Sunday, April 13, 2014

Life After a Bee Sting

Rain scent and the fog floats piercing windowpane into me.
Soaked in haze I have a drunkard’s delusions: You confess erotic. 
I know you loved me but you didn’t love me well. The fog in me.

Rain storm, ice storm, I don’t care, coat in the trash heap, I’m free.
Leafless branches whip the wind, magnolia’s death from winter’s narcotic.
Rain scent and the fog floats piercing windowpane into me.

Bewitched once, beguiled twice, fog thickens and I can’t see
Into you. Your confession courses my veins, untrue, hypnotic.
I know you loved me but you didn’t love me well.  The fog in me.

You loved for leisure, not affection, no depth, not for me
My skin craves your mouth, my flesh in withdrawal from your narcotic.
Rain scent and the fog floats piercing windowpane into me.

The sky a grey pearl, daffodil hasn’t bloomed, spring’s absentee.
The music you hear and can I write not answered, you think me neurotic.
I know you loved me but you didn’t love me well.  The fog in me.

I want to sting you with the venom of a queen honeybee.
Enter a patch of milk fog.  I am there, discard your coat.  We are gothic.  
Rain scent and the fog floats piercing windowpane into me.
I know you loved me but you didn’t love me well.  The fog in me.

April 7, 2014

Sunday, March 16, 2014


Ruby from the glass
I wait to hear you,
Come sing
Croon a tune
A jazzy boozy bluesy one
They’re the best
Give me a tempo
In sanguine, flaming mode
To the lub dub
Lub dub
To the lub dub sounds
Of my heart
Keep time with them
Your voice has an
Hypnotic tone
I need that fix
Just as I need the
The torture of absence
And silence
So jump to it man
My man
Bring the brandy wine,
Vintage port
I have decanted
And bring me your song
Jump to it lest I begin
To sing
I sound like Blossom Dearie
On crack
But still,
I can’t resist belting out a tune
Out of tune
Something of hers
For example
I can’t resist
I believe the lies of handsome men

Truth be told
The most excellent songs
Have a beat
Of music
So for now
Forgo the music
And speak
In ardent tone
Of mysteries
In unrhymed
Metered rhythms
Of riddles in verse
Decide on the pages
Your choice love
My love
And read to me
With emollient tongue
Or forgo the book
And read
From the heart
Subjects you know
By heart
I wait, I smile
I listen
Read to me
A recondite portamento
You have scribed about love
A kiss,
Not softly,
And read
Sweet to me
Again, again
My love

I favor and fear
The intimate
Eloquent offspring
Of your contemplation
Lovely like falling in love
Is your issue
But enigmatic too
And bruising in spots
No irenic introspection
From such a genial man
Your geniality is not
But sometimes will nap
On Hypnos’ lap
Forgetting to chain
The turbulence
Protected beneath.
Speaking figuratively
I’ve felt your bite
And remember my fall
As you pulled on the rug.
But you did it
With bruising grace
My man
And so I’ve given you
My bruised grace
Genial man
My genial man

My genial man
I look up
The riotous beauty of
A mackerel sky at evenfall
I lower my gaze
I see
The atmosphere reflected
On the rippling water beneath
I imagine
During such moments
I imagine
I am with you
Because that is your beauty
My love
The riotous beauty of
A mackerel sky at evenfall
Sanguine, flaming
Enigmatic and provoking
A mackerel sky portends
Of change and storm
I’ve seen the storm within you
The cloud darkening your gaze
But your shoulders are broad
And your will is fierce
And your heart
Your heart
Although burdened
And bruised
Is strong
And poisons the tempest
And remains unshaken
That too is beauty
Your beauty, love

I close my eyes
I wait, I smile, I listen
My love, my love
Read to me your song.

(February 24, 2014) 

Opening Day

After all the years
After all the changes
After erecting a fortress of
Hate, and contempt and scorn
In your honor and just for you,
And especially for you,
What impelled me?
It must have been the time of year, 
Late autumn
As was the time of year
Years ago when last I saw you
A dimly lit evening
Of staged farewells
Mine tearful, yours delirious, our eyes
I walked out into the cold
Into the darkened day, the city traffic
Steam lifting from a vent
On the sidewalk
Someone’s bed for the night
A chilling end.  In late autumn.

It must have been
The sudden onset
Of autumnal chill
This year
Which stirred and awakened
Within me
A slumbering primal need 
Long-term ensconced
In the bosom of that icy witch
Named unconscious.
My unconscious.
Heavy man, real heavy
As the expression goes.

So I asked the Gods
Namely the Google Gods
All twelve of them
I asked the Google Gods 
To find me something
All Gods are
Known for quicksilver dispositions
On a whim, mine obliged
Found me  
One hundred poems
Setting sail atop wand’ring bark
Then I asked an Amazon
I know
Hey girl, I asked,
Should I?
Hurry, she ordered, the Amazon    
             Read, read, read
Read before someone turns
Those poems into a movie
And they are ruined.
Foolhardy is she, or he,
Who would defy an Amazon
            I did read, read, read
One hundred poems
Setting sail atop wand’ring bark
Drifting toward
Mooring in a heart

The realm of poetry
Lies deep within
The heart, its ore
Intellect fathers
The heart succors them
Heart is mother
An electric and eclectic
Ruler of emotion
To wit,
When polishing a poem
Polarity is needed
Mating between
Male and Female
Discipline and emotion
Conflict and resolution
Provoke the reader
To intuit
The duality conveyed
But the spark is in the heart
The flint is emotion.
In all manifestations
In verse paint or sound
Yearning with scorn
Joy with sorrow
Passion with blackness
The fruit derived is beauty
Chiseled beauty
To oppose
To help bear
To satiate
The primal need
For the curative power
Of beauty
In poetry
In art

The drug of poetry
Is orphan
Always underused,
Despite harbor
That it gives  
To normal rhythm
Mooring in a heart.
Drop by drop
The drug of poetry
Drip by drip,
The poetry drug
Infuses hearts
With beauty

To annihilate
Pleasure and pain
Which equal love,
The vanquished quiver
Tremble, shiver
Mirth, moan.
I marvel
At its strength.
If such beauty
Is lost
In life’s battle
Looses flavor,
All flavor
Becomes existence  
On the bland plan

As was my life,
On the bland plan
A life for years
Of Sundays
Despite protestations
Of never bland
I spent
Years of Sundays
Numb, Numbingly
Even a partita of
Or solo string
Was no longer
A maze
And my beloved
Well, I would count
Errors rather than
Enjoy an “occasional“ dissonance
Sutherland was uninspiring
Far from stupendous
As for Wagner?
Never lost my faith in Wagner,
But there is ugliness in Wagner
Ugliness infested
With an underbelly of beauty
Invasive beauty
It suited me
His Siegfried  was my morphine
Anna Russell’s Li’l Abner, he

In my twenties
I scribbled a story
On pages I later burned
I remember
The ending
The woman, old
Expired in her seat
At the opera.
During a performance
Of Siegfried even.
Perhaps the price
Of the tickets was a shock
But I think not
For I remember she died
And why not
Considering Siegfried slew
The right man
Considering he
Passed through fire
And through every single
Magical leitmotif
To awaken Brünnhilde
With his kiss

Well, the story
Of opera woman
Hung around for a while
Until I lit a match
And watched the pages
Slowly and productively
Turn to ash
And enjoyed watching
The destruction
The immolation
Of creativity
Why the burning guilt
I understand only today
As Siegfried slew
The right man
I too wanted
To kill the right man
And I wanted Li’l Abner
To navigate
The minefield around me
To gift me with
Another kind
Of fire
Such gifts did not come
With my job description
And so
I soon invented
The bland plan
Mine to call upon
When the need was great.
Heavy man, real heavy
As the expression goes.

Should I cry now?
Break an eight year
Dry spell?
Tears will not
Wash away grief
Nor will time
As it passes
Lessen grief’s intensity
The moving on
Will not pack wounds
And unpack
Polite remembrances
Will masquerade
And freeze
Then melt
And flow
Over a length of riverbed
Where floats happiness
Till the two, grief and happy
Are one brackish vintage
There is no quarter
No remedy
To a chronic wound,

A boy’s smile
At the ballpark
On Opening Day
The Phils are winning,
The iridescence
Of filtered sunlight
Bending through
Water droplets ,
The opalescent book cover
Sheltering your words
In poetry
A glimpse of oils on a canvas, 
The intensity
Of the meters you craft
The intensity of such beauty
To love
Helps to bear pain
Renounce the bland
Reawaken bonheur,
And ask to be forgiven
And ask to be forgiven

Oh, how many words
To this?  What is it?
Rose?  (I’ll leave that slip in)
Poetic prose
With the aroma of an
Unfragrant rose?
Concise I am not.

Time is almost up
The Goldberg variations
In the background
A soft, heartbreaking
For love’s sake
Or for beauty’s
One should never
When Bach
In the background
Is heard
But rather
Linger and listen
To the very end,
Then convey
That which was not

Some stanzas ago
Your poems…
Their mooring
In a heart
Are in my heart,
              My heart.
Gratias tibi ago…
(March 15, 2014)

Sunday, February 2, 2014


If I believed in angels
I would wonder who
The angel would be
Assigned to look after me.

The love I called sweet angel
Is gone
I let everything crumble into ruins since then

The threads holding me to life
I am not a weaver to lace them back again

I ask for an ethereal angel
Sexless like I want to be
Give me a celestial angel
To hover round me lovingly.

My sweet angel, a love I thought
Was true
Packed up, boarded a plane, and left me miserable and blue.

Someone enticed him to a far-off shore
Gleefully now
Has him in tow, back turned to me, he has abandoned me.

In myths, winged angels
Always accompany your soul,
And at life’s end they hold your hand
As heartbeat fades and body turns cold.

I love a man who is capricious
To be disconsolate
Is my reward.  A piece of me broke off and died

When my capricious angel left my side.
But not a cynic, I choose to yearn for his return.

If I lacked passion
As do ethereals,
How fortunate would I be:
I’d live each day agony free.

I know angels do not
Neither in love, nor in the heavens: they live in dreams, they are a wish.

And I know I ‘m a failed human
Of others’ happiness.  My glass raised high, I toast to emptiness

I’ll drink red wine till the bottle’s done
Fly down archangel to share one glass
Then strike me lifeless,
Abandoned where the dead amass.