Bless the aged ancient Oak: - Kean Universityracaffre/poetry/POETRY/Sunflower Breeze.doc · Web...

SUNFLOWER BREEZE

Raymond T. Caffrey7 Nickie Court

Iselin, New Jersey 08830

Birthday parties leaveme dazed. When I close

my eyes to make my wish before I blow

out all those candlesI wish I had got

Further along be-fore I got this far.

Raymond T. Caffrey 2005 [email protected]



Luck is like the wind—Never so noticeable As when it blows in your face And retards your progress;

Never so absent As when it blows from behindTo move you ahead As if all were well and right

With the world.

Thunder gathered at the vague distance And began to mumble and gather force




As it rolled with increasing intensity and volumeLike a fleet of large, low flying airplanes Roaring slowly just above low clouds,Occupying all the sky from the distanceTill the planes seemed to disappear into the windAnd land quietly somewhere beyond hearing.

Life is not for the faint of heartOr the Mad Cow

When things go wrong,and we know they do,




When the sun don't shineand your cows turn blue

Here’s some good advice(Thought up just for you):Eat chicken or fish, And praise Elmer’s glue.

I see you walking out of the sunLike a silhouette.

Your stride has pace like a TV starWith a cigarette.

Have you no lines for this striking sceneOr did you forget

What you meant to say, when you rehearsed




Visions of Brunette?

You were very niceon Thursday, very nice indeed, every bit the lady in your herring bone tweed.




Let It Be

Think of it as debris That washed ashore When the tide turned.

That cluttered beach,With its debris Is not a good place to walk;

Besides, the debris is likely To wash out to sea When the tide turns.




The end of the century

And what’s the fuss?

Another year—one more Year come and gone, but we insist

Upon the new beginning,The greater celebration.Noisemakers must be louder;Noise must be more raucous; Crowds must be larger than large,Or at the least reported to be so.

Committees plan celebrations:

Confetti, deep as snow Clutters empty city streets;Empty champagne bottlesQuietly wait in full trashcansFor the inevitable smash That will convert them to shardsOf broken glass.

Where have we comeOr gone?




A bleak and desperate pastOverstates harder times than we have known. Viet Nam is one bleak time, though bleakDoes not capture the time; neither does desperate.

Viet Nam was frightening, our particular hell: the organized chaos of war turned looseFar away for no clear reason Beyond the subtle greed of the defense Industry must sell weapons and incidentally employs minions. That failed war stirred none of the patriotic feelings World War II evoked.

Korea was lost on the tidal wave of refrigerators, automobiles and radios, the ballpoint pen, JohnCameron Swazee’s Camel cigarettes and Timex watch: takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’.

The piano came in and went outthe same door or window, but pride in the sound, pride in the businessremained though business had dwindled. Two or three ageing employees wander Aimlessly round vast, vacant offices Of the proud publisher of sheet music. Their steps echo throughout the building, Ruffling the serenity of proud ghosts Who do not share their fear




That they too will soon depart,Sudden victims of television, videocassettes,Micro-chips, the CD, the DVD.

"No sense,no feeling,"

my Dad would say,

“No roof,no ceiling,”




Leo said he learned to like lent,A time when he abstains From numerous thingsThat no longer agree with him.




The definitive experience says who we are

and what.




No Persian carpet has ever seenThe likes of their displayShe had a lasting vacancy He was potholes day after day

No sooner did he buy her flowersNo sooner did he learn the gameWhen suddenly appeared anotherWith a Cadillac to steal the dame.

Always one thing or the otherThe sun will shine or rainBut a girl who’s after riches Will soon cause someone pain.

Drop a stone in a small, still pool: It creates an immediate splash as it strikes and penetrates the surface and almost simultaneously sends out




concentric ripples that run to the edges.

Drop a stone in a running stream:It creates a splash and shoots up a small stream of water that rises above the racing streamthen drops down and disappears in the current.

Accidents are like that—they happen in seconds but they send out ripples or splash into currents and disrupt the surface for days, months, a year; some serious accidents become the focus of a life.

Love blossomed, like a shocking patch of blue, white, purple crocuses suddenly sprung (absurd as hope) amid dreary, under-brush, brown debris by the edge of the wood




on a warm day, lovely as spring, to break the oppressive spell of grey, cold, endless winter days; and love survived only so long as crocuses live, but it was just as lovely.

AND WHAT HAVE WE HERE?

One more episode in the saga of Transference?(as if we knew the meaning of that word)

She felt ill, astray, at odds with the odds.She blamed the odds,And struck out: “It’s your fault,” she said, enraged.

“What’s my fault?” he wondered aloud.“It’s your fault,”




she insisted, near tears.

“Do you think it’s easy for me?”he asked. “It’s not easy. It’s damned difficult. Chaos reigns! Look at my hair! It’s turning grey and falling out. I feel dizzy I nearly pass out. I cannot stand.”

“Are you suffering with Christmas?”she wondered

Oneself alone can fire a pistolTwo can sing a duetBut it takes more than threeTo capture a ruffian And a dozens too few to Prepare Onion Soup.




Diga ever noticethem movies 'bout peoplewit books come on TVlate, I mean late at nightwhen nobody's lookin'?




Bless the aged ancient Oak:tall, serene, impervious to fall’s sudden winds and rain.

The oak holds its leaves:Let them pass from livelyGreen to autumn red

to curled, dry brown.The Oak holds on past Halloween

come rain, or let high winds blow, come early frost,

Christmas Cold,And heavy snow. The oak holds its leaves

Through late winterLike an old man whoClings to life.




Turmoil reigns:all things change.At least for now,Trust no one but you to pull your plow.

*************************

She was a puzzleWith large pieces, Which, when assembled,Hoped to display the lovelyScene of a lighthouseLost in a low, thick, pink cloudBut many pieces were missing.

**************************************

It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with my feelings.It’s just that my feelings do not resemble yours.

*****************************

They had more or less got Fed up with one another,But they did not quite realize it,Took it to be typical Of the condition,Got used to it; overlooked it.




*********************************

I got my girlWe got two boysWe got a placeNot too much noiseFlowers in spring Chairs on the porchI guess it’s love.

***********************************Immortality slips away slowlyLike the dense green illusion Of summer’s permanence.

***********************************




Ism on IsmIst upon IstI’m heartily sick Of the raised, clenched fist.

Ism breeds fogAs Ist breeds drizzleTogether they hide The tree and sky.




A good bit Of successIn life de-pends uponKeeping thoseLug nuts tight.

Impasse




The path through life Is fraught with dangerAt times; and at other timesThe walk is pleasant,Shockingly easy And then again the pathRuns to an impossible pass with severe cliffs and straits too narrowto chart a course.

Lifted restrictions

There’s nothing like walking outside in shorts and a single light shirt on the first warm day in Spring after a long and bitter winter.

The ham sandwich on Friday at midnight during lent tastes best with mustard, but often, I forego the sandwich and revel in the possibility.




The open road after hours of single lane traffic inching along past road repair or an accident is glorious, a relief to step on the gas.

Sitting up for a sip of tea and hot toast after surgery.

The first shower after the cast comes off the broken leg.

My own bed after weeks in hotels.

A cool breeze after long spells of hot humid days.

I had a rabid aunt who would not die:She once said, embarrassed by the length of her years which had broken through ninety“I don’t know why I have lived so long,”

and she seemed to fear that she would live forever. She lived a routine of piety: rosaries, Masses, novenas, Stations of the Cross, Ladies’ societies, pilgrimages To shrines, all the shrines: Saint Anne in Canada, Our Lady of the Snows.

She outlived her friends. First Loretta died and left behind




A fine collection of first editions, book club choices and the pianoShe would play at Christmas when all of Auntie’s brood appeared For Christmas dinner, Christmas Carols and musical chairs. Loretta, of course, cooked. Auntie did not.

Next, she acquired two first class relicsWhen Anne died. Anne Killeen was a matronIrish enthusiast whose broken furniture Came from Ireland. She, too, had books aplenty About the religious life.

all the goodiesFurniture a piano

When my heart wells up, with pride, joy, or sometimes sorrow, my eyes relieve the flood with a silent tear or two.




Your fear scares me most; not your moods, nor their swings:

It is your fear That scares me most.




When you feel awfulI feel awful too.

I cannot help itAnymore than you

Can help feeling so Awful when you do,

But it worries meWhen you feel awful

On our one day off.




A Look at the List of Things To DoWhich includes tales of woe:The grey sweater too largeFor merely large; the story Of the dog and the boot;Free 5 x 7’s at the camera store;The cassette deck gone bad In the tire; expensive eye glassFrames twisted and bent; glassCarburetor smashed to pieces;All the keys too large for all Chocolate brown portfolios; Right headlight mysteriously off;The hood popping up at random;New shoes and new cleats and stiffLeather and sore feet; not to mention snow; and the broken grate in the fireplace.




You can tell meI’ll never tell

I’ll never tellYou can tell me

I’ll never tell Your secret;

Besides, I don’t Care.




Kathleen was raised for marriageAnd babies, but not for men, nor work, nor cooking, but décor:

She played at house with dollsAnd served tea to lady friends While her husband was away at work

She played through the afternoonTill her imagined husband Would be coming home for dinner soon.

Then Mother called and she setThe table while mother cookedAnd father finally arrived

With a kiss for Mother and a hug for her.

Fall 1992




Those were the days—before the launch, yes-Terday or the day before, when books Were read, and songs were sung—radio;Before television. Now it looksAntique, like a chair in need of glue;They spoke of Modern then, and they thoughtModern meant new: Avant-garde, DadaSurreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They foughtOver a word, an idea, a turn Of image to make better prufrock.

We’ve brightened up Michelangelo—Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clockEither back or forward or around. Turned up a stone age corpse kept on iceThese five thousand years. Someone knocked Off his scrotum, took his boots—a niceWelcome to this nameless age of rap. Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’sImagination, a myth that cutsThe road to Rome and the scrotum, too. Beware the aged prophet whose handsReach toward your pocket: feeble fingersQuick as a humming bird that darts, landsIts feed and disappears all in oneSudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist,And politics!

Rhetoric gave way To the coy, segment-sensitive twist. Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots. Lipstick girls in slender undress begLess disbelief than “VOTE FOR ME” spots. We’ve had George’s war, and Ronnie’s naps,Jimmie’s piles, Gerald jokes, Richard’s crooks,Lyndon’s spooks, Jack’s back, Ike’s golf, Harry’s Bomb, Franklin’s wheel chair—history books




Will call the game with retrospective Calm: a slow curve (a deep recession),A black-door slider (pretty Flowers),The inside fast ball (a concessionTo incumbent powers): fall chaos Played out like the World Series’ last game.

These are the days of commercial spin,Cosmetic tucks, uninspired nameCalling, shrewd strategies, cynical Calculations designed to sell Hope. Better were the days before the launch—Before the Enola Gay cut loose the rope that moored today to the sturdydock of yesterday and the day before.

Evening

Yellow golden sun setting fire to the ridge;Crystal glowing Venus rising, dripping from the sea;Twilight sky blue black.

Charlotte’s in a dressing gownWearing her high heels;Street kids shouting below her window,




Howling at the rising moon. She resists a temptation to pitchHer empty glass at the noise in the street.

A little twisted cripple in a sable coat and hatLaughed a curly ha, ha, and pointed To the brat who smirked and wiped his foreheadWith a scrap of Union Flag.

Cynthia was tracking down her own intentionsWhen all at once and suddenly she could notBear to mention . . .

What’s true in motion pictures is the color not the tale And what you see in movies can make you wonder.

The marzipan magician made a kerchief disappearWhat rag is this asked Robert, lately home from the war,It’s not a fit vacation till you’ve had one lusty roar, But Charlotte closed her window to quellThe sounds of cripples singing evening psalms.




It takes a lot of work To get a little doneWhich leaves so little timeTo have a bit of fun.

Felicia gave all of her men A personalized, engraved gold Cross pen, As insistent an instrument as any in Tiffany’s window.

James lost his gift first off And Felicia bought him another,Had his initials engraved again

To make her point and he thankedHer and asked her to keep it for himSo he would not lose it again.

In time, Felicia found herself with that goldCross pen with his three initials and she tried




To wipe off J. D. S. and forget that James

So disappointed her and then disappeared.

Billiards

She enhanced her appearance with Tight fit jeans and a close fitting blouse That featured budding breast. Her eyesWere severely lined and darkened. Smoke endured from cigarettesCurling in wavering steams upward,Catching a long black eyelash and deflecting past Pimples on her forehead. enchantingly

She’d come by stagecoach to earn her nameAt billiards and she wore boots. She was trained din music and dance,The lady’s last refinements, bought for all Aging princesses, living on the wages of anElderly king while the queen was recovering from her Hysterectomy.




Her face was a mask to all and she Dispassionately,Ignored the crowd and watched the rolling balls.

Police say it is criminal; priests judge it a sinMagicians call it a trick. It’s a treat to the Halloween Sailor, a couple of bucks, for Dick. To some it is currency, the exchange on which Fur coat transactions are founded, and diamonds, Valentine roses. Gentlemen pay the check for wine And dinner; young boys pay the drive-in fee. Executives pay day-rates and promote secretaries In the afternoon. It sells toothpaste, gets husbands. The Lone Ranger never thought about it. Neither did Roy Rogers Or Dale Evans, or jack Webb or Mickey Mouse.Gene Autry never did and Annie Oakley Was not Sister Frances but she’d toughened her thighsOn horseback. Ruth did in the seventh grade. Venus Was a tease, but Dido had her arms and the man. Burton had Cleopatra and Taylor got the diamond.Some boys like girls who like girls. Rachel waited till Thirty-one. Sister Francis never did, and wished she’d stop thinkingAbout it all the night.




Crushed kisses and Heathcliffe limping on broken Sidewalks shouting orders to Isaac Slug, carved in stone astride his granite steed in uniform with helmet, side-sword and pistol. Ever vigilant, he guards the river, an excellent river, deep and wide enough for ocean liners and freighters, ships that pierce the ocean. Slug sits, mounted in stone, ever watchful for danger, remembering dangers past. Below the gaze of Isaac walked an old womanOn wide set legs with heavy hips like a barrel in black,Demure in her cape with black silk lining. She was lost, Like an elephant on the loose on cobble stone streetsBelow the highway where a laxity of rules governed The few trucks that dashed back and forth belowThe old, abandoned highway beneath Isaac’s glance.




She’s not the sort of girlWho really makes one careIf ever in her lifeSomeone sent her flowers.




The daisies are upDina’s baby came in spring.Mary, mother of Teddy,Warmed up to Tom’s carousing With rings on her finger and casts on broken toes. Melissa smashed her boy friend’s truckInto the back of Mother’s yellow Volvo,And up popped the trunk and there it stayedWhile officialdom arrived: police cars, fire trucks,First aid squad with ambulance, the sheriff’s car, The state police. Her boyfriend was Not at home.

Highly polished verse




Reflects what it observes, like a large sphere, an oversized mirroringOrnament on a Christmas treeThat distorts what it reflects

You know, Phil, I don’t have much of an act in the kitchen. I really cannot cook. I must think of each move:Invent each stir of the spoon.




I search the kitchen for each bit: salt, Butter, flower, vanilla, baking powder, chocolate, measuring spoons, Crisco. Energy: thinking, reading, rushing, concentrating.

None come easily and you cannot tell what’s coming out when the ovenSays it’s done.

It is dangerous business, cooking, If you don’t have an act . . . same Is true elsewhere, like . . . well

When you find yourself in a box-Do you choose a corner to con-Template? Or bang your head againstThe walls? Do you lament your fate?Or blame yourself? Or curse your birth?Do you ruminate, persever-Ate? Do the walls seem to close inOn you? When you find yourself stuckIn a box, furnish it and dec-Orate. Settle back and enjoy—




Wait it out. You’ll see, the walls will Disappear in their own good time.

There’s no stopping a stack!Let the mailman bring one billOn Monday and another will Appear on Tuesday and twelve by Friday: accumulate till you have a pile of beggars banging on the desk drawer pleading to be paid and sent off.




Black Holes

I rode my bike over the familiar routeAnd wondered how I arrived at the half way pointSo soon.

I don’t remember a bit of the ride after leaving home and I arrived at this point without remembering the ride Over the middle part of the route.

Lost in forgotten thought, not alert to more than the habit of riding.




Don’t pick up the New York TimesUntil you’ve said your prayers:Every page can make you cringe. The plan for space sure scares The rest of us who askWhat secret stuff went up thereWhen Atlantis blasted off,And why did they call it“Atlantis”? Our space warescommemorate the lostcontinent---everyone swears ‘tis splendid progress—technology must advance by leaps and blastsand who cares if the thing works for a short while. All the night stars are mostly debris. What’s a littlemore? Who cares if the sky’sbecome a junk yard” it’s roomy enough—like the deficit which dares us not to laugh at money.




No shade is transparent and There is none so opaque As the drawn shade In a dead man’s window.

Peek round the edges, if you like,You’ll find nothing, nor hearA sound to tell truths long hidden,

Or silenced, overlooked,ordinary, routine, too common to notice: A day bed, a chair, not a lover.

I like poetry and flowersBut I don’t like fences in the park. The last crowd left their litterAnd stray dogs still bark

To scare off strangers who mightBe out for a short walk.

I like imagination,But I do not pretend the shade Is transparent.




There’s nothing gained by a fingerPoked into the pie to stir the cherries.Don’t grind your hatchet and call it an axeIf you mean to go off to war.

Is your love blind?Can you see meOr have you shutYour eyes for love?Can sight kill blindLove with a shock?Recognition: I am not you.

What you’re feeling Is not me. YouCan not see meYour love is blind.

If you see meWill your love dieWith sight.




There’s a breeze and more From the south tonightFast blowing white cloudsPast patches of vast blueNight skies, bright beyondAn impervious full moonThat stared, objecting to The warm air that invadedNovember and seduced the willowAnd azaleas, but could not fool The bare spindle branch oaks and sycamores and maplesAnd cherry trees that stared back a the moon’s Stern, intermittent glance.

The rain that fled the moon’s appearance seemed to knowThe November moon would demand not this warm foggy steady drizzle, but a proud and spacious white snow.




She was hard,Pure hardLike stone, Like crystal, Like lightningLike diamonds

Shall we have a tidy lifeWith kids, a house, a dog?




Merlin, if you will, designed for us all—that sword roseFrom the lake, a gift, a questionable Gift, the sword of powerSurrendered by the hand of the lady of the lake. UtherFelt lust, they say, a powerful Desire come with the powerful Sword, a sword fit to loose a king or dispatch a widow.

Igrain was the wife Uther tricked with Merlin’s special magic In behest of Merlin’s design to make a King for England. Uther had his way, as fate desired and Merlin raised the childAmong the family: Knights modest and true uphold the good name—One powerful act of adultery. The woman not to blame. Lust was on the side of Uther but it was contagiousIn a willing woman on her own ground, in her own bedWith her urgent husband, But Uther, having quelled his lust turned his mind to kingship and kingdom while Merlinwished him good-bye and walked off with Arthur. “No one will trust you,” Merlin said, “You’ve stolen a man’s wife




and taken his castle.

Uther knew his power and drove his blade into rock and died—One push too deep for his energy and could not survive his power.

From the small placard beside the Red Bird HouseHung on an old oak tree on Jessup Christian’s Tomato Farm.

To the sparrows who live here,We hope you like red. We promise you birdseedAnd sometimes old bread.

Don’t eat the tomatoesNor spoil the shedYou can bathe in the brookAnd perch in the treeBut watch out for the blue jaysThe rental is free.




Sir Geoffrey spoke to his youthful ambassadors:“The foreign office will tolerateNo terrorist threat, but

Cheerleaders travelling abroadMay not display themselves in uniform individually.

Please import no French novels—we’ve written enough of our own.

The Americans, I’m sorry to say,Have gone in for our shabby gentility. The underdeveloped mannered class will sink to shabby gentility.”

Francis X Smith rebutted the claim: “It’s new,Long overdue, and we like new. What’s new is new and what’s not will not do.”

“A gentle breeze,” Sir Geoffrey said, “a gentle breezeRustles the dead leaves and gives a tranquil Feeling as it wafts the dead ones through the air in a lastSplendid ride to the ground. A gentle breezeDoes the job better than hurricanes of change”.




More than the sunriseMore than the mountainsMore than the thinnest crescent moonMore than the blue light of dusk,More than the spring’s first rainMore than the faint light of dawnMore than the willow’s first yellowMore than the daffodil’s first blossomMore than the oceanMore than the summer’s first roseMore than the pink gladiola More than the autumn’s riot of colorMore than the early setting sunMore than the winter’s first soft snow

I love you more and our love is endless Our love transcends time




The poet felt the oceanAnd praised the ocean’s purity. He saw the moon spread A wide beam on the waterAnd stop at the surfaceAs if the black depthOf the ocean at nightWere impenetrable, discrete.

He rode the tideAnd his blood tookIts rhythm and his shipRolled at once with the ocean.

The ocean heaves pure and blind,Faithful only to the moon:It casts its song to every windAnd sings its airs like the witch That conjures life.

And the ocean is untrammeled.




High tide rushed the shoreThe ocean washed images from the sandSmoothed the face of the beachAnd retreated, leaving a long, long Stretch of smooth, fresh sand.

In the meantime, the sand Gathered the ware of new images, new footprints, impressions of men and women sitting,lying down, holes dug by children, a dreamer’s sandcastle built by a dreamer, a written word, such an accumulationof wearying use that the sand longed for the return of the ocean’s rhythmic, crashing tide.




Cute

Cute comes and goes quicklyLike a small town on a twoLane highway without street lights: Blink your eyes, it’s come and gone. You missed it.




My love is like the daffodilTimely, persistent, unafraid,

She braves the cold, Like the crocus, But she does not disappear Beneath late snow. She is sturdy.

She blooms a perfect yellow Not the cold air, nor snow, Nor heavy rain, nor sleet, nor hail, Nor a cold wind can bend Her will to stand and glow and smile.

The vacated site of the World Trade Center, once shocking,A tearful, sad sight is now familiar,The pit with its long, sloping truck ramp,New concrete many levels below ground,The tall crane and the small yellow




Front loader that operate on the basementLandfill where puddles of water lie, The tall chain-link fence around the plot,The vast open space

One of the hardest Things In life, For an asshole,Is to stop being An asshole.




Tie a string to your dreamsAnd toss them on the breezeHold tight to the string till the wind takes your dreams where it will.




I am worn out with good wishes:Good wishes sent;Good wishes received.

Let us be silent now a whileAnd rest quietlyBefore we must once

Again summon the energyTo send good wishesAnd get good wishes.




Thank you Lord,For these here vitles And those of us who made them.




Crying out

It's a sad daywhen you lose your ass;and with it goyour thighs.

Happens a little bitat a time; thensuddenly one day,

Slam! gone for goodand very noticeabletoo.




Crazy

Well, that boy is crazy! Yup.He just love the Red Sox!

But he don't get no money out of it.

And he don't get nofun out of it.

'Cause they StinK!But he just love the Red Sox!

That boy? He is crazy! Yup.




Scum'swhat we called

it . . .when we was

young . . .Yup.

Scum.

I wish I could tell you

how muchI like

my newjob, butI can't.




A pig in a poke(and visa versa)

Sometimesyou cannotbelieve youreyes, if what




you hear people say is true.

Don't you justlove

amateurs?




Smile

It's not colorIt's not raceIt's the lookupon your face




“I done that,”ain't the samething as “Icould'a donethat, If I tried.”




The Rats survive.They've beady little eyesand four fast feetand nasty little teeth.

They're sprung from Cain--some park cars, build houses, sell stocks, wash windshields with rags at traffic lights;

Some work in City Hall;some teach in the schools;some drive sleek jaguars;some litigate; some kill;

Some preach the word;some sing the blues:They're proud and shrewd.The rats survive.




When the back of your legsis part of your suit,pass on the ice cream and order the fruit.

Sometimes it seems, women like breasts




more than men

,andmenlike breastsmore thanwomen.

Why

We want to know why!Why this; why that;Why not?

A rhetorical question! Why!At best

A Question that ex-pects No answer.




and why?

Because there is noanswer to the ques-tion why.

Sad arethey who live longlives withclosetstoo few

and small.

They yearn




for spacious closets as theysqueeze

inone

more hanger,

andpromise

themselves that in

the next house they will have

at least one enormous walk-in closet with vast empty spaces,and room enough for a chair and a large, full length mirror,

knowing all the

while that they will

never move.

Now and again,InfrequentlyAs the blue moon,But every so often,

I have fallen asleepWhile still fully Conscious,

And then I caught




Myself Snoring.

Allie’s baby picturesTaken in embryoGive new meaning to the termBaby picturesAnd, of course, confirm The justice of the early pagesOf Tristram Shandy

Amusement

Don't stick your fingers in the window Fan(unless your truly snowballs)and Don't second guess your muse.

never snicker aloudat the musings of others. It's not always "art."




Sometimes it's not even "Sally."Straight-faced, mocking, tired writingis obviously academic:

call it "Edwin" or "Margaret."Newspaper stories may be artfully written,

but more often they're rushed unkempt, devious:Call them "Harry."

Book Reviews are oftenuppity, nasty, sarcastic, self-serving . . .Call them "jeffrey,"

"Frank," "Donald." Some poetry arrives uninvited, uninspired, without rhythm, shape, content,

rhyme--silly--call that "refuse."A muse will do what a muse

will do, no telling what till a muse is through.

Throwing Frisbee in the Fog

Happy New Year!May our luck hold out!I do not refer to business.Business wastes time.




I like time, but timeis not trees; it does notregenerate. Time is finite.(I can't name one thingthat is not finite.)

Does that sound like Philosophy?It's not.

Time rolls on.We do not.

"Time will end. Goodness me, the sky will fall."

Science proved it: entropic orbits.The steadily ticking sunblows itself up non-stop.

This game of chess, laid out in the darkwill end—no king will standalone on the board.

Perhaps newly risen dead,some we know, some we don't,a huge mob of dimly glowingblue flame spiritswill raise a glass to toast Monet.




Walk the fine line‘Twixt savvy and cynical:The cynic bursts his own balloon.The wise man keeps his aloft!

Fly your dreams highAnd bright as Irish rainbows!!

I’m no photographer,Though I have a camera;I’m no artist, Though I have a brush;I’m no baseball player,Though I have a glove;I’m not a poet,but I have a pen.




The clamour of silence

The sun set slowly a vast round gold circle descended toward the railroad’s high wire towers as if it would crack and shatter into a shock of small shards of light.

The breeze sang in raspy tones, As it blew through the remnant leavesLeft after high winds blew brittle, brown leaves To the ground in showers like blinding rain. The autumn scent of dry leaves burning Blew on the breeze.

Mom rose from her emergency room gurneyWhere she lay feverish, disintegrating, Disoriented. “Where are you going?” I asked. “Turn off the TV,” she said. She thought she was in her bed at home. The stark light of the television lit the room. She wanted to sleep and heard voices And saw the light and wanted to turn Off the television to sleep.

Sad. I won’t see her again.I feel like a twelve year-old boy Confused, bereft, alone. I feel her loss and I feel guilt creeping




Got medicineGod GodBoth are unpredictable Hope is constant.Killing time on the trainDoing nothing;Heading toward the river; Waiting for the train to stop.

Large glasses, thick, Like glass in bathroom windows,She stepped slowly with a cane,Out of breath. She had in her shrouded eyesthat determined, lively look of a birdOne sees in elderly women.

Sitting heavily, his arms crossedAt his chest, eyes staring blanklyInto the window that looks out On the parking lot—dead still.

People snoring as they sit in their bench seatsWaiting.

**************************************

In Harvard Square Savoy Brown played the House of Blues.Two elderly blond womenIn tight jeans and white blousesDrawn tight around their breastsRelived a past that never existed. Did not happen. Not even that night. They searched the beer




for something they could not find. Something.

*****************************Affectation knows no bounds. The church in Falls Church VirginiaKnew how to embellish the elaborate.

********************************We’re cutting down the trees.Driving out the spirits.Knocking down the old buildingsWiping out our history. We’re paving all the farmsGot to sell the landKilling off the deerProgress. Progress.

*********************************Iraq is the Garden of EdenGod chased Adam and EveBut he left the serpent Who rules the land. **********************************Toward the end of winter Love bloomed like crocuses

Nearly overlooked In the underbrush at the edge Of the wood along the sidewalk.

Love stirred the blood Briefly, like a short-lived crocus.

*********************************




Ray and Lisa bought a nice piece of sky.

The trees in the forest—when I skated as a child, there was a sense that as I glided over the crystal clear ice that showed the dead leaves below in the shallow water that settled in low land in the forest, I felt the stillness and silence of the wood and thought I was an intruder, a stranger who happened upon some secret, private moment in the forest’s contemplation that no human had ever witnessed, that no human was intended to witness—I felt I had come upon too much of the reality of the forest, its secret energy, its powerful stillness, the source—but I was as suddenly welcomed, I felt.

Were wisdom more commonwe’d not know Solomon.

Were sense truly commonWe’d not know genius

Each time I hear myselfUse a Latin word Or write a Latin sentence

I hear myself creakLike an aging floor board.




While the train stood still on a cold day between the new stop at Newark Airport and the stop in North Elizabeth, it rumbled and shook with its power on while it tried to create heat for the captive passengers who were stranded completely without a choice to leave.

Outside, the trees that lined the banks of the railroad tracks just where a narrow strip of still murky water shimmered, shivered as if the trees were laughing, tickled by the wind that spoke of jovial things now and then the trees bent over with a hearty laugh. (9/23)

The delay, the trainman said, was a matter of police investigation ahead. The last time I heard that, we sat and sat because someone, a woman, had thrown herself in front of a fast moving Amtrak train and died in the middle of the rail tracks nearest the station platform.

The delay was over before we moved, because suddenly on the left an Acela went by and on the left, an Amtrak went by and then




we moved slowly into the Elizabeth station without any knowledge of the reason for our delay.

Fancy CourtFunny Court

Day by dayIn fancy courtThe postman hurries by The

The paper boy tosses news around no one blinks an eye

The trashman

Electric readers stop to check the meter

We hurry (hasten) slowly these days.


Bless the aged ancient Oak: - Kean Universityracaffre/poetry/POETRY/Sunflower Breeze.doc · Web...

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Transcript of Bless the aged ancient Oak: - Kean Universityracaffre/poetry/POETRY/Sunflower Breeze.doc · Web...