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 --

the buddha's smile

the buddha's smile


there, reflecting off the golden statue
we bow to pray and find our own
is our proper path herald of a
greater awareness this lily
on the pond, crickets humming
in the shallow water the moon and stars
gyrating in supple ammunition
against the Night, we are
the Meditation of a caring Mother, the
sudden Surging
of light in darkness -- the buddha
holds his fingers against his palm
and whispers quietly
among the whispering reeds --

A Moment in Time

A moment in Time




in the golden tinsel on the window pane
a reflection in the rain a
surge of life
in this darkness;  I cried
for you, here, here
where you could pass as Native
in the dusk we the
solemn brothers out to Sea,
carousing with the best of them -- hell
is not an option, only a
metro stop on the way
to a greater Circumspection these
days our great
hurrahs at the top of the steps Counting
backwards until
we lose Track; the turtles
crawl along
the mud bank slow in determination
and ready
for our Realization we the
afterthought
of a sudden Spasm --

haiku

Clouddispslays shine here
moving slowly along the
Sky; this, Our essence --

Ghosts, Phantoms, Memories –

It all began on a tripwire here accumulating

trust – Our horses neigh  in the Wind

keeping time with their surging hooves – We

have Chosen to be Silent here, under

a dark sky harkening back to a time when

we would Surrender easily and with Calm – Who

are you there

undermining your Vision with blood not baked

but burned

in great Carapaces above Our heads

divining a Time

when We could laugh with Impunity?

Furious optimism

What bell shakes the rooftops? – It

seems there is less time for things that matter

and more matter unearthing riots, here; --

these Celibate angels and Spies are Crying  – What

form of a Woman

are you to extend to me your utterances

alighting on a tall tree-branch? – Have

you installed in your

spine’s Arch a knowing inclination?

Inching toward the fire’s Edge

we are warmed to You, you

who would hold out to us

your subtle graces and shattering

     instinct -- We

wonder at Constellations

our Feet poised for a new equilibrium

     counting

the hours to our Communion,

      hearty, breathless --