Fantasy

I.

Happiness
You have come back to me.
After all this time,
You came back.
I waited and waited
And then I called you
And you answered,
Saying you could come back.
I am happy again.

II.

The Interim
It seems like years
Since we spoke.
Remember those days
When we would while away
The hours like children
On a fishing trip
Telling stories on and on?
I wondered if you remembered.
You seemed to nod, yes.
I could feel your reactions
Again, as lovers do.

III.

The Truth

Others may say
This is all my fancy,
A dream dreamed
So long that I am dumb
To know reality.
Yet you assure me
Otherwise, and continue now
To signal sanity
My way.
Only a fool
Could not love
Such a ghost.

poem

so we rode
to staten island
we had walked long
all the way to the ferry
down broadway
clittering and clattering
past the woolworth building
what building is that
we rode to shore
hiked by the water
past the wiry bush
along the shore
to where
willy had lived
in his car
for nine months
to where
willy had parked
his car
we hiked
had deli style coffee
sat on benches
by a stone wall
overlooking the sea
new york harbor
it was a misty day
the statue a copper green sign
of fine days
but i preferred the mist
the gulls circled
fine and proud
catching the wind
in their wings
the water was gray
steely and cold
around the steel ship
it was just spring
greeny and white
flowers decorated
the stumpy trees
by the wrecked beach
along the industrial side
of the island
great wide wings
the bark
flying around the ship
white and lacy foam
churning and churning
the staten island ferry

An Hour

Show me your feathers, magic man
Show me what you wear
This hour and that hour
I ask just one blissful moment
Unburdened with cliches

Reunion

and your face
still floats before me
speaking to me
of times we shared
without knowing it then

and when you talk
to me now
from out of
the same mouth
our twin past
merges
with your present voice
enriching me doubly
like the bivalent cry
of a loon
when its echo
skates off the lake

Journal Entry

i walked along home
quarreling with myself
to spite myself
about this
and that thing
when of a moment
i noticed
what dignity the sky has
the sky has dignity
mottled
like a calico cat
blue and grey
and white
making
no great claims
to it
yet
so perfectly beautiful
and
like a calico cat
always
in motion
and always
still

Gloomy Future Gazing

when there's ice
in the puddles
I think of
how I felt
last summer,
growing cucumbers.
so, now, I busy myself
with thoughts
of how it will be
when I am alone
when I'll think
of how it was
to be with you
through all the seasons...

After Tu Fu

after reading some
Chinese poems,
my poetry
seems paltry
in its grandiosity:
the traffic
continues
outside
while i remember
the apple blossoms
you showed me
this morning

A Pedestrian's Lament

I can find
no words
for the beauty
of the sky

blue as
my brother's eyes
clouds white
as sea foam

and then, below,
humanity
walking
in silent droves
halting
letting
the traffic by
each intent
on his/her
own secret plans

so
I look up again
not minding
the hackneyed
phrases
so glad
there is beauty
beyond human
reach

and quiet
far above
the people's
trying silence

A Friend, A "Kindred Spirit":
Anne of Boston, Anne of Maine

you (pl.) weren't home when I called
I left a message, or I didn' t,
and quietly hung up the phone

I'm trying to be quiet this morning
Quiet as one feels
On a sunny winter morning
When the snow has stopped
And the traffic hasn't started
To spread ashen tracks
-- You see I'm trying to be quiet --
Quiet, because that is what
Seems valuable to me
But then a few times this morning
I've picked up the phone and dialed
The memorized numbers

Some were home, no, one was, at her office
And it's not just that she has
To answer there. She actually values
What I have to say, or to sing,
Depending on my mood, not hers:
She enjoys my changing from mood to mood
Maybe she imagines I do things
Between my calls, and that gives her
A sense of my consistency -- But no,
She sees value in sitting looking
Out the window too. It's just that
She can only do that on weekends
So it seems, or so she says: I have a sense
That she often reaches a quiet state,
Even at work, by looking
Through windows in her mind –
Actually, the job is just a cover-up:
To my way of thinking, it's got to go!