The silent liquid shadows
of early morning sun
Fail to have much meaning
to our old and to our young
As they go forth on separate paths
that culminate in one;
Each to his own without out a care
nor thought of damage done.
Electrical encyclicals
proclaim their might each day.
Prophets for the present
a deadly price we pay.
1967
revised: 4/25/10
(I wrote this poem as a sophomore or junior in high school and became fully aware of the power of language when I showed it to my English teacher, and he told me I had spelled the word 'prophets' wrong. I explained to him I had done it intentionally to give the word two simultaneous meanings.)
ONE MAN, MAYBE DYIN'
Movie runnin' fast through my head,
I'm searchin' faces in the bright- lighted hall
for facts 'bout the blackman
lynin' on the floor
stabbed.
All they knew were tears and rumors.
His brow bleedin' sweat was carefully mopped
by a cryin' friend,
his naked chest glittering wet
in just barely life,
his body lyin' limp on a cold white floor,
snap-shot stillness after brief rushing violence.
One man, maybe dyin'
didn't moan or writhe or scream.
He lay so still he didn't even bleed,
barely breathin', quiet,
picture perfect.
Gatherin' crowds closin' round the misery of
one man maybe dyin'.
Most not carin', only curious.
After all,
how often do you see a real life picture show.
1970
revised: 1987, 9/13/09
(When I was a student at U.W. Milwaukee I walked into the aftermath of a fight in the pool room in the dorm commons. Evidently two young men got into an argument over a girl. One man broke a pool cue over another man's head and that man picked up the broken cue and stabbed the first man. There was a large crowd gathered around the scene.)
MRS. MARTIN PLUFF
His good morning said you're old,
Mrs. Martin Pluff.
His kind eyes, soft voice,
and tender grasp of your hand,
has said that you have aged.
But you laughed as he flinched at your age,
invited him in to the warm dusky room
your sparkled eyes thanking him
for his hour of memories.
"Remember when I used to...?" he began.
"Whatever happened to...?" he asked.
And your eyes
wandering over dust memories
of furniture and photographs
closed in youthful dreams.
And you remember the old man
you visited as a child
his husky voice telling stories
through cigar smoke.
And you realize
it's not you the young man fears,
but your age.
1972
(This is a found poem. I lived in Egg Harbor, WI in the early 1970's and worked at Bay Ship Building in Sturgeon Bay, WI. One day while driving by Kangaroo Lake, I saw the name Mrs. Martin Pluff on a mailbox. When I got home I wrote this poem in one sitting with very little revision. The old man in the poem is an old man I shoveled snow for when I was a boy in River Falls, WI.)
THE DEMISE OF NOTHING
He was un-eventful.
He crept along tortise-shelled,
Un-willing, un-wanting.
He was un.
One day he un-folded.
Became un-mistake-able,
Un-selfish, un-blind,
Un-un!
And all the other Uns cried out,
"He is un-questionable-ly
Un-heroic!
Un-faithful!
Un-lawful!
Un-clean!
Un-worthy!
Un-un!
But as they were un-concerned,
They were un-heard.
1973
revised: 7/11/11
(The inspiration for this poem was an ad campaign for 7-UP in which 7-UP was referred to as the 'un-cola'.)
Under the sway-backed Moon
the crystal spheres of Pythagoras have shattered
the sky sags like an old woman
Orion roars thunder in the West
stars weep like Virgo's tears
beneath the pale slump of Winter's shoulders
the breasts of Summer are hidden
Feb. 1977
rev. 2/26/12
DANCING IN THE CITY WITH GINA STERA
At the green edge of dawn
you said we were lost.
The buildings rose at awkward angles.
The windows orangely blared the promised shriek of day.
At the green edge of dawn,
somewhere down the avenue,
beyond the flashing, changeling light,
you shouted that the corners were all wrong.
At the green edge of dawn,
you wagged your tongue incessantly;
you with the black hair pulled sharp back;
you with the rose-hipped pants,
the sheen cloth flashing smooth to your legs;
you in those bright red shoes
wrapped around the seam of nylon toes.
You slammed into my ear a mouth of words,
your red full lips drawn back to kiss with rage the early light.
At the green edge of dawn,
you stalked away.
And I was glad.
8/7/98
(A show about the composer Gina Stera on Wisconsin Public Radio inspired this poem. The only connection between this poem and the real person is the use of the name. I'm not sure where the poem came from. I heard the name and the poem as it is automatically appeared at
the end of my pen.)
MEMORIES
1
This moment passes into reverie,
a lull of green contentment flaring to
a sweet, sardonic smile of disbelief.
A sigh. The nut-brown possibilities
of hope. An eyebrow deftly raised, head turned
aside. The cold, sweet smell of brittle leaves.
A pause. A laugh. "Oh come now, let it go!"
This moment passes by before it's known,
before it passes into reverie.
2
Some memories should never have been made.
They shrivel and they curl upon themselves:
forever wanting what there never was,
forever wishing what there never should have been,
their patient expectations fix upon
the splintered, stinging pieces of perhaps.
They hiss and clatter loosely in the wind;
their mistral voices murmuring regret.
Some memories should never have been made.
3
Forgetting is the saddest memory.
To know there was, but now there is no more.
The faces come and go. Eyes peer beneath
close-knitted brows with friendly curve of lip,
but names hang swaying just beyond the reach.
They dangle, spin, then fall away
forever gone, with nothing left but knowing
once there was, but now there is no more.
Forgetting is the saddest memory.
9/24/09
revised 4/20/13
(We live and build our lives on memories both good and bad. Age carries many memories along with the fear of forgetting.)