Stones In The River

I can feel
Your hands
Placing words
In my memory
Like stones
In a river

Words
That create
Small ripples
In the
Current

Small
Impediments
In the shallows
Around which
Everything else
Flows

Integrity

You can feel it
At your throat

Pulling tightly
Like the noose

Of a rope
That won’t

Let loose
That rejects

All lies
That accepts

Neither Truce
Nor compromise

That demands
Only Truth

Absolute Truth
And nothing less

And until it gets
Its way

It takes
your breath away

The Lightning Strike

Quick
Precise

Like a samurai
sword

Forged
from a

Single flash
of light

Splits the tree
In half

Bow to the rain
Let the storm pass

The Early Bird

Today I read
That the Early Bird
Became extinct

The Early Bird
Was best known
For catching
The even rarer
Early Bird Worm

Once a predominate cliché
It was last sighted
Decades ago
And joins the ranks
Of the Quick Brown Fox
And the Bird in the Hand

The Contract

I have read the fine print
Of life’s basic contract
It contains no guarantees
Expressed or implied
It covers birth
And the right to a life
of an indeterminable length
And nothing in between
It is non-transferable
And void at death
Just sign -
It’s the only deal you’ll get

The Itinerary of the Day

At four a.m.
There is nothing

But stillness -
Holding its breath

In the early
Morning darkness

Just outside
The window

Waiting for the
The birds

To begin
Their chattering

Waiting for
The shrill

Whistle of
The diesel train

As it leaves
Glenn Street station

At the bottom
Of the hill

Waiting
For the barges

To blow
Their mournful

Horns
As they make

Their way
Across the bay

This is the
Itinerary of the day -

Everyday
Be still and listen

It only lasts
A moment

The River

We run in parallel
With a river

Whose water
Is a sweet sermon

Flowing down
from the mountain

Whose length
Is longer than a lifetime

That offers no shallow
Point of crossing

That marks the divide
Between two worlds

Here
And the other side

That drives us
Down stream

To a point
Where we

And the water
Become one

Before it empties
Into the sea

Creation of the Universe (1)

When the Sage visits, he likes to tell stories about how the universe came into existence. This is one of them – one of many – since, he says, we live in a multiverse with multiple outcomes and realities.

---

The Master Juggler stands
Poised
Ready to begin

He holds in one hand
A perfect universe of Yin -
The color of pure light

And in the other
A perfect universe of Yang -
The color of pure night

Tossing one and then
The other into the air
He sets into motion-

The two opposing forces
That spin in a perfect circle -
Pulling and repelling,

Gaining momentum
Until he loses control
And they collide -

Shattering the Yin
Into billions of stars

That spill across
The infinite darkness
Of the Yang

To form the
First universe

-----

“So,” I asked, “A juggler created the Universe?”

The Sage paused momentarily: “No, the juggler only caused it to happen. The forces needed to create the universe, the Yin and the Yang, already existed.”

“Then who created the Yin and the Yang?” I asked.

The sage laughed, “His assistant!”

“But you didn’t mention anything about his assistant.” I said.

Again, the Sage laughed, “Did I have to?”

Seed

See
Can
Eye
The
As
Far
As
World
The
Into
Back
Color
Bringing
Poems
Wild
Of
Field
A
In
Word
First
The
becoming
Sunlight
Warm
Of
Promise
The
Towards
Darkness
The
Of
Out
Upwards
Drawn
Is
That
Seed
The
Like

A Place of Departure

The bare landscape
Of this page

Seems an impossible
Journey

A blank map
That offers

A beginning
And nothing else

A place
From which to start

And perhaps
Never return to

Or even
Look back upon

It marks
A point

Of origin
And departure

It is how
I arrived here

It is where
I always begin

The Adventures of Bike Boy

My attempts at teaching myself to ride a two wheel bike were disastrous and probably as dangerous as the planes the Wright Brothers tried to put up in the air before they finally got one to fly. But my entire life has been based on teaching myself first before going to someone else for help. And while it hasn’t always been the best or safest approach its worked most of the time.

The first house I grew up in had a large, sloping yard, enclosed by a cyclone fence. (Why we had such a large yard was never made clear to me. My father was born in Brooklyn and never gained an appreciation of nature or gardening or mowing the lawn. He was attracted to things cerebral and mechanical.)

Well, my plan for learning to ride a two-wheel bike seemed sound to me. I would mount the bike at the top of the hill, gravity would give me momentum and propel me forward (so I wouldn’t have to pedal, freeing me up to concentrate) and I would descend down the hill perfectly balanced and stop at the bottom – Ta Da! And if I didn’t stop on my own accord the cyclone fence would stop me. One thing I left out. I would be wearing a yellow rubber -raincoat - sans hood - to project me from the wet, dewy morning grass.

I ascended the hill, pushing my red two-wheel bike. Upon reaching the top, I donned my yellow rubber raincoat – sans hood - mounted the bike and began the descent. At the age of six, had I known something about the slope of a hill, or the effects of gravity on a mass in motion, I might have been prepared for what happened next. The hill that I was now descending, at an ever-increasing acceleration, was not smooth. It was pitted with small shallow holes that I had dug into it while playing with my Tonka construction trucks and from the many invasions and wars my army men had participated in over the past couple of years. As I passed over the holes, I could feel my teeth loosening.

As I bounced along, still upright and balanced, I noticed the fence getting closer. Now, keep in mind that all of what I am describing happened quickly and that I have slowed it down in a linear narration to help you visualize it. Back to the fence. The fence was getting closer. The time had come to apply the brakes. Brakes applied. No effect on acceleration. Sliding on wet dewy grass. Need friction. Wet dewy grass has no friction. Fence stops bike and boy in yellow rubber raincoat - sans hood. Bike Boy on ground. Sky spinning – or is Bike Boy spinning. Bike Boy finally gets up and pushes bike back up to the top of the hill. Bike Boy goes down hill, again…and again…and again…and finally, Bike Boy is convinced plan is flawed and gives up.

Bike Boy eventually learns to ride a two-wheel bike, but can’t recall when or how, leading him to believe that if you attack a problem, even a mundane problem, with a novel solution - it's not important if you succeed or fail because you will acquire a memory that you can look back upon the rest of your life; but if you take a conservative approach to a problem and apply no originality or novelty, you may arrive at the same destination, but you will remember nothing of the journey.

PS - Bike Boy applied the former approach to learning how to ride a motorcycle in Morocco sixteen years later and remembers the experiences of his two year journey thirty years later.

Superia Vena Cava

The Sign

After the mass
I follow the pall bearers
Down the steps
Of the Church
To the hearse
Waiting at the curb
To take us
To the cemetery

The men sway in unison
None of them friends
Of the family
Simply Anonymous men
Who come when called
To perform the service
Of carrying a casket
From the church to the hearse

Their last task done
The funeral director
Pays them
And they disperse

As we pull away
From the curb
I notice a small sign
In the window
Of a shop
Across the street
It says simply:
“Souls Repaired”

A white haired man
(the shoemaker)
Stares back at me
Then turns away
And resumes his work

For a brief moment
The reflection in the window
The church – the hearse -
Becomes a parallel universe
(But in reverse)

And then abruptly
It’s erased
From the glass
By our quick acceleration
Into the traffic

I’m certain
I am the only one
Who saw that sign
In the window
The only one
Struck by its irony

Had I been the priest
That day
I would have skipped
The mass –the eulogy
And said simply –

“This is my sermon:
Look for the signs
And you will find them -
They are everywhere -
They are the work of simple men
Fishermen – carpenters –
Give them your attention -
They will lead you
To where you need to go.”

Surgical Scars

The surgical scars
Inscribed on your chest
Need no translation –

They were written
Into your skin
Years ago by a surgeon

Who battled Death
While you lay anesthetized,
Living breath to breath

They speak not
Of victory or conquest
But rather
Of a humble truce

The postponment
of a moment
to be addressed
at some future date

A Sack of White Rice

In the supermarket
The 10 lb. bag of white rice
So plain and non-descript
(But yet so symbolic and basic)
Sitting on the bottom shelf -
Always attracts my attention

I like picking it up
Because it has bulk and weight
I like to feel the contents
Shifting around, changing shape
(More like a fluid than a solid)

I like reading the simple directions:
2 cups of rice - 1 quart of water
Bring to a boil - cover - simmer
The individual grains becoming one
In Zen-like perfection

I think of its potential
To feed so many hungry mouths-
I envision it being distributed
Sack by sack off the back
Of a flat bed truck
In some drought ridden country

And then I think to myself
How misplaced this sack of rice seems
Sitting on the bottom shelf
Of this suburban store
And I take it over to the aisle
Where they are distributing food
To the poor

But the men in that Aisle
All have guns (even the children)
And they say: Don't bring us rice.
You better leave this aisle
Or we will take your life -
Do you want to be dead?

So, I leave with the sack of rice
And as I put it back
On the bottom shelf -
The sack splits
And a thousand bullets
Spill out onto the floor.

This, I think to myself,
Is what they were looking for.

Residue of a Dream

You disappear for years -
And then suddenly reappear
Momentarily in a dream.

You say - I cannot stay.
I must go –
I have no purpose here.

You are free to go -
But in that fraction
of a second before you depart

There is enough time for me
To sense your hesitation
And perhaps the uncertainty
Of your decision.

On awakening -
There is only a vague recollection
Of a woman’s silhouetted figure
Fading into the darkness

The rest is vapor -
The residue of a dream -
A memory etched in the air.

Slowly, as it disappears -
A single strand of your hair
Floats, flashes in the sunlight -
Confirming that you were here.