Song of Smiles

They smiled at me, tonight,

like they knew me . . . 

They smiled at me tonight. 

They smiled at me, tonight,

glad to see me . . . 

They smiled at me tonight. 

They smiled at me, tonight,

like I mattered . . . 

They smiled at me tonight. 

They smiled at me, tonight,

like I'm part  . . . 

They smiled at me tonight. 

I glowed inside when they smiled at me. 

I'll sleep well tonight.

Written December, 2011

For Love of Song

Too loud! 
Pain etches itself
upon the master's face --
sudden, odious 
fall from grace . . . 
But eyes, arise --
lest song meet its demise! 
Before you awaits
same phrase on same beat: 
Quickly -- softly -- in time --
repeat!

Rhapsody

Morning silence 
Music of its own 
Rhapsody of thought
as clock ticks
serene
time filling the space
inside and out
connecting
words
to prayer
to trees
to clouds,
ascending.

Crescendo

Light
seeping through
morning gray . . .
slow, steady crescendo
bursting bright,
symphonic sight
played yellow-white.

Night Light

So little dawn,
so much night,
highway gleaming
black and white;
lane markers -- friends,
headlights -- the sun,
music -- sweet shoulder
to youth on the run;
strangers -- the kindest,
weak friends -- the worst
for a being in flight
from obsession's curse.

White Heat

A fire like no other: 
the blazing will to survive. 
Kick it, crush it, pummel it --
it will rise to stay alive. 
Silence it, delay it,
and you'll think you've won the war;
but you've only won the battle --
a survivor wants much more.

Waning

Hope
feels so very thin, today,
like a coat whose sleeves
don't reach all the way,
or a dress whose hem
is beginning to fray . . . 
the deep dark falls early, 
and light cannot stay.

Keepsake

Rain to drink,
fresh air to breathe,
daylight and moonlight
morning and eve --
moment of freedom,
restraint's reprieve: 
now. 
Weathered humanity
slumbers and wakes:  
giver gives,
taker takes;
yet, freed man waits . . .
waits for a welcome,
for some realization -- 
his freedom a miracle
with no celebration; 
loss of years lost
to anyone's consideration,
grief resigned to
incarceration. 
Ten years free,
twenty years free,
and still, he wonders,
wistfully: 
When do the bars
come off?

Caring for My Fictions

Writing about Lady,
I accidentally devastated myself. 
Broke my heart, she did (!) --
and I couldn't bear to look upon her,
heart crushed and crumbling,
in her silken gown,
alone. 
Lady, Lady, he will come --
if not now,
then a little bit later,
Lady --
just a little bit later.

Leading Lady

Curtains closed,
the stage went bare . . .  
Costumes hung
with reckless care 
Bouquets rushed
from door to door 
Petals strewn
across the floor 
Kisses thrown 
Embraces swept 
Applause, lush garland
'round the neck . . . 
But there she lingered,
statue fair,
diamonds woven through her hair,
shivering 'neath lights' warm glare,
rose of silk with shattered stare
like broken glass --
He was not there.

Animation

Bear out of the lair: 
Grunting breath
an approaching sound
all around --
but where? 
I run up here,
I run down there
then stop --
his presence fills the air;
to call or move I no longer
dare. 
And the friendly dogs
who'd lain at my feet,
thought safe to greet,
arise to rage --
no cage. 
No cage.

Inspiration

Trust --
hidden in the corners,
in the cracks,
under the eaves . . .
between the books
on the shelves,
beneath the rustling 
of the leaves . . .
From its knees,
trust rises
and breathes.

Gypsy Wept

And Gypsy wheeled 'round,
weeping tears of fire
for dawning youth smothered, 
lifeless pyre. 
Head buried in cape
graced by mother's thread,
she sniffed the old garment,
but the scent had gone dead.

Sequel to "Gypsy's Prayer"(1) and "Gypsy Wind"(2)

Flying Right

Less but more 
Scattered pieces
circle the core,
awaiting direction: 
Straight ahead. 

Less is more 
Precious time wasted
I now deplore;
frivolity can kill me,
for sure,
"lite" fare slowly striking me
dead.

Sparked

Insight,
sparked --
live current
coursing freely through the wires,
pole to pole,
ions meeting ions,
"like" patterns converging, connecting
bit by bit,
infinitesimal fragments
waiting --
each in its split-second duration --
to be drawn in and fitted
to those empty spaces where
ignorance
once dwelt.

Gypsy Wind

But the gypsy wind danced
as no storm ever could,
'round lightning condensed
into a pile of burnt wood:  
charred embers, the relics
of night-searing dreams;
strewn dust, the ash-grey
of stifled screams.

Sequel to "Gypsy's Prayer"

With Helen

Tears burn
but don't flow,
abandonment congealed
within,
childhood's grassy slopes
and manholes
on my mind. 
Dreams multiply
of a deceased lady
by my side;
together,
we walk the grounds
of the manholes --
old schools, interchanging --
so barren,
so sad . . .
and the students' concerts repeat
in the halls,
one grassy slope becoming
another --
older, then newer,
distant, then a shock
of pale green grass
under our feet --
wild, uncut, dry,
brushing against our shoes --
and I look down at the grass. 
Dear soul,
you are more serious now,
so very serious,
perhaps for knowing,
knowing
what I've forgotten.

Originally written April 14, 2012
Revised for clarity

Daring Joy

Alarmed at my joy 
you were, 
because you couldn't 
control it.  
And so the practice of joy 
became furtive -- 
wild giggles smothered, 
humor barely stretching 
its legs.  
If only I'd known 
then 
how to laugh as I do 
now -- 
I would have laughed 
so hard and so long, 
your face would have had to 
crack 
into a 
smile.

Thus Kindled

Outside blankets, 
the cold congeals 
around fingertips and toes -- 
poems and furnace fueled, 
in spurts, 
by outdoor motor chugging on gravel; 
candles yet more warming 
than thin heat, 
stop-and-start -- 
each "stop" overtaken by cold.  
Where a few lights beam, 
the chill also blasts; 
so in darkened rooms I sit 
beside my cherished candles, 
sweet little stubs 
breathing fire and light; 
and I savor, as never before, 
the elemental 
flame.

Seized

To the basics 
we clung 
as rock bottom 
rose, 
trying its best 
to meet us -- 
wind lashing 
on top, 
fury unrelenting.  
Hands over head 
while roof took the blows 
and the blows 
and the blows, 
high-speed pitches 
of branch-shaped 
baseballs, 
gutters flailing in the wind 
like crazed ghosts.  
Seized with wind's fever, 
the skylight 
burst out, 
flying steady 
on Aladdin's invisible carpet, 
landing flat on grass.  
Gazing up at the gaping hole, 
I thought, 
"It might get a bit chilly."

May the souls of those claimed by Hurricane Sandy (10/29/12) rest in peace.

Child's Play

Drink Shannon to the dregs, they will

and spill her on the way;

drunk with surfeit, bare of sense,

living only for the day. 

And the day will come

when the wasted drops

and the billions wasted before

will float away the ancient mop

dingy and dripping behind the door. 

The children will play at the reservoir

piped in by a very big straw --

funny Dublin blowing bubbles (!)

bigger than any you ever saw. 

When the bubbles burst and float away

and there's no more froth to spill,

the children will see that it's Reckoning Day --

but do you think Dublin will?

Dedicated to the River Shannon.

Soulfire

When they stray from sweet music,
no imitation will do: 
Their tempo grows lax,
their demeanor -- chilled through. 
Words full can become
strangely vacant of meaning,
kindness -- a cool form of pity,
misleading. 
When they stray from sweet music,
their passion runs dry,
and youth feels old enough
to die. 
When they stray from sweet music --
never dreaming the cost --
they surrender life tepid
to blazing love's loss. 
 
Music link:  "Nimrod" from Enigma Variations, by Edward Elgar

Hearth

There will be a new day, 

with doumbek to set the pace 

of my heart, 

duduk to soothe and strengthen, 

oud to pluck away 

doubt . . . 

beauty to ignite

hope,

dance in color "magnifique"
to spirit away

gloom,

warming my soul 

until ancient blood 

cascades through my veins, 

current of life 

renewed.

Illumined

Words run ragged

across the page,

candle burning

honey-sweet

beside me,

its flame 

a living witness,

signature of

light. 

May 5, 2012

Wordsmiths' Soiree

You hear me --

you don't? 

Ah, well,

so it rains. 

Words tasted,

words wasted --

no efforts,

no gains. 

We whisper, we shout,

we rhyme, we "prose" --

nuances layered

beyond what shows. 

So wrap your heart warm,

or wrap your heart cool

in words for the wise,

jests for the fool. 

Take your pick, or leave it,

it's all up to you --

evocative verse,

or straight dialogue for two. 

We write, we rest,

words wax, words wane --

shadowy haunt

or bright windowpane. 

You bring self to bear

on the false and the true: 

How will the words fare

when their beholder is you?

Clenched Teeth

Jealousy blots
the soul out of the eyes 
Charade of love
in thin disguise . . . 
Clinging gestures
that won't desist 
Questions, harangues
which perversely persist 
Mere cleverness seeking
to mute wisdom's call 
(Pride goads to omniscience
before the fall) 
No omnipotence, in truth --
only trembling impotence
grandiose and frantic
behind fierce pretense.

The Price

He didn't want to go. 

Her face,

a ghost's shadow

in the windowpane

pouring grief

through the rain . . . 

Should he remain? 

One last look --

his eyes ached --

or did they burn? 

Was fidelity really

too much

to learn?

"Is That What They Told You?"

Well, I am me,

and will still be

after any new news

of my family tree;

and yet, there is something

in that circular path

around and back --

no mysterious math,

but a strengthening of form,

a nurturing of way,

which augments the vision

and deepens the day . . .

the journey full worth

all the sweat it demands

to reclaim one's story,

birth's long-lost lands.

Sensibility, Autistic

Don't tell him not to be

afraid of the rain. 

Don't tell him that it won't

cause him pain. 

It's paining him now,

from ear to ear --

so please don't mistake

acute hearing for fear.

When Daylight Weeps

Some dreams,

not quite nightmares --

but whose secrets

they keep --

cast shadows long, sickly,

dark, and deep

over precipices

steep . . .

so grim, so unyielding

as to make daylight

weep.

First

First, I am a musician; then, I am a poet. 

When the musician needs to speak, poetry recites the song. 

When the poetry runs breathless, the poet becomes a writer. 

When writing will not suffice, both musician and poet -- of one heart -- weep.

Currents

Bittersweet rises,

clarity warm and cool

opening doors,

gently closing others,

mirror reflecting

only what is necessary

for an instant,

glimpse of hope

mingled with sorrow

all at once,

truth's embrace

and release.

Voice from the Mist

In the car

I heard it

twenty-two years

ago

and it fit

like a glove

how it hurt

but it already hurt

so the song

was a friend

close to the heart

so close it became

part

and when that piece

broke off

I left it on the road

somewhere

in the dark

in the mist

myself an unfinished

list

tossed . . .

but tonight --

I heard it again: 

the sad, brave cry

of a bosom friend,

tormented song long estranged

speaking now

of then.

Foiled

There was some truth in that fiction. 

I saw it run down the block

and leap over a picket fence,

seeking refuge in a novelist's abode,

where it climbed through an open window

and was discovered, blunt and stout,

trying to hide behind a pen.

Broken Chains

Between sunrise
and sweet hyacinth,
April showers
and cicadas,
autumn leaves
and apple pie,
winter puddings
and rose-red Valentines,
beasts
break their chains
and water on the face
becomes
terror;
reader,
be kind . . . 
Ask the soldier
back from war,
ask the victim freed
what shadows each
in the middle of the night,
in the middle of the day --
that which will not
go away . . .
no magic to say,
only shock
to pay.

The Indestructible

Goodness --

timeless,
inviolate . . . 

itself, its own defense: 

having one,

but needing none.

Traveling through Poets

New poems, new poets --

like new houses,

each with its own special

decor . . .

some bright,

some cool,

some warm,

some dim,

some "natural,"

all vulnerable -- 

each

with his own

struggles,

regrets,

doubts,

pains. 

And so it rains

poets.

The Photo

I talk to a photo I recently met,
pondering things I can't forget. 
His eyes look back, frank and aware,
and I so much wish he were really there. 
What would he say?  I have no idea --
but with a face such as that,
I would have no fear. 
Rest in peace, dear soul
whom I never knew --
could you pray for me (?)
and I'll pray for you.

The Blackened Forest

The forest was in a rage: 

Rows of sleek black stallions lunged

through the thicket,

between the trees,

across the quiet paths

forged by decades of plodding feet --

air electric

with the passage of brute force.

Let It

Let it rain.  
Let it wash away disinterest, pain, 
leaving only that which wishes to be 
companion -- buoyant breeze so free, 
rustling invisible wings 
in applause at the greatness of simple things.

The Messenger

Amid the stream of daily,
a silent story winds it way
through trellised passage, arbor sweet,
and mown fields lined with hay. 
A tragedy in motion,
though the action is subdued. 
No one would ever notice it,
unless the heart he viewed: 
a heart full sore with love, alone --
four chambers, open doors
to one who might not ever walk
upon the gleaming floors
of rooms with windows flung so wide,
a hawk could find refuge
to meditate and birth its young
in sanctuary huge. 
These are the rooms where love awaits,
just behind the gaping hole
in heart curtained with tenderness
for one beloved soul.

All of Me

The personal selves were very unhappy

with their fading reception from me. 

(I'd put them away after they'd had their day

in sobering poetry.) 

Systems went haywire, emotions intense --

front and center, their battles they waged

around one lone host in one lone body;

thus, the clashing of life forces raged. 

We haven't talked much, for exhausted I've been,

too weary to peek inside,

but I already know what they want, what they need;

from my own selves I cannot hide. 

So I issue again dynasty plural in words,

affirming those queens -- and kings --

of sandcastles proper and rubber-band planes

and teenage coiffures and things . . .

those younger ones warring to be heard,

begging only to walk in daylight;

the elders -- aged memory banks

of mornings turned into long night. 

All are one and one is all --

I should never have cast them away. 

Whenever we stray from the truth that is ours,

in the strangest ways, we pay.

Fly

Sibiljan,

young rising star in the Eastern sky,

sparkling voice

of soft mystique,

rippling like clear water

over the smoothest stones,

to hear you sing

brings unspoken healing. 

Sweet, strong bird of song,

fly, fly

with your voice touch the sky

from Turkey to Armenia

with love.

Author's note:  Ani, "The City of 1001 Churches," was the cultural and spiritual hub of ancient Armenia.

Offbeat

Out of sync in every way,

body clock thinks night is day,

with self denied its reverie

and memory filed so cleverly

out of sight but deep in mind --

its divisions of a novel kind: 

by angle's angle and perspective's tilt,

contrast and content to make spirit wilt. 

Both with and against the moon body flows,

in accord with a script only memory knows.

Love's Finding

Heart's insight, aflame,

bears witness to itself,

shooting like a meteor

even where it would not go,

compelled by its own seeking force

to that place beyond words

where "what is"

outshines "what isn't" . . .

constellations laid bare,

diamonds trembling with light,

promising

forever.

Resonance

Summer bows to Fall 

The air begins to focus 

Calm, cool, crisp, clear 

Something lost grows closer

to my bones, my marrow --

just as I,

anemic with nightmares and their shadows,

feel my strength

draining away. 

Only a fool

loses strength

for no reason at all. 

But the air is keen,

the air is sharp;

and, now and then,

I dare to dream

that dignity will return.

Desert Maiden

Wind wrapped around

the silence in her heart,

casting sand in eyes

unworthy to read

its secrets.

Beads

With just a slight flight of fancy, 
mind can weave wispy stems of thought 
into a beaded chain of Queen Anne's Lace 
streaming with sunlight, dewy with last rain, 
jewel of paupers and barefoot maidens 
who know how to kneel 
before the splendor of a 
weed.

Hug for a House

New roof "bejeweled"

in iridescent blue,

embraces old stone

with warm, sparkling hue. 

House smiles anew!

The Cutting Edge

Consumed with this 
Consumed with that  
Don't say this now 

Don't do that later  
Must show up this eve 
Must meet so-and-so here  
Might offend him 

Might enrage her.  
Strings and bows  
Become knots and yokes  
"If this," "then that," and 
"I'll lose!" 
Yes, you'll lose. 
You'll lose your head, your heart, 
your soul, your shoes. 
Please them here, please them there -- 
there's an endless amount of pleasing to spare. 
But it begins to wear. 
They see you losing so much 
but they don't know how to care, 
they've not much to say -- 
because they never knew you, 
anyway.

Contrast

The tone had an alien note,

rhythm off,

and I paused,

unfamiliar --

because, after all,

I was just the same old

me.

The Hand

In her heart, not a word of his love could land;

for focused was she, intent on his hand. 

It gripped her hand as though it could snatch

all of her lost love in swift-fielded catch. 

So determined was he, so suppliant, so thorough;

yet within her, unease began to burrow. 

She kept her thoughts hidden during his verbal cascade

of "love" this and "love" that, will's desperate tirade. 

For in the hand -- now she couldn't have specified this --

but in the hand, the way it sat, there was something amiss. 

The skin, white and cool; the fingers, thick and strong;

an artist was he -- but then, something was wrong. 

It was a hand of will, a hand of strength

yet contained and complacent -- would it go love's length? 

Or would it harden and close, clenching into a fist? 

Would it ever explode, and could such a fist miss? 

Hands down, she decided:  He must let go. 

But he wouldn't, at first, when she told him so. 

She needed no more, then, but to get away --

leaving him in yesterday.

Equanimity

A tree will yield: 

Its branches bend

to drape cool leaves

and comfort lend. 

A tree will bow

to mighty winds;

no scourge of pride

its deference dims. 

It does what it must,

and it holds its peace

'midst the weak and the strong,

the greatest and least.

The Green and the Winged

Still and quiet,

hazy, lazy day. 

Hymn note sustained: 

the green mantises pray. 

The winged ones chant

innocence's mysterious psalm: 

sound transparent,

soul's refuge and balm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCELV_BnRnc

Silent Appeal

I cannot say

there is knowing in me --

I catch a breeze,

behold a tree;

the sun and clouds color

my mind and the sky,

the tint of haze bringing

electric squiggles to my eye;

and yet sometimes I think

I can feel a heart cry --

I want to rush over

and wipe the tears dry. 

When I can't, that hurts

more than anything --

to desert a poor heart

with a broken wing.

Serenity

Rain through the roof

and a chipmunk in the sink;

a sock dropped into the commode . . . 

'Tis best to smile and wink.

Innocent Eyes

O seagull over the mountaintop! 

Hello, sweet bird, please do not stop

your plaintive cry o'er sculpted terrain

of rocky peak and grassy plain;

tell them what you saw and heard

tell them, though you can't utter a word

tell them with your timbre and tone

just what you saw from your perch, all alone.

Lift

Hand in the invisible storm

reaches out to give a lift: 

No "May I help you?" needed --

the gesture speaks the gift.