Poems Written While Waiting

Written While Waiting

They say we are waiting for a sign
A reprieve or a benediction--They fathom not.
And yet I see clearly that time has frozen,
Into the waiting for a gentle kiss.
Into the anticipation of a stranger's touch.

The ferries were full at sunrise.
They took with them their cane backed chairs,
Their movable prams; their fears and hopes.

This afternoon the gray streets echoed
With the dust of their leavings,
With their wondering at the news.

The Others, they do not see the hope to be found
In the terrible beauty of Unknowing.

They passed me by! Me, with my quiet resolve.
They did not care to look as deeply,
At this advent which we two call fruition.

They do not see as I can see, they do not.
That waiting for you is action, action enough.
That as you gently, gently make your way here,
My heart beats ever so fast--faster and faster
Towards your gentle embrace.
--

Beneath The Roots, Summer Has Gone

The warp and weft of This--
The sinew and bone.
The twine and crease of This--
Untested, forsooth, unknown.

We make an assumption of dependability
Despite our record of frailty
At the receipt of awkward news
And the polite refusal of service.

The filament and the base of This--
It's buttons and it's thread.
The cartilage and marrow of This--
Coming towards an Indian summer's dread.
--

Indeterminate Pleasures

Five things keep me warm,
One, my slow hand curved beneath your pillow,
A kind word or Two before the slumber.
Third, The gentle curve of your hip, beckoning;
The rise and fall of your sleep's soft breath at Four.
The Fifth, I will keep secret until we meet again.
--

Untitled

In this small room, these people have no names,
Their faces are blank with jealousy. They stand unquiet,
Shuffling their feet at the slightest touch.

There are times when it seems oppressive
And at times a selfish zone of comfort. I trust as much,
That the loneliness derived from pain,
Will keep this small, small room warm.

A Busy Whistler

I keep at it, such a busy whistler they see.
Walking in line for everyone to nod off.
I don't keep my hands in my pockets,
Neither do I let them hang limp.
I keep one as a fist,
The other one as a knife.
I walk quickly past the whispering,
When I walk, I walk with purpose.

Trigger Too Soon

These things pull at me.
During the witching hour they stare me in the face,
And keep me company until I am dazed.

The sound of silence is a prelude to their arrival.
For even though I am strong,
I am but a memory expressed in the flesh.
Lord, why must I digress?

These days the senses, I fear, are talon sharp.
Leaving me dazzled and consumed,
They leave me reeling--shame faced.

After all there is nothing I can do.
Is it not my nature but to hope?
My ashes have yet to be consumed, my flesh to be burned.
Lord, why must I confess?

These words make me tremble,
They call me to flight with resolve,
And spurn these wings with jealous rage.

A Half Life

Or your bitterness and ambivalence;
Your fence sitting that shuns the dawn.
Your self blinding stubbornness that flees from the new day.
A half life.

Your choice of twilight, peeling walls and forgotten truths.
You have forgotten too much and have cherished even less.
All your calories empty.

09JAN2009

From An Older Notebook: A Love Poem

My wife is the Nile, She is God to my Nimrod.
Receptacle of the sun.
The moon is her chair, gathered with stars.
Gemini in the House of Eden.
A gesture from her raises the tides
And barrens the Wadi far away.

She is Aldebaran to me, showering the crop.
More than the seven,
So much more than the twins.
Hush--my heresy angers Gabriel at the door.
Ab Incunabulis.
À la belle étoile.
...
The Witching Hour, 02JUNE2000
From infancy
Under the beautiful star

Notes From An Older Notebook

What is love--what is the love between a man and a woman?
Precious and true--to grow from scratch.
Promises
Meeting
Testing
Seeing time for what it really is.
Is it what I see in movies?
In books
In the walking

In between tears I sense it.
Where is peace then?
It seems love is a disappearing act
Of visiting hearts
Of unrelated relationships

Toward the lighting of candles and tying of knots,
Or toward the quiet sleep and clasping of hands?

Thank you
Tonight
Tomorrow
'Til time slows down.

I think
The music will never have to stop.

24 January 2004

I ask you to look into a mirror.
You ask why and comb your hair.

I ask you to stop and breathe.
You smirk and run away.

I ask you to stop living a lie.
You continue with your slow death.