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S T R O N G H E A R T 18
One blistering Boston summer’s weekend,
I hitch-hiked to the CAPE,
Alone.
Once there,
I tramped up, over and down the dunes,
Cooling breezes in my face.
But the sun set
And the dark encroached.
The breezes turned to chilling winds
As I searched for the refuge of a slanted dune
To hide the night away in.
Unable to dream,
I rose, walked, stumbled
Towards the province of the town.
On the road
I met a woman
Who stopped me :
“Young strong-heart, where are you going?”
She did not invite me in ;
Rather, we parted ways,
Her “strong-hearted” words lingering in my ears--
And keeping me warm throughout that cold, cold
night.
U R G E S 19
Ambiguous desires
Accellerate unexpectedly
Upwards and outwards
Reaching and ramming
N-E-R-V-E C-E-N-T-E-R-S
Raw molten masses
E R U P T--
From within my heart’s core.
S O N N E T 20
Frigate birds fly floating far above
Earth-bound bodies in the burning sun
Where green-vermilion parrots preen like doves
Cleaning their flocking feathers straight and done.
Rocks fill fresh the heaping hills all stilled
With bouganvillas burgeoning, as pleading
Trees hold green coconuts, cream-filled,
And ivy-snakes lace winding tapestries.
Waves rise to smack the flat, dark, grainy sand
And rush back-out over tumbling, clacking shells
To line an imaginary band
Where future waters seek to swell and dwell.
I sit poolside in the evening shade
Quaffing drafts of pink lemonade.
F I N G E R S 21
My fragile hands
Designed in digits
Separated and interlocked
With phalangeal bones
Held in place by muscled tissues
Run through with needled-nerves
Fed with coursing capillaries
Webbing out of blue-red veins
Wrapped in elastic flesh
Covered with rippled hairs
Knuckled at the joints
That grip down fast around
Mothers’ hands to hold tight
Before disengaging, unlocking,
letting loose
To roam, graspingly.
Age, spot, then, crease and crack
Riddled with arthritic spurs
Attacking cartilege and tendons
That, finally, tremble and tumble
Into earthy dust.
I crack my knuckles and
stretch my fingers tight--
To test my delicately connected
M O R T A L I T Y.
R A I N 24
My “words have forked no lightning”
Yet it rains from dark sheets of sky
Upon the ribboned boat basins below
Coating all by-ways in black-lighted
Ripples of smooth asphalted-like sheen.
Water-filled drops impinge upon the streets
And pop in staccato rhythms as they collide
With the captured waters of swimming pools
at rest.
Nature’s night-time show of
Flashing streaks and echoed rumbles
Caught up in the syncopated spatter of
Patterned rain--
As the Commodore sits warm and dry above it all
On his covered deck, safe from heavens about to fall.
A F F R O N T 23
A bent old lady with leathery skin
Her silver hair spiked by a ruby clip
Fingered the long-necked
Fluted bottle of LICORE DE STREGA.
The owner stared,
Smiling suspiciously
Down at her.
“How much?”
“For you, nothing.
A Christmas present.”
She straightened up--
And walked out the door.
Good for you, MADAM!
B U T C H A R D G A R D E N S 22
One sunny summer’s day
In Butchard Gardens,
Manicured to rosy perfection,
My love and I did walk
Until we came upon
A reflecting crystal ball that--
Mirrored images made shiny to refract brokenly
In pools and in lakes and in watery gardens that
Mimic to imitate what they dare to stare back at
In lightness and darkness and days loomed
long.
Silvered globes and flashing strobes leave prints
That vibrate and bounce and shake and etch
Their outlines filled-in by pooling sketches
Forming, then fading, finally disappearing by tints.
“What did you see?” I asked.
“Us, I think. But more,” she replied.
S C R A T C H E R S 25
“Hearers of my words,” he said.
“MAY unlock my chimes
With symbiotic keys
And, once freed,
Fleshed-out figures
CAN walk out of their graven cells
To strut and charm
Upon the ready minds
That set them free--”
And rapidly drank a glass of water.
Maybe yes, maybe no.
R E N E W A L 26
Sealing silent-sounds and breaths
Buried beneath layers of his lethargic lists
Twist and bend in labored rituals.
A telephone call.
He passes through light one more time
To emerge renewed in stellar shapes.
She was bored, too.
So--let’s start again.
I N T E R N E T D I R E C T O R Y 27
MUSEE DES BEAUX ARTES
“masterful suffering”
D
R
I
P
P
I
N
G
with
Coprophagous colors,
brown and white
B O L D
I T A L I C I Z E D P R I N T
hawking--
CASH PRIZES
&
COLLEGE BOWL CONTEST
PLAY NOW !
Beware the ‘lest it fill us all with dread.
B R O W N - O U T 28
The apartment closed in around him--
Lights faded, dimmed
Walls browned, beleaguring
His eyes tried to shut
Mind-tricks conjured panic:
QUICK--
He turned to
The faded PAINTING on the wall--
And the gleam returned again.
G A R B A G E T R U C K S 29
Man-made machines
Massively clanking, clawing behemoths
Prowl the city’s strewn streets
Searching for
Gobs of green-bagged globules
Lying mountainous and curb-lined
Ready for ravaging.
Green-suited handlers hopping
Off-and-onto their putrid perches
Stride one slow-gliding metal monster
That yawns and yaws and opens wide for
Daily allotment of ready refuse.
Ingested churningly
These tag-tied sacks collapse
Into chunks and bits and pieces
To pass through peristaltic, pulsating channels
to
End-up packed deeply into heavy holds
enfolded.
For their ravenous ride to fly-infested landfills
Where they shall lie-in-wait--
And rot into eternity.
While I busy myself
With making more.
E A R P L U G S 30
I sit down to write
But with the aid of--
Triple-tiered rubber plugs
Rubbing toadstool-like,
Inside insulators
Filters to stop
I N V A D I N G S O U N D S
That push and penetrate
to distract
and accentuate
Outside invasions
Of the waxed canal
With extraneous vibrations.
Removed,
The stems pop free--
Encrusted with resinating layers
Rubbed off to
Flake upon the page--
That held the words in abeyance
Imprinted in synthetic silence.
I M P R I N T 31
A mother and her daughter
Glowing
In gold and silver
Radiating
Stroll the congested mall,
Faces in a place
Passing to and fro--
Parade
In kaleidoscopic flashes
As I watch
The on-rushing crowds to and fro.
Our eyes meet and focus
For a moment
ETCHED INTO ETERNITY--
Never to meet again.
W E A T H E R 32A
Sky-bright sun slants down as
The blowing begins to shiver bitter cold
And my girl and I are off to
B R Y G G A--
The “harbored meeting place”
Just below the darkening sea.
Step-gabled facades of houses
Cling to each other and
Looming high gothic spires
Jut up into the cold grey sky
As we walk by.
We buffet into blustering wind
Muffler-scarfed and mittened mightily
Against the first spiralling
Flurries that begin to fall.
Into and out of public places
We hurry, bustle and bolt,
Passing by laces, mussels and saints.
At last the snow begins to stick,
Spins stingingly into our naked faces
And out come black ear-attaching patches
And head-covering terrorist masks
To make a dint into the glittering gale.
We make a last-ditch attempt
To bend a progress
Against the wall of wind.
32B
When--S U D D E N L Y--
Her umbrella blows inside-out and
Carries her off,
Aloft and floating
Over roof-top and tower
Like a winterized balloon
Popping in-and-out of
White-washed Belgian beauty.
And I wave as she glides by,
Out of view--
“ADIEU, ADIEU !”
(end of PART II)
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