The following samples are from my collection (Copyright 2006). I am
featuring these particular poems to demonstrate the diversity of my poetry.
This Nameless Thing
What art would attempt expression
when faced with love this intense,
and aspire to the invention
of accurate utterance?
My love defies definition
and derides its audience,
it escapes cute explanation
and eludes my eloquence.
Even the world's foremost writer
could never hope to translate
this nameless thing that a lover
feels, yet can't communicate--
save by nuance and inflection
of endearing sentiment,
and the steamy, primal passion
of a love self-evident.
1955-?
Here I lay me down to rest
amongst these others likewise blest.
More blessed are we that herein lie
than you who have yet to die;
for death is sleep, and sleep brings peace.
Here is where all care will cease;
so do not grieve, and do not weep.
"DO NOT DISTURB!" I'm trying to sleep.
For sleep I must till Judgment Day--
when God will raise me from this clay
to life eternal in Paradise
with the command: "AWAKE AND ARISE!"
My Promiscuous Muse
My promiscuous muse
is an infrequent companion.
On days like this, when
I feel the stirring of a
restless verse (like multitudinous
seed jostling in my loins), I often
feel that my best poem is yet
unborn—still growing within,
similar to the process that creates
a pearl—awaiting the outlet
of inspiration. During the lull,
while longing for the muse’s touch,
I seek solace in the sheets of
a contemporary. Occasionally I will
chance upon a superlative poem
only to recognize the coy lilt
of my muse! I snort and bellow
like a deranged bull and, crazed
with jealousy, I always resolve to
throttle the tramp when she
returns . . . then she seduces me.
I am unalive. I am not dead
Flirtatious fireflies, A late-summer breeze, A dingy-gray sky,
As the Sun Set As the Sun set on ev’ning Tide
but neither do I live: I exist
in black & white, which are uncolors
(mixed together they make gray).
Sight, sound, movement & sensation are
mere mechanics by themselves . . . love lends life
joy & enjoyment. I’ve seen music
dance with emotion; I’ve heard colors sing
in chorus & shadow wooing light. . . your visage
whispers into focus, appearing in the past
tense. Nostalgia recalls better days; intimate,
poignant nights . . . ah, those fragrant, sensuous
nights! Your eyes bristle with reproach
& damn me with disdain. I am reconciled to
remorse. I am unalive. The saline of sorrow
surges to my stubbled, haggard face;
dissipation gnaws neglected flesh & the stench
of stagnation pervades this vacant room . . .
where once the color of laughter rippled like a
rainbow; where now the funereal silence of
solitude enshrouds me in its pall &
my body is the heart’s tomb.
Haikuvale
a quiet, moonlit valley,
cricket serenade.
Shrill of a rooster,
the aroma of coffee,
first light of the day.
grass and sunflowers frolic,
the weather vane creaks.
Feeding the livestock,
pumping water, chopping wood,
tending the cash crop.
Harvest came and went,
wood-smoke and colors of Fall,
geese in migration.
the white fields and frozen pond,
bare, dejected trees.
—sinking slowly into the Sea—
I envisioned Eternity
with you, beloved, by my side.
The rhythmic pulse of ebb and swell
are breath and heartbeat of the Sea
in intercourse with Gravity—
the Sun and Moon’s amorous spell.
The Elements are lovers, too
(every Atom has a mate;
they interact and procreate),
and their offspring are our Milieu.
Pastel rays of beatific hue
portrayed a most romantic sight:
the Earth’s rendezvous with Twilight,
blushing orange, purple and blue.
were given the option of nationality, gender, I.Q.,
etc. Our being was determined by forces beyond our
control and without our consent. I am nevertheless
grateful to have been deemed worthy of Homo sapiens
status; I could just as easily have been relegated
to an inferior species, such as the simian, the
bovine, or even the insect! Yet here we are, Gods
of the Earth and just a little lower than Angels
in the hierarchy of Heaven! Some embrace the theory
of Evolution, as opposed to the more popular belief
in origin by Creation. I subscribe to the latter (of
course there is a missing link, there never was a
connection to begin with!). Others advance the
concept of Predestination, but I maintain that we are
agents of free will . . . otherwise we would be people-
puppets, as it were, incapable of deciding our own
destiny. Which brings me to my point: Don’t despise
me because I’m different; because I don’t look or
think like you; because I’m poor or afflicted. All
have inherited the handicap of human nature and we
are essentially the same—imperfect. So what have
you to be vain and puffed up about?! You’re the pot,
not the potter . . . the substance, not the source. By
what logic do you presume preeminence? Rather than
despise me for my shortcomings, why not choose,
instead, to love me for my virtues?
you were a wood-nymph and I
was a satyr who happened by.
I stopped to drink from a stream
when I saw you mirrored in a pool,
having appeared from a thicket or den.
Your nubile form was scantily clad in
a peach-colored, silk garment (more
breechcloth than skirt) and a blouse of
same, bordered with forget-me-not.
You had a dimpled, heart-shaped face
and my heart beat at a frantic pace!
I was captivated by your eyes
—long-lashed, lustrous, alluring—
they were a gray-flecked clover-green.
Your black, wavy, jasmine-scented hair
—in contrast to your fair complexion—
cascaded to your narrow waist,
accentuated by an ample bosom.
In your delicate hands you held
a gold-runed goblet of old.
Your teeth of milky bone
while your full, cherry-red lips glistened
and purred enticements as I eagerly listened:
“Drink with me, my love!” you said
“Take the vessel from my hand
and share this delicious brew
of nectar and honeydew.”
Readily I received the cryptic cup
of gold-rune and silver fashioned,
and took a gallant gulp
of the cool, fermented concoction
—which crossed my eyes and curled my hair,
and gave me such a thorough scare
that I thought I would surely perish!
Only to recognize the thought as foolish
when I opened my mouth to curse you
and was checked by what I saw
in your calm and comely brow;
for, instead of deceit and malice,
there was guileless love and solace.
So instead of a curse to harm you,
I smiled in order to charm you,
and took a cautious-but-generous sip
then handed you the ancient cup
—which you did in turn
till none remained of the brew.
Then, suddenly, somehow I knew
(decipherable only to those
whom God or goblet might choose
it read: “MADE IN JAPAN.”
Intoxicated with love, laughter and brew
you looked at me; I looked at you
and in that moment we both knew
what the other was thinking
—what we were about to say—
so we smiled, and, in unison,
thought it aloud straight away:
“I love you more than words can express,
you are the form of my happiness!”
We embraced with ineffable delight;
our limbs entangled and strained together
as our lips met in impassioned hunger . . .
Then I awakened with a start to find
it was all a product of my mind.
It had been a dream
in a forest, near a stream.
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