Poems from the home page, 2009

 

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   NEW YEAR, GAZA, 2008/2009 

  Call out the names 
  of the dead
  so that we may mourn.
              Call out the names 
              of the dead. 

  Call out the names                                                                    Photo by Carl Lawrence
  of their killers
  so that we may rage
  as we mourn.
              Call out the names                                                                                  Photo by Carl Lawrence       
              of their killers.                   
                                                                        
  Call out the names 
  of those who march in protest 
  so that we may give thanks
  as we rage
  and mourn
              Call out the names
              of those who march in protest 

  Call out the names "Peace," 
  "Justice," "Freedom," "Palestine"
  so that we may hope
  as we give thanks,
  rage,
  and mourn.
              Call out the names
              "Peace," "Justice,"
              "Freedom," "Palestine"  

  And when the time has come 
  to call out the names 
  of all who remain silent
  as we are calling out these names
  let us pray that yours
  will not be among them.  

     

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BEE WATCHING

  1.
  I can't remember the last time 
  I stopped to watch a bee step
  from blossom to blossom, 
 
  stand here entranced  
  by this four-cornered dance
                       Photo by Pat Jordan                          (insect, color, pollen, nectar)  
                                                                 take some time to contemplate 
                                                                    all of the factors                                                     
                                                                 that had to evolve                                                             
                                                                              synchronicitously                                        
                                                                 for even this tiny slice 
                                                                 of an ecosystem to emerge.  

                                                                 2.
                                                                 The bee, however, 
                                                                 simply harvests,
                                                                 then returns to her nest

     


  GUITAR

  Driving alongside the Verazzano Narrows 
            on my way to the bridge, 
  I glance left for just a moment, then, dazzled, 
  glance again, think: if any human being 
  were sitting beside me I would say: 
  "Take a look at that sunset." 

            But there is no one.   

  John Denver, reminiscing, said of his guitar: 
            "What a friend to have 
  on a cold and lonely night." 
  if you are like me, you have sometimes 
  wondered how a person who could sing 
  the way John Denver could sing would ever 
  find himself alone, unless he wanted to.

            But there you are.   

  And this may be something for you to consider 
            next time no one 
  is sitting beside you and you spy 
  a sunset to share, or anticipate another 
  cold and lonely night (especially 
  if you don’t even own a guitar). Perhaps, 
  if you are like me, you’ll then be struck 
  by the realization that you aren't alone— 
 
             not really.

     


  FEBRUARY BEACH

  I visit 
  on a day when the dunes 
  are traveling.   

  Everywhere I look 
  there is a fog of sand 
  blowing from the peaks 
  as they shift. At my feet 
  individual grains stumble along, 
  close to the earth (bumping 
  into others, more rigidly fixed 
  or else (gaining even 
  the slightest elevation) whip 
  past at the speed-of-wind.   
  
  If there is a god, 
  who tracks each particle 
  (as I have been told) she must 
  have an infinite mind indeed.   

  The plan was for twenty minutes 
  or, perhaps, half an hour 
  to walk along this shore, 
  let the surf and spray know 
  that there is one human being 
  who cares enough to visit 
  on an off-season day. 
  I discover, however, 
  that I can barely remain 
  in one place 
  without being blown over, 
  decide walking 
  would be a bad idea.   

  Either going 
  or coming 
  would have to be 
  in the wrong direction.   

  And so, after spending some time 
  in standing contemplation 
  I return to the spot where sand 
  gives way to pavement 
  look back, surprised 
  to discover no trace 
  of footprints left earlier, 
  watch as those just engraved 
  grow less distinct with each 
  passing moment, decide 
  it would be best 
  to leave now,   

  before I am obliterated 
  completely.   

     


  ALIVE

  She speaks to me 
          on intimate terms
  as we sit across the table, (although 
  we did not know each other an hour ago)
  describing the rush each time a horse
  raises its back to meet her half way
  as she settles into the saddle.

  And I think to myself of the mathematician 
  at that moment when a proof 
  decides to give up its secrets;

  of a tutor, when his student understands—at last;

  the diver, as she twists and tumbles in ways 
  you and I may never comprehend
  before straitening to knife through 
  the surface of the water;

  of a climber, cresting that final ridge before the summit;

  the wine taster who discovers a perfect claret;

  or the chef, as he gathers ingredients for his favorite sauce.

  And then 
          of myself, 
  at that moment when 
  the poem decides to give up its secrets,
  so you and I may speak on intimate terms--
          at last.