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| Dorothy meets Christina. Used with permission: www.Laurenbee.com |
I once dreamed of a poem and wrote it down within minutes upon waking.
Once. It was a magical experience, and it happened when I was in college.
I immediately submitted it to The Juggler, Notre Dame's literary publication, and it was immediately rejected. Undaunted, I convinced a night editor to let me publish it as classified ad in The Observer, Notre Dame's student newspaper.
This proved even more magical, as it caught the attention of someone who has since become a lifelong friend.
"The Wizard of Oz" was her favorite movie. In addition, and having nothing to do with the poem, "Christina's World" was her favorite painting.
UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) proclaimed March 21 as such in 1999. Perhaps because it's the first full day of spring, but also because "poetry reaffirms our common humanity by revealing to us that individuals, everywhere in the world, share the same questions and feelings."
What follows are 16 original poems: six in free verse, five sonnets and five haikus (accompanied by original photos). Some poems date back to Notre Dame when, emboldened by "For Dorothy," I enrolled in Sonia Gernes' class in poetry writing.
One even references old-fashioned news print, in homage to The New York Daily News, which my Dad arranged to have delivered to my dorm room, so I wouldn't be homesick in Indiana.
"Ford to City: Drop Dead" read The News' most famous headline during that era. Bob Brink, son of the editor who wrote that headline, was the night editor at The Observer who allowed me to print "For Dorothy."
As it turns out, I don't need anyone's permission to print my poems anymore. Enjoy.
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For Dorothy
Salem in Oz.
A witch burns slowly
in the wicked west,
melting like the frost
in the early Kansas sun.
The tin man is crying,
the lion is scared,
and they’ve auctioned
the tigers and bears.
Oh my,
Dorothy,
there's no place like home;
there's no place like home.
I never meant to be this far from you --
alone.
Sonnet 1
There's something in the air, or so they say.
It's certainly not magic or the heat.
It's just the moon, white-full and young -- the way,
like water, people splash and spill beneath.
And you and I remind me of the tides.
We hate and love; we rise and fall. It scares
me that I don't know why or that I find
no fault in us, just something in the air.
So still above us rests the moon, content
and seemingly unmoved. It doesn't hate
or love; it doesn't care -- without relent,
without a passing judgment of our fate.
The moonlight falls like smoke between the mist.
What fools we are compared to such as this.
Haiku (Rutgers Gardens)
Captured, brown and green,
We hold hands in bright colors,
And head for the light.
Lullaby
(For C and M - revised 2/1/20)
I'm so very tired of you,
of your, excuse the expression, baby blue eyes;
your self-satisfied coo;
and innocence, unproved.
I don't know what to do anymore
with your needles and sins enough for two.
I hate this room,
the way the bears in the shadows
hide their claws and teeth,
and stare at me --
silent, stuffed and vaguely amused.
Like you.
Honey, they have their sights set on you.
One by one by one, they're waiting for you.
They'll creep from their lairs,
and adjust to the moon.
Then slip into your shoes,
and eat your food.
Sleep soundly, love, amid the gloom.
I’m bound to stay in this room ‘til you wake,
fulfilling our mutual fate.
Taking shards from the break of day,
I will threaten the bears
with their ruin.
So, say what you won't and cry what you will:
But what would you do without me?
And I – without you?
Sonnet 2
Adam was a madman; and Paradise,
a fraud. In only this do I believe:
the rhythm of your constancy. Oh Christ,
your eyes alone can prove infinity.
It is your love that has unraveled all.
You haunt my sleep. One moment, I balance
with stars beneath my feet. The next, I fall
from you, toward earth -- my dream, a graceless dance.
Before I land, my senses gain control.
Awake, alone, I fear the rustling sound
of insubstantial leaves, like wind-swept souls.
My heart (alive or dead?) seems strangely bound.
This is the slow, uneven beat of Hell:
I have loved you always, but never well.
Haiku (Citi Field)
Rain at dusk in Queens.
Exploding sky to the west.
Gatsby in New York.
Funny Papers
I love you, Brenda Starr.
I love the here and there of your eyes
in the wrinkles of the morning light.
I love your red hair,
and the precise curve of your thighs.
How easily I can read your mind.
I love you, Brenda Starr.
I love the taste of the crumb-shaped freckles
sprinkled sloppily upon your arms.
I love the trace of your wet, warm, coffee-stained parts…
the sticky feel of your colorful Sunday clothes…
your thin and dirty weekday black and whites.
I love you, Brenda Starr.
Your bloodless heart.
I love the tell-tale smell of you on my fingertips
and how, on everything I touch,
you leave your mark.
Sonnet 3
(11 Roses for N)
Alas, alack, I have to disagree
with Shakespeare: my love is rare -- her hair red,
like an Irish setter's, and her eyes green,
the envy of the cat beneath my bed.
I see, in her reflective gaze, nine lives --
defying death (despite devout clichés),
perchance to live forever in this rhyme.
Her form belies my unpoetic ways.
If God's Own eye is something like the sun,
then true love is a flower, I propose.
And my love is a dozen, minus one.
Imperfectly inscrutable: one rose,
one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose,
one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose.
Found Haiku
Art all around me.
Fading reveals the beauty,
and rust never sleeps.
12 Weeks in a Playground
Around the world in 84 days,
over and back around.
There's nothing to do; there's nothing to do
on a hot afternoon in New Haven.
On a hot afternoon, a single balloon
is passing the day, floating away --
around the world day after day,
lost in the sounds of the crowd.
It's always the same; it's always the same.
The children are laughing,
while I go insane.
Odyssey in Newark
A siren on a stage
sings soft jazz to the slow lights,
while Odysseus bides his time
with ladies who sip daiquiris.
The syncopated piano
has a distant sound.
There are no memories here.
No one is homeward bound.
Sonnet 4
A never-ending whisper in my dreams
belies my vane attempts at normalcy --
fluttering wings or muffled, distant screams.
Intimate shades of tone, the source unseen.
And yet, this is no disembodied sound.
I recognize some element of pain.
I sense an urgency the darkness shrouds --
an outstretched arm, perhaps… It's you again.
I almost feel your breath upon my face.
I almost see your form beside my bed.
At dawn I find this ghost has been erased,
and wonder fills my silent hours instead.
What alchemy has turned our love to fear?
What god is this that only I can hear?
Haiku That Begins a Suburban Trilogy
Backyard trees peering
over the fence, judging me,
like nosy neighbors.
A Tale of New Jersey
I summon you tonight, Evangeline.
As I behold the passage of time
In the breath of the bone-chilling cold.
My old black dog.
Cloudy-eyed, shedding,
Struggles to her feet and
Shuffles to my side.
I scratch her dry nose,
And open the back porch door,
Exposing the darkness.
The crack in my bones.
Come, Evangeline,
Hear the scuttling of time.
The claws of the moments we lost.
My words in the bone-chilling cold.
I long for the warmth of our souls.
I mourn for the warmth of our souls.
Sonnet 5
I have encased my soul in tempered glass,
displayed it on the mantel in our home.
The frame collects the dust beside a vase
of silk flowers embed in Styrofoam.
Beneath this centerpiece, a hungry fire,
timer-controlled, heats wood that doesn't burn.
The warmth is real, and I am safe. Desire
consumed, I wait alone for love's return.
Then in you walk... Alarms trip. Cats take flight
and lose several lives. A fake church bell sounds.
You flip the light. Night is day; day is night.
Hamlet, without doubt; Ophelia, undrowned.
My kingdom would be bound in a nutshell,
if not for you: our lives, suburban hell.
Three Haikus Walk Into a Bar...*
The first orders beer.
The second, a sparkling water.
The third poem stays dry.
* Special thanks to my friend, the great and powerful Jason Moriber. He led a group of us on a pub crawl of literary Manhattan bars, including the White Horse Tavern, on the eve of The Ides of March. May we not go gentle into that good night.
Also, shameless plug, here's a short story I once posted here.
A world exists side by aide with this one that we are in, where there are tables full of pies and cannoli all are us and you are reading your poetry aloud for me. Every now and then we stop and eat. I need one more life for this.
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