The Soldier's Consort

Take me with you to war
I want to see
what beats your heart
more than me

The cruel war is raging
Johnny has to fight

smart bombs exploding over dumb people
orders from the general
whose commands sound like
prayers for the dead
alms to the poor
sight for the blind
legs to the halt

I long to be with him
From morning to night

while Captains bray like bulls
with flaming blood
scorched lips glow like coals
in the eyes of the dying

I want to be with him
It grieves my heart so

the war is calling
while we in excited love
match our rhyme to the shrieks
we can die then, too
our warm bodies
cooling in the smoke

Won't you let me come with you
No, my love, no

laughing at this in the life to come
making memories of the war

Based on a very old folk song, "The Cruel War is Raging,"
popular in the American civil war but dating back to Anglo-Saxon times.
I used to sing it in the Village (NYC) -- it is most effective set to music.

Che

If love can choose a reason

not a random thought

no earthly longing

not seeking the impossible

I choose you

El Hombre

my christ on earth

the saint in heaven

remembered by comrades

old now and feeble

outliving the dream

dust in their mouths

dead in the heart

the hands that killed you are still

welcome them to eden

where my love for you

arcs like an arrow

from an angel's wing.

The Burning Bush

Moses in the shallow grave
turning restlessly
lingers with the memory
of the rugged climb
the wind flaying his skin
eyes dry with dust
his heart booming a blood storm

reaching the summit
he is rendered speechless
struck down in awe
the bush burning but not consumed
the Voice everywhere

unworthy to be a guest at the banquet
he stumbles down the hillside
blinded by tears
hounded by followers
tracking him through the wilderness
he pleads for release

death withholds honor
he is attended by brainless old men
led by hags
wrapped in dirty rags
smelling of demise

his trembling bones beat within the earth
the beasts pawing at the rocks hear him crying
another vision stills him
the future blooms in his mind
showing a burning planet
screaming tribes worshiping the idols
throwing children into the pit
turning to dust

seeing the planet spinning end-over
the people smote by the hand of God
he embraces the coldness.

The Sinking of the Portuguese Galleon

The tempest of twenty one days
is a memory in books
a tale told in taverns
a found dream in the archaeologist's mind
who imagines the whales were silent
hovering under the boiling waves
flukes spread out
sheltering calves
their large eyes filling with tears
as bodies slowly descended into their home
followed by a floating crucfix
tumbling end over
wheeling itself into the depths
while dying sounds of prayers and cries are stilled
in his finest garments the grand admiral of the oceans
waves his arms in supplication
asking ...
why must we die like this
have the angels with terrible weapons
deserted the clouds
and went to war in the oceans
and we your servants perish in that tumult?

centuries later the archaeologist
hunting spices and diamonds
scattered like bullets on the sandy bottom
swum over by puzzled whales
for whom such trinkets
remain a mystery
glimpses a leviathan
who's shadow hangs like a cloud
in the bright water
singing the admiral's prayer.

In memory of the Sao Bartolomeu Galleon sunk
off the coast of France in the tempest of 1627.

The Dreaming Rembrandt

Becalmed in waves of curls
lit by candles
the young painter sailing inward
on tranquil seas
beset by no tempests
the creditors a distant spec
floating on a future horizon

the younger version of the besieged man
wearing a halo of shadows
remains in silent wonder
on the stretched canvas
gift of his hand
to those who read his sad life
and cry for the children
who slipped away centuries ago

hoping he was happy
imaging a young Saskia
giving him flowers
calling his name
tossing his curls
kissing his eyes
the husband elect.

The Men in Russian Prisons

Entombed like ghosts

inhaling fetid air

they stand

staring through windows

their breath melting small circles

portals to the denied world

the laden atmosphere of tb and smoke

crowns them with haloes

that catch their bodies warmth

some think of sons going to school

--kicking a soccer ball along a dirty street

inhaling their first cigarette

remembering their fathers

stretched like a hide

with dark cavernous eyes

that burn like a rabid dog

that eats itself

the lost men

float in simple dreams of strong women

who seeing father and son

melting into one

grow other thoughts

and live imaginary lives

unfettered by concrete or steel

free from the drudge

soaring like thoughts through the walls

that circle the men

stockaded like cattle.

Afternoon at the Tip

Under blue skies
the monitors lean at angles
staring with easter-island eyes
at the kingdom of refuse
their short reign expired
some in sparks
others snapped to total blackness
the humming power
replaced by screeching birds
that swarm through the blue
like filthy clouds
wheeling
diving into the refuse
boarding the section labled 'appliances'
silently the wind blows drifts of plastic
that settle like confetti
crowning the monitors
who hold court
to the wandering birds.

White Shell Woman

Boiling wave-like
unfurling across the sand
she births the water
calling to her children
who snorting with squeals
glide to her like sun rays

on raptures of waves
she is framed
holy and fearful
white caps rolling like hills
support her slender feet

shells flying from her hands
land like arrows in a target
releasing the swelling music

floating now
she gentles like a feather
sleeping in a bower
rocked by prism light.

In Navajo mythology a sea goddess known as
White Shell Woman was in command of water.

A Convenient God

The vine of a convenient god

bears bitter fruit

from blackened flowers

nourished by smoke

the blooming rabble

howling with delight

give their cry

to the siren serenade

echoing through the channels

to an audience wanting more

while the brokers

pluck offspring

from their golden loins

a godless sacrifice

left at the shrine

awash with blood

which stains the fallow fields

with running rivers

pooling around the vines

the insatiable god

trembling in the holocaust wind

wants more.

Redwoods

Hitlers in well cut suits

seated around a rare wood desk

sipping water

signing documents with quality pens

open the camps to the workers

who come with noise and sweat

driving heavy machinery

turning trees to logs

leaving stumps to rot

while their wives bake bread

and their children hike through forests

that edge the golf course

where men in plaid trousers own the world

and give no thought to the camps

where the breeze rolls empty

a bird atop a stump stares in wonder

at the new camp with no barbed wire.

Colorado

Firecrackers on a windy night

drizzle like dying stars

above the stadium crowd

watched by the coach

who cheers with the rest at the finale

a fireburst flag hanging in the sky

then blown to ribbons by the wind

the soaring crowd in many voices

shouts an anthem

after the game

when the last stadium light goes out

driving home

the quiet noise of the car

and the music soft

fills his mind with remembering

the firey woman impaled on a stake of flesh

under the southern cross

burnt by a tropical sun

living incomplete

a puzzle with missing pieces

who sees the mountains through his eyes

walking the trails in a braille-like trance

with outstretched hands and feet

seeking the mountain coolness

wanting no more of the sun

content to live in clouds.

Blue Shirt

Material holds a weave

a weft of fibres dyed in blue

worn by a man across the waters

the developing picture shows him smiling

silent words travel through space

voices in our heads

thoughts on the screen

passion in keyboard letters.

Christmas at the Wall

A day like another
sees young men bearing gifts
waiting at the wall
anxious bodies preened
under dusty dark folds of cloth
shimmery with dull sequins
hiding the gifts
to be offered
with casual calm
and snappy eyes

moving to the chariots
idling at the curb like beasts
tossing heads and stamping hooves
roaring above the noise

unwrapping the gifts
the shining young men
bend and weave
like christmas baubles
then discarded like dead food

robbed blind some say
by crows that peck the eyes
and deflesh the bones
then fly to other gifts

while the lawyer cries his innocence
the doctor yells foul
and the singing actor is researching
the young men stumble
like moles caught in sunlight.

Lazarus Woke

to daylight
shafting through the blackness
like cuts from a sharp blade

on faulty legs
he stumbles like a child
newborn into the sun

the hesitant sisters
like virgins to a sacrifice
draw back

as the voice
of the Nazarene
summons the dead forward

who emerging from the cave
a bewildered time-traveller
with empty eyes

on hearing his name
he stands still
fixed in a miracle.

The Gypsy's Song

At that time
when day passes into evening
and the moon is yet to turn
into a silver coin
with running clouds
dancing across its face

a man on the roadside
talking to the air
lamenting the passing day
yearning for cold dark night
and the dream of galloping horses

now gathering wood
to light the meagre meal
and drink the dark red brew
that shines like blood
flowing like a river
under his hot skin

when the wind has cooled
he strips his shirt
to bath in its embrace
loving it like a woman

when the fire
turns to tiny tongues
and Black Shuk* is but a child's story
he sings to the others
in a deep sharp voice

'when will we meet again
love is lost in the fire
the children run away
death is my constant sight'

dreaming under the stars
the Romanies call souls
he is running with the horses.

*Black Shuk: It is a very old tale of a large black dog with one eye.
Its origins are in eastern Europe, mostly among the Romanies. Black Shuk
was seen running along the roads both day and night when there were wars,
plagues, famines or pestilence. He was last seen by the Gypsies when they
were being sent to the camps by the Germans. There are genuine eye witness
accounts of this myth-like beast running along side the trains. The Gypsies
knew they were doomed. These tales have died out in this modern age.

Kaleidoscope

Funeral birds calling

through silvery darkness

fly like thoughts in the exit

passing silent clothes

hanging straight

devoid of weight

while angles and folds

hold the shape of the body gone

like a speck of lint

on a floor board

where the broken wheel

disgorges flecks of color

scattered in patterns

of the life passed

rainbows of days

fading like love

leaving broken dreams

dead promises

hanging like closet shadows

across the empty room.

Mussolini's Mother

When death hovered
like a sigh on the wind
and the sounds were everyday
she remembers the child
fierce and screaming in a blood-red rage
flashing eyes and mouthing bubbles
tiny fists beating a fascist drum
she sees again the packed earth floor
hanging pots
the crone crouched like a dwarf
then in the evening quiet
the child sleeping at her breast
the church bells fading to echoes
she hears her husband calling for food
she lays for soft minutes
savouring the smell of milk
then rising
she places the babe in a sleeping crate
while hearing the feint sound
of marching troops
she scrys the future
seeing bodies
trussed like slaughtered animals
hears the old women screaming.

Passing of the Monster

Even gods leave garbage
littering a road side
flung from hand
like abandoned toys and dead pets

a sitting monster
jailed in steel and glass
anchored like a rock
painted in fluro light
white hot
dead to touch
the eyes like vents
belching cold smoke
staring into a void
see all
clawed hands
hanging from segmented arms
droop with the dead weight
of gone lives
held together anatomically
in block-like symmetry
still and hard
shining like a polished vehicle
garaged forever
a relic beyond value

moving with a giant's tread
the monster goes from chair to bed
watched by cameras
living out the passing of time
spiked in the lens
like a food wrapper
caught on a stick.

Waiting for the Taliban

A waiting boy

lulled by the sun

shining on poppies dusted dry in the wind

dreams of his brother

fierce and proud

who in the absence of targets

fires a gun at the sky

needing no flowers of dreams

but a core of faith

a warrior for a cause

that troubles a waiting world

where an ocean foreign to the boy

waits with its captive

a net caught whale

thrashing within its prison

fixed by greed and cruelty

crying blood tears

calling to its pod

while its giant heart

waits to die

its last beats

echo like ripples

fanning to other places

where a woman

in a rage of uneasy wait

thinks of the poppies

with their succor and pleasure

rendering her blind to the boy

deaf to the whale

only alive to the waiting.

Rimbaud And Verlaine

Souls dancing to the music
of the leadened hand of fate
that pulls the strings
placing the dancers on x marked spots
the stage lit by smokey lamps
audiences of almost known faces
glimpsed through the haze

impassioned youth struggles from the ocean
gasping the air
throwing flames at the sky
hurling in tornado wind
across the upturned faces

ideas tumulting from his mouth
like quick kisses
caught by the older one
whose pulse quickens by the new blood

spinning through the poet's door
oiled by absinthe
crueled by lust
heated by mind
dying young

below the abyssinian sky
his closed heart beating to a new rhyme
holding different hands
under the blazing sun
that warmed him in stormy youth
now burning in an overhead forge
his drying tongue rests
no words part his lips

poems written in youth
remain quiet paper
floating like kites across the sea
buffeted by coastal winds

Queen of Empty Days

Royal lions prowling at the edge

eat into empty days

feasting on love

drinking blood

one licks honey from its paws

crosses on a calendar counting empty spaces

of days and nights passing along city streets

in controlled pain

the door of time opened to the past

guarded by winking manikins

who gesture to the portals

where memories flash by

faces in parallel

a quick sighting of him now gone

returns the sound of empty days

where the humming crowd like teeming insects in a hive

carry her garments heavy with rejection

the unthroned queen debouched into a realm

where cavorting lions await the next feast.

Pin of Light

Flying as light across dark space

the child's unlived life

hangs like an unshone star

a started book with unread pages

a voice whispering its name to remember

names live on

chiselled in stone

until elements erase even that

a bruised cloud loses its right to be seen

scatters into pins of light

winking out leaves only blackness.

The Groom

The unloved husband is a powerful
guest at the spread table
a bald liver spotted troll
crouched over food ladled with scorn and dislike
never looking up
smelling the food for criticism
stopped by watermelon
tricked by the seeds
burps and splutters when finished
an insignificant white eating the days
across from him at the table
appetite dies.

The Laughing Captain

These silent ivory bones

lay like discarded ships

in a sea of earth and stone

eyeless sockets invite the worms

and challenge the flesh eaters

to find more meat

stripped bare like leavings from an ogre's feast

gnawed by dogs

knucklebones for toys

refusing to rot

the sailors sloughing earthly ships

now swim in the firmament of an uncaring mind

who made and broke them like fragile toys

abandoned like waste on a golgotha hill

where crude crosses grow like trees

in a blighted ether

where shouts echo like spears

plunged into the sailor's side

the laughing captain extending his hand

catches the bones

whose tears still fall on the sea.

Faro

The sleeping monster dreams his life like wheels

turning with faces that spin picture-like

cranked by hand

an unending film across his eyes following him

smoking through the haze

singing of hard traveling while sipping water

illuminated by false light he has no need of sun

all wants answered by minions

who pad the rough places

encased in foam

he dreams of a childhood street

walking to his house

the windows cold and doors locked

the binary hope of going home cuts away

to another vision

card games between him and the banker

who never lets him win

and when he does there is no victory

like a thought where everything is paid for

except the wish of wheels turning in his skull

would cease.

Ishmael

I would be him
that far ago hunter
escaping to the oceans

salt wind whipping my face
while the Pequod rolled
turtle-back up among the waves
the men shouting to be heard above the wind
while Stubb and Flask
whispered about the madness
Starbuck kept quiet counsel
his Quaker eyes scanning the horizon
memories of family and friends tight in his heart

Ahab on the deck
crazy as a prophet
who has the job description
of raising the dead

‘Stand fast, me lads.
He’s out there’.

And they stand
From four points of the compass
Queequeg.....Tashtego.....Daggoo.....Fedallah
shoeless and strong
like trees planted on the deck
harpoons hanging from their branches

when the cry is heard

‘He blows’.

eternity is ticked into seconds
while in the organized mayhem of the hunt
no one thinks they’ll die

‘Pull, pull, pull’.

Ahab has joined the hunt
only to have his boat rammed to driftwood by the angry Leviathan
Starbuck shouts quietly to his men

‘He’s only a whale.
Look for the birds’.

which circle then screaming raucously
when the great beast
breaks the waves
and catches the boat

doomed
the screaming men loss voice
in their watery graveyard

Ishmael lives
the best of heroes
one who goes on.

Haiku

Sleeping Buddha
golden light
followers kneeling
like wind blown flowers.

Acedia

  Do I disapear like a raindrop

  that held the promise of a rainbow

  but fell like a tear down a soft cheek

  muddied the dirt then dried in the wind?

The Mark of Eve

Another woman's mark
hangs like a scar across his neck
flat silver links
chain him like a dog
barking like a wounded animal
he trots behind her
down supermarket aisles
selecting bargains
his shelf life expired
like their sex life

she's overcome the need
and exploits the marriage protection
hiding in craft
immersed in her mobile
tired from work

treating him like a guest
she talks politely
failing to see his restlessness
unaware of his sadness

she hustles the trolley to the car
waiting while he packs the groceries
vague anger boils like a mist thru her thoughts
wishing he'd hurry.

The Leaving

This year's man leaves softly
on light feet
testing legs like a spring fawn
spiritually young thru clear blue eyes
framed by laugh lines and stretched skin
too long looking into the sun

gentler than most
he bloomed rose-like
in an abandoned garden
pecked at by birds
extending his hands
they alighted
dusty jewels for an unadorned man
who took pictures with his eyes
showing them to me he said
'you'll like this one
it's your favorite colour'

in my heart I bid adieu
love cannot be chained
it dances to unheard music
while the emptiness within
beats in the hollow like a drum

marching to the beat
he disappears into the future
away from me
who stranded in the present
with a heart sinking like wet sand
that still has his foot prints in it.

   



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