9/11
From the smoke cloud carried by the north wind
a snow of paper fell: ledgers, printouts, compilations,
reports. Whole pages, and fragments with charred edges,
snowed about a lone bagpiper playing
"Amazing Grace" in a Brooklyn field,
piping the innocent into God's presence.Published on Yvonne Legge's War Poetry site
STRANGE INDEED
A judge is stripped of his robe, a professor banned from his classroom,
a politician mocked, for wearing war's laurels absent experience of war's peril.
When truth's revealed, their supporters arm themselves with umbrage
and denounce its bearers as once they did we who met the enemy.
Strange indeed.
Parting
Like Troilus and Cressida, Rick and Ilsa,
we see a sailing ship float upon the tide
with one of us aboard.
The other remains on the pier, smiling, waving,
until the ship is swallowed by the horizon.
Then, he or she turns away
and goes on alone.
The Thunderbolt
(Coney Island, Brooklyn, 1925-2000)
The ancient roller coaster groaned with pain
When attacked by the long steel arm of the treaded tractor.
Suddenly it gave way with a sigh
And crashed to the earth, a cloud of dust billowing after.
From that swirling cloud
Came generations of laughter, of screams, of thrills,
And the metallic sound of the cars
That traveled its curves and descended its hills.
From the frenetic cloud came
The joy of children long grown old and gone,
That fled as the dust settled
Leaving behind twisted metal, rust and ruin.
When all had cleared the former behemoth lay in the dirt,
Broken, defiled,
Without a whisper of its days of glory and of gladness
Or the joy it inspired.
Back to the Top
Alone
Joggers and dog walkers, skaters and bicyclists,
Pass me while I stroll beneath the red oaks
That make an aisle of the asphalt path.
Fallen leaves decorate the black top with ruddy colors
As the aroma of the sea travels to me on the October breeze.
Sun rays knife through the autumnal openings in the leaf canopy
And slant across the lane that I tread
Amid the children's laughter and hailing parents,
Talking strollers and laughing lovers.
All tells me that without her I am alone.
I sit on a bench to watch the passersby on the path
And the crows that alight from the trees onto the greensward.
All is peaceful, all is autumn.
Yet, anticipation prevents my concentrating.
Segregated from those about me by solitude unchosen,
My thoughts ramble, undisciplined, without sequence.
Birds, flora, people flow together in my mind.
Only she stands forth amid the storm.
Finally, it is dissipated by an approaching figure
To whom I wave and smile, for I am alone no longer.
Back to the Top
Stars
I stand alone in a field at night
Looking to the endless sky.
The multitudinous stars look back and twinkle at me
For, at that moment, I am the center of the universe.
Back to the Top
Over the River
A crescent moon surrounded by stars
Watches through air clear as freshly cleaned glass,
As the silver train leaves the underground darkness
To roll onto the bridge of blue steel
And cross over the river to Brooklyn.
Looking through the window of the subway car,
I think of those who have crossed the water beneath,
Through the centuries and the decades.
Many would not recognize the two cities,
Made one a century ago, nor the harbor they share,
No longer destination of the world's commerce.
On the river below me, a ferry boat floats from its berth.
Its lighted windows gold perforations in the dark,
It moves toward Staten Island across the bay.
Brooklyn Bridge stands proud, immovable as though
Conscious of its fame and determined to be dignified.
Through its cabled lace the water reflects the shore lights.
Between its towers, Lady Liberty lofts her torch,
Beckoning all to enter the great door
That opens to the city and the country beyond.
We are on the Brooklyn side now, descending.
The buff colored buildings of the Watchtower tell us the time
And the temperature in sequence, centigrade and fahrenheit.
A last look behind and all is darkness outside the windows,
As the train enters the tunnel beneath the streets of the city.
Small corruptions,
Forced deprivations,
Oblique discrimination,
Whispered collaboration,
Studied indifference.
The journey to evil.
The arrogance of power,
Contempt for those without,
Primary loyalty to party,
Greed for ambition,
Openness to moral compromise.
Mileposts on the road.
All of youth is prelude.
It is training, preparation,
To experience life's amplitude,
For the time of amplification.
When we've reached the middle years,
We must be ready to climb the hills
Where the echoes call to us
Speaking of duty and responsibility.
The veins on the back of our hands are prominent,
And perhaps our scalps are too.
Yet, these are not the signs of decline,
But rather of one's life's prime.
It is now that we must take up the burden,
And cease the years of endless complaint.
Let vanity pass, experience rule.
Have accomplishment speak for us.
The ostentation of immaturity,
Has gone before.
The pursuit of fatuity,
Is with us no more.
The last strains of prelude fade
As we labor for the progress
Of the many who
Will look back to us.
The fog is deep, clouds on the ground,
Making the streets glisten.
The trees drip crystal melancholy.
People are swallowed by the mist,
Disappearing after three paces.
The street across the road, the houses,
The walk, the parked autos, concealed.
Muffled voices penetrate it
But from what direction is a mystery.
There are people about, life goes on,
Yet one is alone, segregated by the fog.
The book is old but sturdy with blue,
Hard cloth covers, published by the Modern
Library before I was born. There was
A second hand store, that since has burned,
Where I bought it many years ago.
Even then, its pages were yellow.
Its thousands of words tell an immortal story.
Of love amid strife, of longing and separation,
Of violence and courage, loyalty, glory.
All are contained in the well known narration.
On a canvas large as his native land,
A world was created by an ingenious hand.
And on the back flyleaf if you open and look,
Is written with ink, in words that are few,
A sentiment equal to the tale of the book,
"For Bill, With all my love. Betty, Christmas, 1942."
Who they were, I do not know.
Or even if they're still alive.
During that time an evil wind did blow.
Over a world in which death and destruction did thrive.
Were they reunited when the war was over?
Did they spend their lives as aging lovers?
I will never know the answer,
But once again they are young
And in love each time I chance to
Open the flyleaf of that aging volume.
In the morning, the post office line is slow,
Elderly people with cards and letters
Approach the counter and take their time
Speaking with the clerks who greet them there.
Some people grumble but most do not.
Those clerks are the only people with whom
Many will speak today.
When finished, they go home alone.
A few moments intercourse with one's fellow beings
Is little to ask in the early hours of the day.
A grain of forbearance for a few extra words,
A smile, a greeting, a nod of recognition.
The cost of so much is really so little,
A small installment on a debt unpaid,
For what we have, for what we are.
It would be cruel to begrudge it.
Awaiting the Storm
The forecast is for turbulent weather with snow;
The radio and televison, the internet, the newspapers,
Have been warning since last night
To cover up and remain indoors to defend
Against the airborne ferocity that impends.
I look from my window at the gathering clouds,
Gray, ominous, darkening the sky,
Churned by an angry wind with teeth of frost.
An empty trash can bounces past,
Propelled along by the growing tempest.
Errands and chores must be delayed.
It's a day for reading, watching, listening.
I seek a book from a favored shelf.
But I'm contradicted by a beam of sunlight
That cleans and calms and turns darkness bright.
Back to the Top
Injustice
For Anna
We properly condemn those who fill cattle cars with their neighbors
and those who adjudge freedom seekers to be insane.
Yet, we speak not at all of those behind: the laborers, the clerks, the purveyors,
those who string the wire, supply the pens, keep the records
and those who stand before the temple door turning supplicants away.
Just doing their job, supporting their families, we say,
while they look upon the face of injustice and deny its existence.
So long as we excuse them, freedom is but a word,
liberty but a holiday felicity, an orator’s riband.
For injustice is bondage.
(Published by poetrymagazine.com, http://www.poetrymagazine.com)
Their names are there,
Reading those names returns their faces
to memory’s eye, those faces from so long ago,
faces that will be no more remembered when we’ve gone.
Their names may be forever there, carved into the stone.
Yet, they will be but letters.
Memory’s ear hears their voices still.
But for how much longer?
We are not immortal.
When the sun has come
as many times again as since last we heard them,
most of us will be no more.
The time and the war that took them is
remembered only because we remain yet,
and because those who encouraged their killers
still attempt to rationalize their actions,
while we, silent, turn away and remember
their faces and their voices.
Published
on Yvonne Legge's War Poetry site
A pretty woman smiled at me as I walked on Bedford Avenue,
an Asian woman: Chinese or Korean or, perhaps, Japanese.
She had black hair and daisy petal shaped eyes that became
mere slits when she smiled.
It was a response to my own best blue eyed, Irish smile.
Though strangers, we shared a few seconds of intimacy.
Then we passed, going in opposite directions away from each other,
Asian she and Irish me.
Back to the Top
Duty, Honor, Country
Though others mocked their loyalty,
they accepted their responsibility.
They answered their nation's call.
Though fearful, uncertain, they risked all
for "Duty, Honor, Country".
The burden carried, the battle done,
most who survived returned to their homes
to pick up their lives, spend their days,
determined to live in their own way
for "Duty, Honor, Country".
As time will, it has brought them age.
Yet, were the bugle to sound today,
though their step be slower, their hair be grey,
they'd stand again as in olden days
for "Duty, Honor, Country".
Let us not forget their gallantry
their willingness to leave family
and friends for danger and uncertainty,
to face the storm unflinchingly,
for "Duty, Honor, Country".
Published on Yvonne Legge's War Poetry site
Back to the Top
You Ask Me Do I Love You
You ask me do I love you.
How am I to respond?
Does the great globe revolve?
Do the stars shine?
Is the east where the morn appears?
You ask me do I love you.
Yes, my love, I do.
Back to the Top
Seeking Joan Blondell
Everywoman in bangles and hoop earrings,
with great blue eyes neath golden hair.
In a world of depression,
of menacing uncertainty,
she could be relied upon
for a clever word, a friendly jest,
a stream of wise patter to resist despair.
Rarely in the lead,
like so much of humanity.
Yet, she brought to others
that which no politician could,
a moment's pleasure
at a time when hope and joy
were banished from the earth.
Joan, where have you gone?
We may have need of you again.
The Bakery
The bakery at Kings Highway has closed.
Its counters and shelves and even its walls
have gone, leaving nothing behind.
Just a few days ago, it was there.
Just a short time ago, there were bakers.
Now there are laborers and workmen.
On winter's coldest days,
its plate glass windows fogged
from the heat of the ovens.
I bought hallah rolls made from corn
that I sliced lengthwise and covered
with strawberry preserves.
I bought turnovers of apple and cherry,
pineapple and blueberry, that so overflowed
with fruit that they required a fork.
It was so convenient near the subway,
around the corner from the bank,
two doors from the pharmacy.
The Russian baker, a rotund woman
with gold tooth and yellow hair
was always friendly.
The counter people, men and women,
greeted me with smiles and accents
from Kiev.
It was there a short time ago,
but it is there no more.
I miss it already.
Back to the Top
The Lists
Like an old knight retired from the lists,
protected by his scars, his deeds,
the honor of his valor,
I am shielded by your devotion from strife and travail.
I watch, as through a glass made of your love,
the endless pursuit of happiness by
the lonely, the unloved,
as was I before you came to me armed with affection.
Would that I could make them all as I am
because of you.
Back to the Top
I Write a Poem
I write a poem because I cannot touch you.
I cannot hold you or by you be embraced.
The lines of your body I cannot trace,
Your cheek, your shoulders, your arms.
I write a poem because I cannot kiss you.
I cannot touch your smile and feel your breath.
My lips cannot caress your hair,
Your ear, your neck, your breasts.
I write a poem because I cannot smell your aroma
I cannot taste your flavor, I cannot hear your voice.
You are away from me until I know not when.
I write a poem but it cannot fill the void.
Back to the Top
Muslin
For Mary Farrell
In the park was a woman wearing a white, muslin summer dress,
the skirt of which reached below her knees.
In her hand was a straw hat with a blue ribbon.
Norman Rockwell, I thought.
Her face and arms and ankles were tanned by the summer,
her brown hair just touched with gold.
The sun behind her revealed in silhouette her slim body
through the cloth. She swung the hat as she walked.
She must have felt me looking for her brown eyes turned
to me with ferocity and ordered that I look away.
(Published by Kota Press Poetry Journal, http://www.kotapress.com)
Affection
My affection is as the sea,
vast and sustaining.
Like a mountain peak,
it is gold at dusk
and kisses the sky at dawn.
Like the fruitful plains,
it is green with life.
Yet, whether for my common visage,
lowly estate, uncouth habits,
I do not know,
but she cares not for me.
Alas!
Back to the Top
Melody
I turned the radio on this morning
and heard the tune, our tune.
The melody brought me back
to that time we played it over and over.
Two bodies, two souls,
together, alone,
the melody forming a sound track
to our love.
Where did it go?
Like the song it faded to its end,
but, unlike the song,
it cannot be played again.
Back to the Top
Constellation
From coloring books and jump rope
to marriage, children, maturity,
in sadness and joy, failure and success,
like five stars in a constellation,
they remain for each other,
part each of the other,
prop, adviser, confessor,
like five sisters bound by threads
of affection.
Back to the Top
An Abundance of Nice
Had I the power to order the world,
an abundance of "nice" would fall about you
like the winter's first snow.
Neither our lips nor our hands
have ever touched.
Neither intimacy nor dream
have we shared.
Yet, from you I have the gift of inspiration,
the soul of creation.
In return, all that you wish I would give to you.
For your praise, undeserved, even more would I do.
But I am merely a mortal.
I have only this. Fie!
Back to the Top
On the Rain
Carried on the rain is the smell of the sea
and the sound of the fog horns on Sheepshead Bay,
a mile distant.
Seagulls and terns call one to the other
above the mist where they float on the currents
of the wind.
The clouds rain the sea onto homes and fences,
onto the walk and the road where it reflects
the streetlights.
I lean against the gale neath trembling tree limbs
as I hasten toward shelter.
Back to the Top
The Letter Carrier
From my desk by the window,
I follow the unseen letter carrier
by the sound of the fence gates
being closed as he goes
from house to house
along the block.
Bearer of news from the outside world,
of greetings, sentiments, information and,
alas, demands, I listen to his approach.
Back to the Top
A Poem for Nancy
Is it not strange that as we age,
days pass like childhood hours,
weeks like mornings, years like months?
Thus, time uncounted passes unnoticed,
as it has since last our eyes met.
Only when it's gone do we become aware
and question how it is possible.
Yet, you are in my thoughts, in my affections,
despite the passage of time.
You remain my friend and I yours
as though yesterday we spoke
and laughed together
and held each others' hands.
Back to the Top