A Vineyard in Brooklyn

Liberation

The end of May
when the forest—
the park—
after winter
is basking green
waving, sparkling, weaving
back and forth
leaves shuttling
through the wind

Reminds me of
where I am
after where I’ve gone—
to different states
to various places

Always there was sun
always there were people
my family
my old friends
understanding

And now I am
in the sun
no longer wary
of what might come

For Anne

a woman waving
a handkerchief
from the top deck
of a ferry

a woman leaning
out of her kitchen window
to clothespin
kitchen towels
onto a revolving clothesline

a woman fastening
her net slip,
stiffening the skirt
of her bridal gown

a woman weeping
her friend has gone
away in marriage
away in a tinkling car
cans bouncing behind

At the Gala

I am Locrinzia.
I have heard of God.
The paint rolls off the walls
In thin layers, in shiny pieces
Of yellow, orange, brown.
I stare at it as—
Oh, they are coming now,
I must stop and talk more later.
I am Locrinzia.
I have heard of God.

Now I must lie on my mattress
As the light dies.
They took me to that place
Where the bugs are set on your skin.
No one else was there this time.
They had heard me humming a hymn.
I have heard of Jesus.
And on my mattress as the light dies
I feel my self coming back to me.
They know I have a secret.
I will never tell it to them.
I have heard of God.
I can pray even with my hands tied to my back.
I don’t need to fold them like in the picture
I saw when I was little.

At the Gala,
There were glamorous people,
Looking forward to the Millenium,
When they would party again.
These people are rich,
Paying for dinner;
These people were laughing;
They seemed to know each other.
But on the walls were photographs,
And they caught my eye.
Pictures of nineteenth century
Mental institutions
Beautiful photographs
That tell us how far we have come.
But to me the striking thing
Was that no one was in
Those photographs. So we saw
What they saw, those institutionalized.
We saw the graveyard full of stones
With no names, only numbers
On the gravestones.
We saw the straitjacket
With no one in it, gesturing.
The eye of the camera
Became my eye, which became
The eyes of the souls in the institution.
We saw what they had seen
So long ago.

So I thought of Locrinzia,
Who named herself
When someone in the institution
Asked for her name.
No one named her until then.
Her mother left her there without a name:
How painful such neglect!
But sweet Locrinzia
Had a life within herself
Which made her different
From other children, others her age,
As she went through life.
And as a teenager
As she grew into a beautiful woman
She began to show her feelings.
And that is when the punishment began.

Horses in the Sky

I wanted to write a poem
About horses
Watching the sky with you
But love was on my mind
And this is the poem I wrote:

Husband my husband
Strong in all things—

Horses in the sky, clouds,
Seeing pictures in the sky
White pictures, colored as we look
With our colored eyes
And I see horses, yea horses,
In the sky
Look up to the sky
And see horses, horses in the sky

Chasing horses, horses in the sky,
Beyond winter’s reach, frothing,
Across the sky, outside our window
The horses melting so fast
You could hardly blink
Or you’d miss their antics
And I loved you so
That I thought of you dying
We would wear gold bands
And I would go with you
To the sky
Riding horses toward heaven
In the sky

Samaris’s Brother

A brother lost
You miss him
On Valentine’s Day
No one really knows
Why this day
Means so much
To you
But I suspect
That you kissed him
On February 14
And now that he’s gone
You will never feel
His lips again, warm
On your olive skin

Winter’s Warmth

I have never felt so lonely
As I have this icy winter.
I sit, meditatively,
And wonder what to do.
Writing poems is all I have
To combat this feeling
Of sad loneliness.
Ah, but this is an illusion!
You come home at night
And I feel my self
Returning to me. We eat
The meal I’ve prepared
And then rush into our warm bed.
It is such happiness
That it makes me cry.
I have never felt so happy
As I have this icy winter.

For Ava

Ava, an artist,
So fierce—
Painting like a tiger pouncing
Showing me how
How to pounce and tumble
Wrestle with ferocity
As a lover seizes her prey
To show how to love
With an intensity so close to hate
Thank you Ava
For giving me such power
Almost holy

Seagulls in Brooklyn

for Sheila

Gulls glide
Across my line
Of vision
But this is New York City
And they may be
Fabrications
Of my tired mind
Motion pictures painted
So white and grey
Above my window
Seagulls’ colors echoing
The blue and grey sky
Cawing caw caw
Lifting higher and higher
Upon the air

Oasis

for Willy

It’s me standing there
In the window
Pajamas green, but not so
Green as the spring paradise
Beyond my room

I’m talking to someone:
I don’t know who

My memory takes me back,
But only so far

Every day the park was greener:
From lime green gossamer—
Lime green mounds covering
The trees and ground like spun gold—
To deeper and deeper green—

I would draw back the curtains
Every morning to see this green world—
And I was happy.

There were two beds in the room.
But for weeks I lived there alone,
Uninterrupted
Except when the nurses called out, “Dinner!”

I watched as the day came bright
And talked until night fell.
But I don’t know to whom, or why,
Or whether it would ever happen again.

Somehow it never rained,
Though I love the rain--

Copyright 1999-2003 - All Rights Reserved