Poem: 'Burlington County, 1984'

My friend (and wonderful poet), Jared (aka @the_babyfaced_poet) has started a video series on IG -- "The Best Words Show" -- featuring writers reading one of their works.

He kindly featured me this week, reciting a poem that was recently selected to be included in a new anthology, "New Jersey Bards Poetry Review 2025" -- available this month, with thanks to editor James P. Walker.

This particular poem was inspired by a workshop (to edit down something I've formerly written) from teacher/poet Michael Paul Thomas, and a prompt (about devils) from The NJ Poetry Circle, a supportive group that meets every Tuesday evening at The Sanctuary community space in Butler, NJ.

Below is Jared's video of me, after I had recited "Dover Beach" for his sound check and nervously laughed about how I used to recite it to my daughters as a lullaby when they were young -- followed by the text.

Thank you, Jared, James, Michael, and Sofia and all at the Poetry Circle (and thank you, Jordan, for letting me know about this place)...

Burlington County, 1984

Driving up the Jersey Turnpike,

skirting a million acres of acidic, sandy soil.

It’s almost dawn.

 

In the passenger’s seat

Hester closes her eyes, adjusts the halo

embroidered atop her California Angels cap,

and burrows under my letter jacket for warmth.

 

Bright Venus and the rising sun accent

the needles of the pines lining the highway,

casting shadows that flicker and tremble

like my desire.

 

I wish I may, I wish I might, now,

make the sun stand still below that distant horizon...

 

Af if my car were a Mason jar.

As if I could punch air holes in the top

and examine this curiosity named Hester

 

lazily stretching her butterfly limbs.

I would take my car in my hand

and hold the both of us up

to that faint and heavenly light.

 

This tiny version of myself I try to preserve

is me at my best, oblivious in young love,

blissfully teased by the Hand of Fate,

warm, palm up, resting on my thigh.

 

As if, in its lines, I could divine our future together.

As if I weren’t the Jersey Devil in disguise.

About That Poem: 'Byzantium in Jersey'

My grandfather, 1969, Budd Lake

This is the poem I read at the S.P.E.A.K. open mic in March at the Puffin Cultural Forum in Teaneck, NJ.

I began my reading by reciting from memory the first part of a favorite poem, "Sailing to Byzantium" by Yeats. The workshop before the open mic was about structure in poetry, and I have always appreciated the subtle structure of Yeats' masterpiece -- 10 beats per line with an ab/ab/ab/cc rhyme in each of its stanzas.

I was also pleased to read in Robert Pinsky's autobiography "Jersey Breaks" that "Sailing to Byzantium" was a favorite of his too.

So, with apologies to those two great poets, here's the full text of my homage:

Byzantium in Jersey

 

This, my grandfather, in his Sunday best:

a cigarette dangling from its holder,

a tattered suit, a worn Italian vest,

with me at his side, decades less older.

He does not hold my hand. There is no rest.

He lectures as we walk, points my shoulders

to Monarch butterflies in flight toward me

along the shores of Budd Lake, New Jersey.

 

This, a back country road, is my classroom:

milkweed, honeysuckle, red columbine,

hummingbirds, spotted touch-me-nots in bloom,

blue robins’ eggs, goldenrod, dandelions.

My grandfather names them for me, assumes

I will remember that sparrow, that vine,

the chicory, those edible lilies,

the mew of mimicking catbirds we see.

 

Like the sage I loved, these vanished from me.

 

I live in the suburbs, reminisce now

about ancestors. One Sunday, I walk

the Hackensack riverbank in a drought.

A murder of crows chase a gyring hawk,

then roost in the sun on a golden bough.

Hearing their echoing caws, I pause, stalked.

This, I know, is my father’s father’s song

of what is past, or passing, or to come.

---------

Here's a video of my reading:

Tomorrow Is Yesterday

Like Charlie Brown running toward a kickoff with Lucy spotting the football, I submit poems every year for the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards sponsored by The Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College.

Every year, I never hear anything back. Undaunted, I asked my wife to choose what I should submit this past January. These were new poems I wrote following weekly prompts by New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes.

She picked out several, but not one of my favorites, "Tomorrow Is Yesterday," referencing a "Star Trek" episode that aired in 1967.

I took another look at it after attending a Tuesday "Poetry Circle" at The Sanctuary in Butler. The evening's prompt was "brave new worlds." I immediately thought of "strange new worlds" and revised my poem a bit (no piece of writing is ever "finished" in my world).

Then I read it this past Thursday at Boonton Coffee's monthly open mic. That's me in the photo, taken by the talented poet Renee. Thank you, Renee, and thank you, NJ Poetry Circle.

Tomorrow Is Yesterday

 

It’s a Thursday night in January 2025,

And I have conjured my father in this poem.

 

Dad is 58 years younger,

And we are in the same living room in New Jersey.

 

He has boldly returned from the dead, 

And we are watching “Star Trek” together.

 

Suddenly, on the liquid dilithium crystal TV display,

Multicolored lights begin to flash. Sirens sound.

 

Dad holds tight to the arms of his chair,

Rocking side to side in an exaggerated motion.

 

We are aboard the Starship Enterprise,

Slingshotting around the sun fast enough to reverse time.

 

Arriving on a Thursday night in January 1967,

The day 2 feet of snow fell in Chicago.

 

My father sits in his easy chair, 58 years ago,

775 miles away from the storm.

 

He is a metaphorical thousand miles away from me

In the same room where I am a frightened boy,

 

Nestled on a worn orange Danish modern couch,

Who now clearly foresees his father’s death.

 

I join my former self there,

Wrapping my small body with a protective arm.

 

I whisper in my ear:

“It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK.”

 

Then a tractor beam envelops me and my past.

Its light absorbs us.

 

My grasp on myself dissolves.

Credits begin to roll, and I am transported

 

By the otherworldly vessel of this poem,

Back to my living room in January 2025...

 

Where it’s snowing in New Jersey.

An implanted image has wormed into my brain.

 

I see Dad, seemingly asleep, in a ghostly chair.

He has become Captain Kirk at the conn.

 

In this strange new world,

He still changes my future forever.

A Baker's Dozen of Haikus

Back in November, I decided to pair an original image with a caption in haiku, and post these on social media every Monday morning. So far, that gives me 13 image/haikus, which you can view on Instagram by searching on the hashtag "#mondaymorninghaiku📝" -- OR...

Just look below 🙂 (and follow me at @bvarphotos... I'll follow you back there).

Wizards are sleeping
Emerald City at dawn
There’s no place like home

Eleven roses.
Incomplete, without meaning. 
One rose, just now. Home.

I drink beer alone.
I only drink wine with you.
I like wine better.

This haiku, for you.
A memory at Christmas.
Music in the air.

You attract full moons
My center of gravity
You cause the sunrise

Fifth Avenue lights
A cathedral in shadows
Invisible prayers

Another year gone
But I offer hope: this poem
Creates a new world

Animal robots
picturesque and colorful,
their zoo in shadows

Crossing Abbey Road,
making all my nowhere plans.
Worlds at my command.

Bottle an angel. 
Drink it dry. Savor its taste.
Hang it from a star.

The reflecting pool
Holds a penny for his thoughts,
A dollar for hers.

Boardwalk ghosts possess
the Jersey Shore in winter,
chill the ocean air.

Falls starting to freeze,
Waters churning underneath.
Me, from a distance.

Images and Haikus

Recently, every Monday, I've begun posting my photos, using original haikus as captions. Here are a few examples.

If you want to follow along, check out my Instagram or Bluesky (new) feeds. I'll follow you back there.

You attract full moons
My center of gravity
You cause the sunrise

This haiku, for you.
A memory at Christmas.
Music in the air.

(In front of Irving Berlin's former residence in NYC)

Wizards are sleeping
Emerald City at dawn
There’s no place like home

---------

PS... An Abecedarian Haiku (first letter of each line in alphabetical order), with an image from London, posted at year-end.

Another year gone

But I offer hope: this poem

Creates a new world