Hemingway contemplates
light,
In a new found darkness.
He wonders when it will
End,
And asks Cohen:
“Do you know?”
“How was it when you left?”
Cohen answers
No – it was so, so,
It hadn’t been that dark
Since 1939,
But the light
Eventually will come.
And we may see ourselves again perhaps In ways,
we haven’t seen,
Since very long ago.
Truths
I hope to have
written some truths.
Lies are so easy.
To pen
To be able
To record some truths
in the future !
That is difficult;
Lies are so obvious,
Not always cheap.
Easy, convenient,
Unexamined conclusions
Of the times.
Truths are not always so obvious.
Some take years
To ascertain
In the dark.
That’s why the best poets
Age, get so old,
With deep lines
in their foreheads,
or die so very young.
Some truths are never
to be,
cannot be,
known;
And only are present
in vague outlines,
In muted colours
Of the partly blind;
Only lightly,
Randomly,
Occasionally,
touched on.
Young Hemingway,
His new grown beard still black,
And rough,
Walks between
The cars
with an empty paper cup,
Acting tough,
And just before
he would
Have gotten paid,
He turns away,
And waves his arms
In circles to the sky,
Saying
Enough is enough.
Sister brother
Be my friend
We’re not strangers
But gaze at each
Other
Mirrored and
Different ends
Of the same One
There is something
being said
in this little world
we live in.
We are all
intimately connected.
Every thing we do
reverberates
at frequencies
We cannot know.
I have seen that
Potent look
On faces
So much like a nod;
It is a look
Of immediacy
And relief.
It says :
I have called out ;
You have taken time
and are present and
I am
Reassured.
The German Couple Next to Us
A couple
was speaking German
at the table next to us.
She was a fine lady
in her fifties
with short cropped hair,
clear blue eyes and,
quite young
in her movement
and demeanor.
He sat across from
her at the table,
a tall graying gentleman,
with wrinkles
in his face ,
engraved
likely
by many frequent smiles
over the years.
And at one
quite unexpected
instant
in raw and unashamed emotion ,
she laid her hand
on him and caressed
all the deep lines
on his face ,
with a type
of tenderness
and warmth,
rarely ever seen,
with no equal in it’s honesty.
He returned
the gesture to her
lovingly
like a mirror
by looking deeply
into her eyes.
And in the end
it was plain
that there is
no brand or nationality
to humanity.
We are all part and parcel of
the human race ,
and all
the same.
We’re the subject
of a kind and gentle grace ,
with a yearning for
gentle
embrace
and for each others
enduring
mirrored love.
From “Dreams for A Saturday Morning ” by PWChaltas
Persephone’s Call
Persephone
you call out ,
howl,
for scythes
to save you ,
to razor slit hell
with crystalline precision .
Your not yet ripened beauty picked
In cockle shell despair
traverses convoluted
acres of ash
in satin stride .
Dark loins
are thrown into you ,
in a moment’s drop
of translucent
fear
and prosaic dementia.
The events of the recent months, all the brutal travesties and tragedies of sexual violence and rape , in the news have disturbingly etched themselves into my mind. This poem came into existence from those events . WE should never allow modern humanity to slip and fall so far and so low again. There must no place in the modern world for abduction , rape, or sexual violence . it should be relegated only to the past and to the myths of the past , not to the present or to the future .- PWC
PWChaltas 