Line of the Sky
Turquoise sky
blue hued rose
clear and bright ,
light
that meets
grey and purple line
of cloud,
shrouding day in cover .
Why?
What passage
of time and place is this ,
that now
we gaze upon the face
and recognize the past ,
the times gone by,
So long ago,
so familiar ,
so lost ,
yet present
In a memory ?
Rabbi Did You Say
Rabbi ,
did you say
you have spoken
with Messiah ,
and that in time
he will come ,
on Ariel’s passing ,
whose brain
now
but a grape
squeezed ,
to dark ink ,
sweet ruddy wine,
long picked
like a saffron rose
from a stem of thorns?
Did you draw the
crosses in your
prayer book ?
In your recitations,
and your songs,
Illuminate us
with his presence,
righteous
transforming lion
of the creator,
as you tell us
of his footsteps
on the plain and
in the dawn ,
overshadowed
by the dark
blossom
of His bosom’s Love.
He sat on boat edge
as the boatman
with ancient oar
strummed rhythm
on the water .
She waited
on the other shore
Facing west
back turned away
In
fear
of a losing glance
again.
She refrained
from turning
as she flung back a hand
In an eastern direction
in a longing salutation
And the boat
it seemed up so high ,
floating on the air
above the water
as in winged embrace
the angel
held them
both together
and spirited
them away .
Hemingway
puts on
his gun metal grey
gloves .
No perplexing
purple today .
Female companions
are gone .
While
pouring
over his Parisian
notes ,
silhouettes in moonlight ,
barrels, and hunting,
begin to preoccupy him .
“Once you’ve hunted
men, nothing quite
compares” he says
as he proceeds
to hunt himself .
By the River Shore At Night
The full moon was pillowed
In the glow of cloud
Iluminating the river shore,
as Orpheus plucked
his heavenly resounding string.
The boatman
tired
had given up his rowing
And taken up the sale of books,
and other things.
So Sidhartha
approached
from darkness
from the shelter of the many trees,
to take up the boatman’s mantel
first asking for a balaclava
to sheild him from remembrance,
from the cold
and the familiar,
To take up the oar, the boat,
their travels,
back and forth.
“My country is not so cold”
he said
“and I’m not used to chill.”
“In the countries where I’ve lived
the owners of the lands
are wealthy
and the people suffer still.”
So I’ve come here to the shore
to ferry,
to forget
troubles and desire,
to listen to the music of the waters
and to heal,
receive,
repeat and mirror
the placid rivers aid,
To put my faith in the One,
once again
To strum the water
with new found ancient oar,
To ferry the disenchanted,
the broken hearted,
the heroes,
the lost and the forlorn,
Some wrapped in white
linen sheet,
Some on bed of flowers,
Some on wooden barge
lit by single flames,
Some reduced to bare
And pristine bone,
to the golden islands,
or to the other shores.
Life and Death Conversation
Looked into
his eyes
wide, bright,
alert and wise,
He said:
With this year
practically
all my friends
have passed,
And you know,
I’ve thought
often since then
to myself:
So
my friend
this
Is how people
Die.
I reach into my
trusted bag
of years
And pull out
all the proper
gems of knowledge,
All my little bits of
trial and error,
experience and faith,
my sweat and tears,
and yet
only now
is it that I know
that
this
is how people
Die.
I circumvent
the years
with common sense
And discipline,
efficient action
considered and
carefully applied.
It seems as if
I’ve lived
a million years,
and yet only now
is it
that I’ve learned
that
this
is
how people
Die.
I have learned
the love,
the comings,
and the goings
Of mother, wife,
and friend,
The joy and solace
of my arrows,
sons and daughters;
what it means
to truly
be alive,
And so I strive
on my own,
In
my own way,
always doing
more with less.
Yet it’s only now
that I know
that
this
is how people
Die .
And I know
inspired or not
by love or care,
there comes a time
when the artifice
of human effort
fails
and only
fate presides
above it all.
Only now
do I truly know
That
this
is how
people
Die.
Scarborough
By the Shrine of the Little
Flower ,
near the crumbling cliffs of clay
on the sky, sand, and blue water ,
I stopped with
a few words to say.
Where a cross sword
set in stone stands
on the expressway island
tall
and stone statue
in white flowing robe,
all sooted with grey,
kneels and clasps hands
in eternity of night and day .
Under the green and rising dome ,
a remembrance of those in the past
who struggled in the times
and lands far away.
By the home where
both the children
and the young men
once use to play,
there I stopped to catch
my final breath at last ,
and quietly drift away .
One of us
Who will send you flowers
When One of us has gone ?
Who will pass the hours
with you when
One of us has gone ?
My songs are meant
for you
Love
And only meant for you .
Ever will you hear them
Even after times
Love
that One of us
has gone .
My Friend And I
My friend and I
We had primordial loss
We try the monastery
each in different ways
We try the spa
to see if it can soothe
the aching body .
The monastic
Is respite
and the good
is life .
It heals and eases
from the dropping
of the final straw
and brutal finality .
Occurrence on Bloor
Kiss erotic kiss
of darkness
where lips and Eros
meet
In the milk mist
of evergreen
evening
where ladies walk
with arched eyebrow
and people talk
and mouth the words
of secret revelations
as Sirens sound
to emergencies so loud
that they leave an ox
blood red glow
In the misted evening .
R5 AND triple 3’s on Huntley
as smoke seeps
into moisture
and yellow figures
light the darkness
of the grey
and shining streets .
The hooded lick their lips
as death comes calling
in the 3’s
of uncle, aunt,
and stranger.
PWChaltas 