Precious Metal

Dec 28 2011

This anniversary

is 65 years.

They must look back

proud, but astonished.

My parents, married

in the last century

go gamely on.

A small ceremony,

suitably modest

owing little to God

all the witnesses gone

by now,

but still, they keep their vows.

No milestone number.

No precious substance

to commemorate 65.

So I will call it steel,

the tensile strength

that holds against

temper, and minor transgression.

That is not compressed, or deformed

by the pent-up storms

of argument

annoyance.

Some might say

duty

force of habit

fear of change.

So is this inertia

or is it love?

I don’t mean infatuation

consuming passion.

I mean the grown-up love

of fondness, attachment,

that only comes

with the passage

of years.

A weld so tough

2 become 1.

Solid steel, just a little rust,

drop-forged, hot-rolled

well-honed.

Strong enough

to last a lifetime.

I originally wrote this as “63”. (My counting ability leaves something to be desired!) Of course, the poem works much better that way, since “3” rhymes with “steel”, and “63” is suitably uneven:  more like the number you pass on the way somewhere than the destination. Furthermore, I consulted Wikipedia, and apparently there is a precious metal for 65 — the Blue Sapphire. On the other hand, so few people make it to 65 that hardly anyone knows this, and even fewer care. So in the end, “65” works almost as well. …And one can hardly let those 2 extra years go unrecognized!

Suds

Dec 28 2011

I have not blown bubbles in years.

Perfect spheres

that disappear

into insubstantial air,

a little pop

of wetness.

Dish soap, and breath,

blowing through my plastic wand.

Small ones sail off

at the mercy of wind.

Big ones wobble

don’t last long.

Surface tension, and iridescence

squeaky with light;

a delightful froth

if whimsy

and giddiness.

I have been doing dishes for years,

yet nearly forgot.

Out of Phase

Dec 27 2011

When you are a child

everything is as it should be

no matter what.

A green planet

that circles a yellow sun.

A single moon

that comes, and goes, each month.

Later, you will realize

your parents have a life of their own.

The teachers do not live at school.

Bad people

look perfectly normal.

If there were 2 moons

the tides would pile up-and-up,

swamp us

as we slumber.

Blue moons

would happen more than once,

miracles

become ho-hum.

We’d sing romantic songs

still croon

our soft seductions,

but in the brightness
feel humbler.

Too shy

to get undone.

Still, their light would shine on us

half a world away,

we’d both look up

and see the sky

the same.

Sharing a view

may be small consolation,

a multiplicity of moons

confusing.

But try to see the lunacy

of 2 full moons,
of intersecting phases.

Still, I am grateful

things turned out as they should.

A sliver of moon

I foretell for you

half a world apart.

A yellow sun

that lights you up

wherever on earth you are.

In my mind’s eye.

And all the more

at night.

Small Fruit

Dec 24 2011

Small fruit

is intense,

sweet tart crisp.

Does not expend itself

in the gaudy glitz

of bigness,

showing-off.

Like a beautiful girl

who let herself go,

the ingénue

who lost her freshness,

blousy, soft

debauched.

There is the peak of perfection,

the elegant stem

and delicate blush,

redolent

and on the cusp

of ripeness.

Before corruption

worms its way in.

The apple of his eye

he cannot resist.

There is low-hanging fruit

to sate appetite,

forbidden fruit

to arouse
his desire.

Teeth, tongue, lips

breaking through the glossy skin

then rich flesh, sinking in.

To the hard nub of seed,

containing all that’s needed

for life.

The esoteric knowledge

of DNA,

that may, or may not

breed true.

A moveable feast

of small fruit.

Because less is more.

And sure to leave

him wanting.

I almost always select small fruit. It's usually more flavorful, if less gaudy:  more nuanced, concentrated, intense. I was reminded of this while reading a recent New Yorker article about apple breeding (the SweeTango, in particular). Which gave me the first 2 lines. From there, the poem pretty much wrote itself.

I'm not sure what it is about apples, but this is my second "erotic" apple poem. (The first was Red Delicious.) Although I suppose the Garden of Eden might explain things. That is, if the corrupting knowledge was sex. (After all, it may have been the dawning of self-consciousness, self-awareness. Or perhaps the questioning and resentment of God's presumed omnipotence.)  ...Although, according to the article, the Biblical apple of Adam and Eve was more likely a pomegranate than an apple!

Space-Age Material

Dec 5 2011

In the small vestibule,

where my breath condenses

in the frigid air,

and frost has formed

on the clear glass door

in curlicues

and lacy patterns.

Where the floor is strewn

with boots and toques

abandoned, scattered.

Mittens, mismatched

gloves, one-handed.

And where you can smell the cold

that swept-in, as I entered

like an arctic blizzard,

I stand

fingers numb,

can’t unlace, unzip

unbutton.

Congealed beard

dripping, running.

This small cubicle

my mother used to call

the decontamination chamber.

Enclosed, self-contained,

like a space station airlock

sealing-off

the frozen vacuum

from the warm bright interior.

So here I stand

waiting for the temperature to rise

pressures equalize,

eyelashes thaw, beard soften.

Waiting to regain

manual dexterity,

extricate myself

from these heavy protective layers

of space-age material.

And enter into a blast of heat,

dry winter air, the smell of cooking

that will not be vented

‘til spring.

I could see the place forever

walking home

along the bleak rural road,

the lighted window, plume of smoke.

A tiny outpost

in a vast and trackless space,

like a small star, in the distance.

Just one, of millions,

but growing bigger and bigger;

looming large

preparing to dock.

Unless my trajectory is off

just a bit

 — a near miss,

and I would go drifting on

into infinity.

A tiny astronaut, falling farther and farther,

oxygen, close to exhaustion

the cold

seeping in.

A frozen body

tumbling through the cosmos

non-stop.

A simple winter walk,

lost

until it thaws

next spring.

Season’s Greetings

Dec 23 2011

The British say “Happy Christmas”.

This strikes our ear like a minor chord,

a confusion

of holidays.

How terribly British  —

understated,

the proper distance

for strangers.

Here, it’s “Merry”.

The forced gaiety.

The jolly elf

stuffing himself

with pillows,

some liquid refreshment.

But this makes sense.

Because “happy” is complicated.

We think we know what we want,

then waste a lifetime

learning

what makes us happy.

While merriment is easy to fake.

Like the obligation

to get wasted

on New Year’s.

The celebration

of some arbitrary date

in undifferentiated winter.

“Season’s Greetings” is always OK.

It does not presume faith

or festivity.

Its meaninglessness conveys

the perfect balance

of non-committal

conviviality.

So praise

the rebirth of light.

Kiss her

under the mistletoe.

Resolve to find meaning

and contentment.

Make merry,

and let the happiness

take care

of itself.

Inscribed in Stone

Dec 22 2011

“You shall not covet your neighbour’s house; you shall not covet your neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbour’s.”

The broken rule

lay shattered

where it had slipped from my grasp.

Rules are meant to be broken

I consoled myself.

The golden rule

we melted down for cash.

The fatted calf

my neighbour’s ass

I’d always secretly coveted.

The 10th commandment,

that banished even thoughts

of envy,

his wife, his ox

his anything.

The first thought crime

of an Orwellian God,

who is devoutly believed

omniscient.

I admit, I am flawed.

My mind

is a law unto itself

resists all jurisdiction.

And who among us

isn’t?

The game is fixed

the rules rigged.

The winners win,

the rich

get even richer.

Where they smugly sit

secure in the myth

of self-made men.

Hard Water

Dec 20 2011

My water well is going on 30.

The steel pipe, still holding

straight down

into fractured rock.

Where the temperature

is constant,

darkness

absolute.

It is topped by a steel cap

that long lost its lustre,

now a rusted earthen dun.

Lifted off, I peer down to bedrock,

letting sun

come flooding in.

Where light

is unnatural, alien,

perhaps awakening

the bowels of the earth,

dormant
for a million years.

Hard water, inky black

seeping into the shaft.

How long

since it went underground?

Since it was warmed by sun,

gave life

or drowned it?

The well has been bad;

silt, perhaps

a shift in the strata,

tilted, compressed

collapsed.

Up it comes

tasting cold, metallic,

water that fell from the sky

some summer long past.

All this time

in the lifeless airless depths,

sweet water

waiting to quench me.

Then spread into vessels, capillaries, cells,

like a river

churning through its delta.

Branching out,

sinking

into the rich alluvial soil

of my flesh.

Best Before

Dec 16 2011

A carton of milk

half full

expired.

At the back of the shelf

shadowed by leftovers.

Best before.

I squint, contort

reaching in,

when the sour smell

hits me cross-eyed.

Pasteurized, pure

half-empty, turned,

this is surely some kind of miracle.

Virginal milk

bubbling with life.

Half Right

Dec 15 2011

The end of the world came

and went.

He had proclaimed the date,

then fretfully awaited

the apocalypse.

The second time he’d missed.

Just half wrong,

because the world will end
it's the date that eludes him.

If not divine intervention, then tectonic change
if he lives that long,

in a cosmic fireball

burst of gamma rays.

So all his worldly goods

are gone

and he must rely on providence.

The kindness of strangers
the grace of God.

Skyscrapers hum, streets are bustling

the sturm und drang.
Intrigues of the schoolyard

going on and on.

So while he adds up the begats

parses prophecy,

interrogates Scripture

for hints and signs,

the world is indifferent

the end is nigh.

He will predict again;

sure, this time.

If only he had realized

that with every death

a universe ends.

So he will be half right

6 billion times.

Closed For the Season

Dec 14 2011

I slip into the park

in winter.

How odd, to be alone

where it was green,

busy, buzzing, lush.

No one wants to trudge

through thick wet snow.

Or be exposed

to the skinny limbs of trees,

stripped down

to bone.

The ground, the sky

are both a lumpy white

   —   concrete, left to set,

the dull weight of lead.

The land is at rest,

restoring itself

in this cool dormancy.

Summer’s excess

cold sober,

perhaps contemplating its regrets.

A brief sojourn

in this white asylum

for the badly behaved

and over-heated.

A strutting crow

caws accusingly;

a murder of crows

joins in.

Do they close the park

this time of year?

Some unwritten rule

I have transgressed?

Black mischievous birds

are contemptuous

of seasons.

They own the place

all year.

No Harm Done

Dec 8 2011

The well-kept distance

averted glance.

Malicious whispers

snickering laughs.

Moms shield kids

herding them past,

or cross the street

and never look back.

Refused food, service, gas,

graffiti-tagged

and broken glass.

Even their trash

went uncollected.

Until it came to talk

of burning crosses

brake lines cut.

From objects of fun

to vandalized, shunned

run out-of-town.

Rumour was

they were carriers.

Some virus, or bug

but wouldn’t succumb themselves.

Or was it some vile idea

that could subvert the good people

of this God-fearing town?

We’re entitled to protect ourselves, after all.

So we resented being presented

as credulous peasants

armed with pitchfork, and torch,

fire-breathing preachers

exhorting us on.

I mean, who’s the underdog here

who’s been wronged?

In the end, they left on their own

no harm done.

So now, we can let out our daughters

after dark

disarm our sons.

Thank God

we were spared

from who knows what.

Hungry for Sleep

Nov 24 2011

I burrow into sheets

quilts, duvets, and fleece,

huddle underneath

heavy comforters;

a thin-skinned infant

clutched in fetal warmth.

But must eventually emerge

into the cold dark world

of morning.

Its leaden sky

gun-metal light,

wet snow

thin blanket of ice.

Hungry for sleep

craving sweets

my reserves are low.

Then after work

I again return

to dusk,

its sullen skies

and stingy light,

ruts of frozen snow.

Stumbling through days

in a sleepless haze

I am an automaton,

going through the motions.

While friends have returned

from getaways

red from tropical sun.

Who, for the rest of winter

will never adjust,

chill cutting right to the bone.

But still

I can’t help but imagine

hot dry sand,

underfoot

between my toes.

Even as I chose to stay

stoic, and staid.

Smug to have endured

adversity,

a snob of weather.

Including those postcard days

that have me wide awake

  —  the brilliant light

and cobalt sky,

the blinding white

of perfect virgin snow.

When a high pressure system

blasts its way in,

and sleep

can happily wait.

My One Great Adventure

Nov 24 2011

I find I am living in the future.

Not a grim green-house planet.

Not flying cars.

Not disembodied brains

floating under glass

on life support.

But when there is way more past

than looking forward.

Like a long road trip, unplanned,

that began

with bright-eyed hope

on a well-scrubbed morning

travelling light.

Plenty of time

to accumulate baggage.

Where I went without maps,

slept badly

in flea-bag motels,

depended

upon the kindness of strangers.

Towed, ticketed, and limping-in

out of gas

on thumping flats.

Exits missed

and hitch-hiker lifts

and stuck

in icy ditches.

The body dented and dusted and spattered with bugs,

rust

bubbling-up

just under the surface.

Until the novelty wears off.

The drudgery

of making time, and mileage.

The radio on

with the same sad songs

of love, and loss.

They come in strong, then fade as quickly,

passing in, and out, of range.

Because I was not Kerouac

or Hunter S. Thompson.

There were no gonzo riffs

psychedelic trips,

or even a hint

of excess.

Not at all

what I started out

expecting.

Because at the end of the road

the future is much like the past.

Except for new gadgets

to distract us;

and that all of a sudden

everyone

seems to have gotten that much younger.

Now the old car is grounded,

and I have settled down

with only minor regrets.

Not much left

of the stuff I once valued.

So I will leave

much as I came  —

with a minimum of fuss

and baggage,

helpless

unselfconscious,

in a natural state of undress.

At best remembered

by the next generation

before the future completely forgets.

A journal, some photos

all that are left

of my one great adventure.