Poetry Power - My Life in a Cycle of Poems

Green

Bladed leaves in finely tuned

Individualistic perfection, green

And smashed down

Under my lacey, ruffled butt

Smack in the middle

Of a rowhouse yard

On a humid, Trentonian

Summer-spring day, partly cloudy;

The Promise of runny-nosed reactions

Cluttered from lack of mowing

This green delight surrounding me,

A little bitter

On the tongue of a toothless,

Baby mouth with delicate gums,

Green stains

On pink taffetta,

White ribbon head-topping

Of puerile luxury. A queen,

I was almost two, with memories

Of rod iron fences, the slight tinge

Of distant garbage on air,

The hidden hopping

Of the toads that jammed

Greeny machinery. Possible possums poked,

Sniveling squirrels settled, jaybirds

Hawking, squawked like clashing cymbals,

And a multitude of

White cabbage moths flitted

Comfortless

Like the souls of the lost,

Peace nowhere. I giggle-gurgle,

Baby soft and smooth

With soap-exchanged

Johnson and Johnson oily coatings,

Meditating upon

The next green victim -

Whoosh! It goes,

Into my baby mouth,

With the delicate gums,

Where everything within reach goes,

Eventually!

Not yet is there bad breath;

I was fresh and lucky

As a four-leafed clover,

Kelly green with possibility.

Family-dancing

Wild with glee,

We and the bards of our favorite songs

Intertwine our voices

In the early of the eventide,

Whenever Daddy gets home.

We three little ones cling,

One on each leg

And the baby perched

Precariously in Daddy's arms;

We swirl, twirl and gyrate,

Mad and giggling about each other

In a way only similar flesh knows.

The incarnate Howard's bodies

Obey a certain natural gravity,

And once we've imploded

In a cavorting frenzy,

We all collapse like supernovae

And then go our separate ways.

Everyone knows that and when,

If not why,

We so often collide with joy,

A function of a similar

DNA structure, or the premises

Of chance? A new science, perhaps?

Family-dancing, like the Hebrew men,

(Never with women if orthodox),

Or the nomadic Africans,

Or the kilted Scots?

Dance is what the climate allows;

But we and Daddy

Do it in the hothouse

That is our climate-controlled home.

Where else on Earth can one find

The joy of a family united

In the sheer fantastic moment,

Than when they dance?

We had not got round

To prayer yet...

The Christmas Yule Log

Soft chocolate cake, with ice cream

In vanilla and chocolate,

With cocoa crunchies

And green holly leaves,

Bright red berries and branches

Made out of buttercream frosting.

The usual Christmas treat.

But then, Daddy went with his cigars

Somewhere we could not follow yet.

March 1970, the same year as John Lennon;

To me, they went to the same place.

For Daddy and John, Yoko and Sean,

And me and Mommy and all the world,

I raised my fist to an orange twilight sky

One evening in the blistering summer,

And like Scarlett O-Hara,

Shook that puny fist at the Heavens,

Saying I would never forgive

The God who killed my Daddy!

"Bring him back to me,

And then I'll believe in you!"

I turned to atheistic sophistication,

After the last of the Yule logs,

When our decimated family unit

Lost the popularity of a cop's own,

And everyone in Trenton

Seemed to forget all about us.

The Christmas Yule log,

Long gone, but not forgotten,

Went the way of all other favors

We gathered in the name of

Franklin Louis Howard II,

The first black sheriff's officer

In the history of New Jersey,

A man who singlehandedly

Finished that part of World War II

That went on on a Japanese island,

Or at least by a certain legend

Sprung up by a merry widow

So much in love still.

He did it by waving a white cloth

And befriending the natives.

A man to be reckoned with,

A maverick, as she called him,

A cop's cop.

Years later,

In an ice cream parlor, I saw

A Christmas Yule log

And since, I have enjoyed it

Again. Because of the gift of faith,

Which God put into the one hand

That was not raised against him,

I have my father back!

The Prince of Peace

Princeton Day School -

Princeton, NJ, 1969 AD -

My royal and future spouse there hovered,

Waiting cautiously, guarding my life

From car accidents and contagions,

As I trekked from slum to countryside

By day, to attend lessons all week long.

Never since matched friendships,

Fascinating scenes,

Opportunities fell like pearls off of a cord;

Wonderful Counselor let me grow

Academically, while he peered through

The lattices of my modesty,

Waiting for the right moment

To burst in.

I sang "Jubilate Deo

Without even paying attention

To the man it was about.

I said the Lord's Prayer every day,

I sang Handel's "Messiah"

And Lutkin's "Sevenfold Amen",

But I had nothing but abstraction

In my mind as I operated automatic,

Like a car in third gear.

God had stopped being real

Since Daddy died, although I listened

With accustomed accustomment

To the Gospel stations every Sunday,

Comforting my widowed mother,

Defending His decisions to her

While I knew nothing of the immanence

Of his presence on Earth

Right around the corner

And down the street.

These were peaceful days,

Some of the best in my life;

But looking back, I don't know

How I survived without prayer,

Without the Eucharist,

Without the concrete presence

Of God; I was sunk with

The glaring omissions

And the hollowness

Of the Protestants.

I would have no peace now

Without a God I could touch.

An Anchorite Wants to Surrender

Quirky humor,

Palpable intellect,

Sunshiny smile,

The Piglet man is

Always the center of attention,

A Pied Piper of musicians,

A player to be reckoned with,

The Bojangles of violin,

Who I wish

Would play me like one.

It has taken me years

To want a man that bad; I am

A 47-year-old

Practically virgin-type,

An anchorite of considerable dignity

Finally wants

To pour herself

Onto all of a man;

She craves his very essence

And needs his touch.

There she sits

Waiting for him

As eagerly and steadily

As she did for Christ.

And should he die first,

She would crave Death itself

And secure his legacy.

What's in a Rider's Stormy Name? He lost his looks!

Nigel - nigh gel,

I can use shower gel.

Nyquil - no more flu.

Digel - no more stomach aches.

Paxil - no more depression.

Tranquil - I'll be serene - all beyond him, now.

Jonquil - a flower I'd like from him.

NigelandVicki - not "Born in the USA"

he said, "But in England, I."

V's are icky, when butterflies.

Nigeland - my world.

Kennedy - Clannad's Eye.

Ken and Barbie - and Barbie barbs.

Ned - Dy with me.

Denny's - Let's get a Grand Slam.

Nigel - he'll like leggins!

On a blonde -

Especially in a neiged den.

But he said to me "die!", yet

I've had no orgasms from this man yet!

He was back to elevator music

In recent times - what a fall!

Snatching, not stealing

Nigel is my world,

But my home is not this world!

I may never escape his influence

In this life as long as I

Watch tv, listen to the radio,

Read the paper; but then,

I haven't for years.

Will he ever get to my home?

That is up to the Father,

The final arbiter

After the Christ accountant

Weighs and measures.

Should I see him in Paradise,

That rogue, that bad boy,

I'd fall again -but there is no

Guarantee either of us

Will be there.

Perhaps we will make

Our bed in Sheol,

And find Hell pleasant.

But I won't let Hell happen

To me and I hope

Hell is not for him.

Wise up, you black and white ugly man,

With the myriadly photogenic grace;

Priestly, indeed,

For torment is worse

When we know better.

I'll snatch you out of there somehow;

I owe it to the current GNP.

Nigel Kennedy's Purpled and Hazed Hands

Only slipping with deliberation,

Agile and keen, adroit,

Immaculate and loverly,

Incensed with rosin dust,

Could tickle a piano

Or land confidently

O some lucky erogenous zone.

Does anyone see

How my heart becomes rapid,

And the pressure's on?

I could do nothing but

Slip into the shadow of

This legend,

The man who could have done anything.

He snatched from Lucifer

The right to fill the wind

With auditory invitations

To all manner

Of Thais delights,

And all other pleasures.

What else is classical music

But lovemaking?

He makes love

To his violin,

While I pretend,

Make-believe,

The violin is me -

"But it ain't you, little nigger!"

Tweeted the little bird.

The One I Love - Now

Lily-white, his sickness disturbed me,

And so, I loved him, lily of the field,

Playing for his life, playing it away,

Dying over a lost father

That would eventually make him

Hate whatever he loves.

At that age I crave him,

For want of a coinage,

Like ice cream outside taken

On some early October day,

Sunny-spring October, the fall,

Creamy with autumnal leafiness.

That skin so taut and young,

Powdered a bit, perspiring like the dew.

To me he seems like an athlete

More than an artist; yet, while I climb

The dizzying heights of his shoulders,

I look both down and up

And I see me.

Christ is Mine

Christ is Mine, why change?

Men and their caprice,

Their petty differences,

Their silly demands,

Leave me sad and cold.

Just as the Apostles

Loved Jesus at one time

And then ran away,

So, men have run from me.

They bring in their old women,

One or more;

They hide in the shadows

Of an ill-placed parking lot

But they always come to

The same conclusion:

Stay with her,

Vicki will understand.

She is white and

Vicki is black

And white is always superior.

She is skinny

And Vicki is plump:

What an embarassment

For the family!

She has long, white woman's hair,

And Vicki - well, the comb

Goes through, but it doesn't

Quite make the grade!

Some say that Vicki is an animal,

Sick and sad and poor;

We don't want

A bad reputation among us!

He weeps - why weep?

Because he loves Vicki more

Than he loves her!

People are always telling her

To shut up - what horrors

Would she say in gentile company?

Leave her alone, then;

She has no friends, anyway,

Or so they say...

Why take a sad song and make it better?