With every damn rhyme I channel the Bard.
As I sit quietly before this screen,
I seek to dig deep. And sometimes it’s hard
To find my way inside; I bounce between
Emotional highs and lows. The hard heart
Often wins out, and when it does I cry
Out in pain, remembering that this part
Of being a writer of verse can try
My patience, senses, and nerves. I often
Wonder why I suffer the agony
This life choice puts me through. I could soften
The edges of the hurt, but then I’d be
A different writer. The goddamn sonnet
Is my lifelong passion. I’m stuck on it.
Two inches flitting by, a needle beak
Plunges into scarlet petals, thirsty
From a thousand-mile journey. Mustn’t speak
Too loud now, been waiting since last Thursday,
When first I heard the hummingbirds were back.
The skittish little ruby-throats appear
When winter’s chill gives way. We leave a sack
Of dryer lint for their nests. They wear
What’s left of winter plumage ’till the sun
Beats warm on the flowers that my garden
Gives up to them. They drink and then they run,
Fickle, to some other chintzy bargain
Feeder in a neighbor’s yard. But each year
They come back to us, knowing food is here.
The gray clouds gather heavy in the west
For prescient travelers wondering as they look
To what lies beyond, wondering what the rest
Of time will bring. Proscribed, the karmic book
Illuminates the names of those on board
This one last journey to their destiny
Of finally fulfilled passion. The sword
Of surrender tightly grasped, not ready
To pass on gently into ever night,
Not willing to go softly off the land,
And not prepared to accept this, they fight
For precious hours. But then, when time’s at hand
They pray for absolution. He might wait
For some to make amends, if not too late
They danced. Virginia Reel, I heard it said.
White girls in pink pinafores, Mayday ball.
Back and forth, round and round, the dancers played
A game of remember when. They recall
A different time, when “proper” was the word
That defined society, a coward’s thought.
But “proper” wasn’t what some others heard.
It meant “Them, not us.” As they justly sought
To live on level playing fields, they met
Resistance at every turn. “You can’t drink
Water here; you can’t ride this bus; take your set
Somewhere else. Don’t tell me what you think!”
They danced Virginia Reels to honor, what?
Don’t let MY young participate in that.
She walks the night, it’s hot, it’s sweaty there
In dark corners. The commerce of the street
Goes on when other businesses can’t bear
The stench of economy’s dying beat.
When men can’t thump their chests for all to see,
When frightened for the treasure they have lost,
When masters lose that thing that sets them free,
She’s there to ease their pain, but at what cost
To family, to reputation. How
Can ships be righted, bumping in the night
Against her loins? Does the mirage allow
The fool to think that this will make it right?
The chase makes powerful men think they’re kings,
But she knows better. “Tragedy,” she sings.
I stand before you searching, still, to find
The words to tell you just how much you mean
To me. You are my life. And yet my mind
Wants to say more; through volumes I have been.
The principles you stand for–dignity,
Respect, compassion, good, and honesty–
Are values that I cherish. I will be
The equal of your deep humanity.
I vow respect and happiness and peace,
A life of meaning, bless’d as heaven above.
I vow true effort. I will never cease
To earn your trust, your honor, and your love.
What we here share gives meaning to my life.
I’m proud, I’m humbled that you are my wife.
Two giants looming present although gone,
Cast shadows longer than their shadows were.
They darken the horizon at the dawn
In our minds. One looks, still expecting there
To see the columns reaching to the sky
Above the bleak surrounding cityscape.
Still a collective emotional high
Grips our consciousness. We watch the tape
Again, again, yet trying to make sense
Of what was seen. The images remain
Stamped in our mind’s eye. Voices make us tense
And turn; we hear a strange mystic refrain,
The lost beg visitors: “Please don’t forget
The price we paid.” Their absence is our debt.
The Staten Island ferry comes about,
Approaches bleak Manhattan to the east;
Miss Liberty afloat appears to shout
Her rhyme of welcome to the awful feast
That daily tempts the unsuspecting rubes
Who visit this place. Could a town be more
Unfriendly? Greasy sidewalks, sagging boobs
On aging hookers, pissing vagrants, sore
Losers hawking, always on the grift,
Hustle, bustle, tussle, always moving
Buses, subways, taxis, trucks adrift.
Movies make us think of people grooving
On “Gotham’s” thrill. But I can’t find the charm.
The crush of people evokes insect swarm.
March blows its schizophrenic, furious blast
Of snow, of rain, of wind, of cold. It clings
To every ledge. It struggles, strains to last
For one more precious day. But April brings
The spring at last. It pushes some to live,
To sow fresh fields, to reaffirm the hope
In life reborn. And compelled then to give
To others needing more, who need a rope
To which to cling while one who has will share
A bounty born of labor on the land,
Of selfless desire, being ones who care
For hopeless ones who live lives built on sand.
They do but what they can, to do the right
Thing. Only men of God still fight the fight.
I see her lovely eyes, so big, so green,
Her laugh, infectious, ever makes me smile.
A shake of head, brown gold mane, the sheen
Invigorates, captivates. Her style–
Unique, brash, calculated–and recalls
Another she admires, who’s from a time
She only knows from tales. This fine, this tall,
Lovely young woman sees a hill to climb
Not reached by many, but by this one, who,
With wealth of skill, with wealth of talent, has
Not yet confronted what she cannot do
Or what she cannot dream. She will surpass
The wildest notions of her life to be.
And we, behind, await what we will see.
Poemagination 