We got together
and the day was fine.
It was raining rockets
in old Palestine.
We ate and drank
Ramiro’s homemade brew.
In Sarajevo they
served nothing new.
I think it’s right
we congregate so cheery.
The pain of others just
makes the heart so weary.
If they would only stop
and give to peace a nod.
Would it not better serve
than face the scourge of God?
Even small children learn what
the desert dove knows best.
It’s sober to go when
the hawk’s at rest.
Marilyn Monroe died, a phone clutched in her hand.
Her precious life reduced to this: a single phone call.
And just the operator there to comfort her, in this,
her final hours before the curtain falls, and say,
“Sorry, wrong number.”
Her eyelids falling,
her words slurring into silence,
and then the darkness.
Naked on her bed,
beautiful even in death,
the lady sleeps.
Negev Desert
The air was cool inside the cave, which for the most part lay in shadows. Halimeh would do the washing of dishes when the sun’s rays reached the floor of the cave, otherwise the cold temperature would numb her fingers. She used water from five-gallon containers she would lug from a nearby spring. This water was needed for bathing, cooking, and drinking, as well as for doing the cleaning and other household chores.
Like chicks to her mother hen, Zaphira and Katiria, her young daughters, stayed always by her side. Though still small children, they were big enough now to handle pots and pans, but not yet strong enough to carry water for great distances. This would come later.
Though poor and destitute, Halimeh was content because in heart and mind she knew that God would provide. God had provided Yamil–a strong husband, a fearless fighter and mountain rebel–and her two healthy children. God also provided food, clothing, and the cave roof over their heads.
So when the news came, she was stoic. Fierce fighting had erupted in the mountain pass, and she knew Yamil had gone there to defend it. Yamil had been injured, she was told–seriously injured, and might die from the severity of his wounds.
Halimeh accepted this as God’s will. She prayed for her husband not too suffer too much, hero that he was. She prayed for herself, a probable widow now. She also prayed for Zaphira and Katiria, who no doubt would grow up fatherless, much as had happenedto her. She prayed, and a single tear stained her sun-bronzed cheek as she continued the washing of dishes and the day’s chores…
The faces of the souls I see
inconsequential as ghosts in the cracks
of a funhouse mirror.
The funhouse mirror:
how many cracks on its surface
left by lonely people?
Peace I desire and time without clamor.
I am dove of day, bird of peace and light.
My steps an enigma, my heart a banner.
Honor is worn like protective armor
When death runs slow with mayhem and might.
Peace I desire and time without clamor.
Rose of illusion blighted by anger,
Will rage now rule out the stars at night?
My steps an enigma, my heart a banner.
The tragedy of this world is now an altar
Few precious dead once viewed with delight.
Peace I desire and time without clamor.
My words received in an ungrateful manner,
An instinct of sanity I wish to ignite.
My steps an enigma, my heart a banner.
Life let it be a noble disclaimer,
My song be heard which I know is right.
Peace I desire and time without clamor,
My steps an enigma, my heart a banner.
A word to the wise:
if God had intended for mortals to fly, He would
have given them wings and a return ticket.
I get the willies inside a jumbo jet, flying.
Icarus, punch drunk on oxygen no doubt,
was either a madman or a serious fool. I mean,
not even a religious neurotic would venture
–blindly–into the unforgiving eye of Helios.
Neither would she temp the fates (and
Einstein’s laws of gravity, mind you),
donning a pair of wobbly waxed wings.
Daedalus, who hatched the idea and wove
the wings, bequeath to his flyboy son
the will but not the forbearance to use them.
Brimming with pride pitiless as the sun, the boy
flew as the sun blistered the air of the Aegean.
He soon fell, head over heels. Hence, this caveat:
when in doubt, always buckle up and remain
as close to terra firma as prudence, and the
air traffic controller, allows. The trouble is,
like Icarus, I lose perspective, pack everything:
tooth brush, tooth paste, electric shaving gear,
suntan lotion, especially when the balmy Caribbean
is the target in the middle of my crosshairs;
dress pants, polos and Playboy underwear briefs,
an extra pair of leather loafers 9 ½ DD, as well as
my all-purpose iPhone, Steve King’s current fiction.
Wonder if when my turn comes I will know to be
the brave one, to honor the heroic and the dead.
I will know what to cherish and always choose life.
Then I remember it’s Sept. 11 the day both towers fell
1. Dusk
Darkness is the apparatus
and my arms a cradle to assuage
your trembling heart
2. Midnight
For every star out
will you grant a kiss
to satisfy this pagan desire?
3. Dawn
Night the veil,
like thieves we make love
naked under dimming darkness
Epilogue
A sincere request:
to awaken by the touch of you
as intimate the first rays
of the morning sun
A clarity of dreams anticipates your return
and in my eyes awaits an audience of stars.
Strong waves lash my arms, wet with the Caribbean’s
spindrift air and willful northeasterly winds.
A stretched galactic canvas, here lies an ecstasy
of youth exploding like a supernova.
Here now and then interconnect, matter.
In gales of will and abandon, please come:
Unfurl your sails by sailors rigged.
Glide, surge, pulse, pivot. Let’s gather
and store caresses for the rough journey
into tomorrow. And though a lover’s frailty
obscures my senses I cannot drown.
I sleep, wade deep in wide water.
For Beth
A torso severed
at the waist delineates the province
of a demon-fevered dream.
Doll-like, bleached white,
her body is deliberately posed,
not reverently poised.
The knife blade can be seen
to kiss both cheeks such that the
perverted smile on the face wounds deep.
Black Dahlia,
fair lady clothed in softest night:
live now, forever a flower–
not in infamy but in hallowed fame.
“I’ll tell you one thing. It only took me a second to get her out of it.”–P. Diddy
For JL
Her dress, it is a gossamer thing of intense beauty,
Light and lavish as it drapes her cinnamon skin.
When her arms spread, the lairs unfold, revealing wings.
Not only does she act her part; her words the lady sings.
Rude centaur of lust who comes with darken fire,
Find pause to contemplate and wholly to admire.
Is it with loving hands that you so caress,
Or will your burning fingertips her soul undress?
Green butterfly of youth, daring of deed and day,
Poised at the threshold of this tower of clay:
Reveal what men hold dear before it flits away.
Her stark, bold nakedness was worth the wait.
If only such yearning could murder and create.
Rare butterfly of love your heart will someday break.
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