Walden III

Henry David, are you there?

I've brought your morning news.

The roads and rails are gone fore'er,

And gone are all the moos.

Awesome

Had I eyes then if just to squint to see

between the splintering glimmer of

eternal birthlight eons long ago and

Had I ears then if just to strain to hear

the so soft revving of some universal engine

would its constant drone now be altered and

Would I now be home at last and paid, in truth, my living wage?

caterwaul

beyond these stained splintered claws

our eyes primordial see

birthlit fields eternal spread

star pulsed toccata waves splash

our ears stone enrapt pivot

hear too stone celesta soar

our chords raised we sculpted crouch

our bloodtides resound retreat

our purrs wail our feral fugue

The Feisty Queen

Before she darts upon her checkered stage;

before two-faced time's been struck--

She's pinched at her crown and yanked from her cage,

then plunked down hard-by a battle to wage.

When those hands dark her sky and thunder, "Good Luck!",

her puppeted ranks cheer their Queen of Pluck.

Her spirited heart beats the call to war,

as she marshals her forces and orders by lore--

"Middle pawns storm! Knights wheel about!

Good Bishop heed my warning shout!

We'll score the win! I've writ the book!

Quickmarch, milord, to yonder rook!"

No pin, no fork, too soon, too late;

scathing moves in her sparkling fashion--

She skewers the steed in hobbled gait,

and rids it with fiery passion.

Now squaring her site dead-on h8,

Gloriana glides, how she glides, now she glides, check and mate.

Blind Spots

I still see her

lips move.

Her last

half

word

hangs

in the

air

like

a live

grenade.

Soon,

I'd lose more.

Tomorrow

went first.

Then,

today quickly

followed.

I still see

yesterday.

It

hangs

in the

air

like

a live

grenade.

Ode to Whitman, Walt

He stands enthralled

Above a boulevard of life

Where matter counts;

The count does not.

Where the altered complexions

Of the seasons skies

Seem as his people:

Strolling, searching, striving.

Where he turns his back

To the glistening river running,

Calling to the world

In notes of silver and gold.

He keeps his verdant post,

A marker of beauty,

A marker of truth

Where the Gods would be green.

The Treasure

Below a cliff known as Coogan's Bluff, which is situated by a western bank of the Harlem, a diseased vein in a dying city, a treasure is buried. It is hidden there beneath tons of concrete and steel which rise up into a polluted sky. A monumental offering to its dwellers.

My memory permits me to bulldoze that beloved acreage on certain occasions so that I can rifle through some of the jewel-like presences of happenings long ago. I can see then, forinstance, the banners blowing across from left to right.

"Willie will have to really push them today, huh Dad?"

"Watch him," my Dad would say. "You watch that Say Hey Kid. He does it all."

And I knew he could, too. My Dad, he knew.

A rainbow of screaming Giants' fans converted a ballgame into a love affair. Our screams tore love out from deep in our insides, and we could feel them tickling our throats on the way out. Mom was never there, but maybe the paper bag beneath my wooden seat, the one with all those sandwiches in it, even made her a part of it all.

I was small then, but living in a world of friendly giants. After each game Dad would take me out onto the playing field. I can remember how I used to cross it to the centerfield exit bent in two. I walked that way so that I could run my fingertips over the grass. The grass where Willie ran. A magic carpet I never will cease to treasure.