires,
exposing us to great art and music -- I
adjusted his head
on his pillow there near his passing
and held his hand as
he watched The Cooking Channel, this
chef and baker of scrumptious cakes
and heavenly brownies -- though he
couldn't speak at the end I
know he loved us and I love
him still as I believe he is
still with me
in spirit and Soul --

Post Life

Post Life


My crime is not
a juvenile crime, it
is a crime of
numbers oppressing us
with their
way wisdom and Sudden Solace; --
i have seen too much
to not acknowledge its strength
and Proper Wisdom --
Where do we start, here
in this Ministering Silence, here
where we can Abate
with Solemn Justice -- our
Eyes glued heavenward
in their Ascent, the
exact Measure
inches and miles
here Glowing, now Worth
our Structured glances
at glowing Embers
in the Ashcan; -- why
then would we stop
to greet You, old
friend -- you who would
dance on fire
as it intends the
Macerated Union
of Electroshock and Wan
perusal
Our home is one
of a bursting
Silence; a kind of Vain
retribution of
twirling colors, tri-partite,
on the Flag
our blood the blood
of Soldiers mute and dying
Where do we go from here
now that all of the children
are growing up -- and
how do we spend our Time when
nobody
gives us a damn -- hot collars
and staid sentences
groveling in the Mist
beckon to Us
as from a Distance
unheard above before
now when the iron Clock
sends its fury of
calm solicitude --