the beckoning call
.
.
.
.
Winter’s icy voice,
.
.
an apathetic hiss through
.
.
gangways and alleys,
.
.
.
.
the callous slicing
.
.
across streets and tender skin.
.
.
there’s no reprieve in
.
.
.
.
this frigid metropolis,
.
.
stripped naked when ice winds sneak,
.
.
under window sills…
.
.
.
.
through mortar and psyche…
.
.
stirring the blackened mold of
.
.
toxic memories.
.
.
.
.
it’s the helplessness
.
.
against this relentless howl…
.
.
the beckoning call
.
.
.
.
of the white season…
.
.
the rerun of fatal fears..
.
.
of hibernation…
.
.
.
.
i dream of the womb,
.
.
in amniotic innocence
.
.
pregnant with Hope.
.
.
.
.
i believe in Hope,
.
.
I believe in Redemption
.
.
and in Renewal.
.
.
.
.
to erase my eyes
.
.
of each cruelty i’ve seen,
.
.
.
dear friends…these two poems were always planned to be companion pieces, i was just waiting for ‘the day the leaves fall’ to combine them. oddly enough, the day ‘respite’ posted, the wind played it’s part. this beautiful instrumental played it’s part as well, the second poem was written to the tempo of the music. if you pick it up, passages in the poem should coincide with crescendos in the song. ty, and i hope you enjoy!
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. respite.
.
.
.
the still Autumn wind
.
.
suspending leaves in… mid fall,
.
.
resting in blue sky….
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
of all that i hold dear.
.
.
.
.
.
.
dear friends…if this poem posts, it will be a minor miracle.
my internet service has been down for days as the geniuses from ATT,
try and figure out what’s wrong. WP is still not allowing me to
comment or ‘like’ a post, so my apologies to those i faithfully follow
if i’ve missed some of your work.
dear friends…i thought it was important to make clear that this poem is a story, it is fiction and it has nothing to do with my day to day, loving relationship with my partner Scout and i. i guess i muddied the waters a little bit when i spoke about my momentary melancholy, it happens to me from time to time for no apparent reason. i just took the opportunity to put those feelings into words, and that’s what this story is.
so sorry if i created any confusion.
.
.
this poem is meant to be read as this song plays in the background
.
.
.
.
.
even in the small apartment they shared
he could now carefully manipulate his body
so that no part of him ever touched her in passing
in the cramped kitchen, reaching into the fridge
at the sink, rushing to get ready for work
as if her skin didn’t grieve
the absense of his touch, as if she
couldn’t truly remember when he didn’t need a reason
to press up against her, just because he needed to
as if her lips, didn’t miss parting for his
she’ll admit to being slow
to fully absorb, what had changed between them
or maybe it was just her easy nature again
smoothing over the rough spots
blaming herself, for whatever might be wrong
at first she thought
it was just another mood he was in, a phase
she would wake up any morning now, and this could all be gone
back to when they shared more than expenses and a place to sleep gone… without a word spoken about any of it
it’s not that he was unkind, and it’s
not that he would say things that would upset her, he knew better he just never said anything right anymore….
yet they both played their charaade in public, it was
when they were alone together, that the silence screamed loudest
in the dimly lit rooms,
filled with 40 watt bulbs and questions that could never be asked end tables crowded with yellowing memories, framed pictures of their early years together, smiles and endless chatter during their torrid romance when everything seemed possible
when… he said everything right, all the words
she ever dreamed of hearing from a man
all she ever imagined a man might make her body feel
and now he flinches, at an accidental brush across his arm
like her presence… is an imposition in his life
now, it’s a fear that grips her chest
when she dares to face the possibility of this truth
she’s learned… she takes comfort in the hollow pain
her loneliness a reliable lover now, she stays
because it is far less frightening, than what she doesn’t know . . .
.
.
.
because no love should ever just fade…
there is no reconciliation in apathy
no healing in the cruel silence of ambivalence
an unsteady self is left shaken
attempting to answer questions that pleaded to be
but were never answered
.
.
because love
deserves more than
a cowardly exit . .
dear friends, i thought i might use Friday to revive some of the stories i wrote in prose, before embarking on this poetic journey of mine. my eyes have difficulty reading prose these days, my own included and i find myself curiously detached from these stories i once felt so invested in. (i’m not sure why that is )
i wrote these to to be read concurrently, each story informs the next, and the events seem unrelated until the end. it’s how it unfolded, as i lived it back in the 60′ and 70′ in Bushwick, Brooklyn. two of these are very early reposts, the last story was never posted and is quite long so it will be posted in two parts.
please don’t feel compelled to read these on your busy Friday morning, feel free to if you want to read them at all to take them into the weekend. thank you and i hope you enjoy them.
.
.
.
.
.
I Was a Poor, Pimpled, Uncool Sulker.
.
My new neighborhood bore no resemblance to the manicured fenceless grassed yards, single family house 2 cars in every driveway, ethnicity free Long Island town where I spent the first 12 years of my life. There were languages here and English spoken thick with Italian and German accents by old, crabby grey haired woman in black mourning dresses and rolled down black stockings who promptly at 7am bent at the hip, were scrubbing their stoops and sidewalks in front of their buildings.
Everyday and all day delivery trucks roared down the narrow one way, steamy asphalt streets blaring their big horns, belching exhaust and rustling litter along the curbs, barely missing kids darting between parked cars chasing balls and playing tag. Young mothers pushed big wheeled baby carriages and old ladies lugged shopping carts, choking the already narrow sidewalks. Heavy doors slammed behind people slithering past other people bunched on stairways listening to songs scratched out on small transistor radios.
Like a gargoyle I watched all the comings and goings, the backwards and forwards of incessant car and human traffic, scared of everything that moved. Unfortunately for me, absolutely nothing stood still on this unfamiliar Brooklyn street, this continuous canyon wall of four story buildings that swallowed whatever thankful breeze there might have been, choking everything but the noise, the noise that never stopped.
This was not a particularly human friendly environment, there were no trees along the straight line of streets that you could view for miles.
Not a single one.
The small concrete ‘yards’ that fronted the four story, continously connected buildings on either side of the stoop were just wide enough for four steel garbage cans, the other side was empty. That empty space was handy when it snowed but not for much else except wind blown leaves and garbage, it was walled off from the sidewalk by thick, foreboding wrought iron black painted fencing. Each building had their own scrolled designs, each topped by tri corner spears that if you accidently rubbed the palm of your hand against a tip you’d get a nasty scrape for your stupidity, as intended. The stoops were lined on either side by wrought iron railings, uncomfortably wide for a kids hand.
.
.
.
.
My tomboy sister found this out the hard way, slipping off one the railings monkey climbing, losing her balance she was impaled on one of the spears. Folded and in shocked silence she lay there motionless as adults came to help but the aid proved difficult, the fences were over four feet high and it was impossible to remove her without causing further damage. Some wooden milk crates were found, placed front and back to gain leverage and she was eventually lifted off.
She was lucky, she needed only a few stitches to repair the three inch tear in her belly.
I was a poor pimpled uncool sulker at 13, an emotionally mixed up mess of a kid spending the first weeks after school ended that year in ’68, sitting alone on the top step of the 10 foot high stoop to my building at 232 Jefferson Street scrunched in the shadowed corner of the doorway, day after airless day. I sat in the same spot and in the same position, long arms looped around my legs, acned face resting between my knees just hoping that no one would notice and praying hard to be ignored.
I sat, shaken to the core scared; yeah, divorce does that to a kid.
From my perspective the best place to take all this in was from my third floor window. It felt safe there hidden behind the flimsy white curtains and the view from that vantage point allowed me to eventually recognize daily patterns, things people did each day. I was thankful perched there, thankful that at least something began to make some sense because so much had changed so quickly for this kid.
Divorce is a tragically shared family trauma and my mom, desperate for some privacy of her own in our cramped railroad style apartment filled with cheap mismatched Salvation Army furniture, decided that I needed to be outside, you know to soak up some sun and meet some other nice kids my age.
So of course I sat there on the stoop alone for weeks.
.
.
dear friends
i had no intention of writing this, as we were
driving to the farm on Friday these words just
began arriving. why?… i have no idea because i
haven’t thought about these memories in decades.
oh, the mystery and wonder of poetry….
so Scout took the wheel and it all spilled out,
before we reached the farm. everything told here
is true. i changed her name, it didn’t seem fair
not to.
i don’t often put the song i write to, up top,
but this song IS part of this story more than
any other poem i’ve written. it was the only song
i listened to that summer when it was released.
as always, the words follow the slow tempo. ty.
.
.
.
.
.
oh Lola,
my Puerto Rican Princess
you wrote such exquisite poetry then
oh, my peaceful flower child
where, where do your words reside today?
we loved each other, our senior year
so immersed, in Tolkien and Kazantzakis
so inseparable, a promised ever after in our eyes
so untouchable, to a world beyond our view
the purity and innocence, of a first true love
our reflected light so intense, we outshone the sun
we were just 16, the only moment that truly mattered
was whatever moment we were in
born a little too late for Woodstock,
we were still committed and it was always
about Peace, Love and Understanding with us
and oh, did we wear our hippy proud!
i can still remember, the whole bunch of us
hangin’ out, smokin’ out and singin’ out loud!
while you braided my waist length hair
right there, on the worn steps of our high school
an hour later, you gave your Valedictorian speech
hell…there wasn’t a dry eye in the house
oh Lola, you made your boyfriend so damn proud!
then, just one week later…you broke my heart
walking those miles to your apartment
with a flower, I always picked for your hair
you and him were holding hands and laughing
the flower died…right where it dropped
gone was your ankle length, silken skirt
gone was the sheer, embroidered Indian blouse
and the peace sign necklace I saved up for
who was this girl, with cut off shorts and t shirt?
and so began my summer of sorrow, that year in ‘71
and so began a lifelong habit, retreating in silence
when the pain becomes so unbearably real
there was no peace, no love…only my fountain of tears
.
.
.
.
and then about ten years later,
i shut the lights and locked the door
to my little shop and went for my run
and no matter the temperature or weather
wearing shorts, sneaks, headband and ponytail
i ran and ran and ran, ‘til I just couldn’t run no more
hey man, I was committed…….to never being hurt again
but there was no peace, no love and no one to understand
and as I was bent over, trying to catch my breath
under the arch at Washington Square
this woman who seemed so excited to see me
hugged me right through, all the sweat on my chest!
‘how are you, it’s so good to see you! how long has it been?’
and then like an electric shock, thunderbolt to my heart
i thought, ‘oh God no, my Puerto Rican Princess,
where, where, where did you go?’
oh sweet Lola, my faded flower child
you probably don’t remember saying this
as we sat down, and the bottle came out of your purse,
‘Aragon, I made such a mistake leaving you. I’m really sorry’
all I could say, after us both taking a hefty swig,
‘please, please tell me, you took that full scholarship to Vassar’
her blank stare said, ‘do you wanna’ see some pics of my kids?’
so as one pain began to heal… another wound took its place
and her promised call…never did ring
.
.
now I don’t pray all that often, but i knelt that night,
‘please, please, help her come to her senses. help her see!
or send someone to save her..….then send someone to save me’
dear new friends and old,
we are leaving in a few hours to spend
some time with family and to continue our
labor of love, restoring the 100 year old
house on our farm. i’ll be back on Tuesday,
in the meantime i thought i would repost this
poem, my second after joining 20 Lines A Day
in April.
thank you all for your continued and constant
encouragement, it means so very much to me.
if it weren’t for all of you, i wouldn’t be writing
this poetry of mine. please know what a gift you
have given me, that some days i still can’t believe
this is my blog, these are my words and you all,
are my friends.
thank you, so very much,
{{{ h u g s }}} and *smiles* to you all
.
.
.
.
. tiptoe.
.
.
Amid this winter’s grey mist grip
our April mocks her Spring impression.
Rush hour red lights stop and start,
frustrated and my happened glance at
a waif like girl no more than nine,
she’s mouthing words of imagined rhyme.
I watch her whispering monologues
as she tiptoes boulders in the park.
Pure innocence her soft protection
from cruel worlds I suffer much too well.
I mouthed my thank you to the waif
and she tiptoed boulders until dark.
.
.
.
written April 14 2013
submitted to 20 Lines A Day
prose and poetry challenge for April
dear friends this is a writing departure
but i hope by the end you will understand
why it had to be written…ty.
.
.
so what ever
happened to trust?
so what ever
happened to honesty?
so what ever
happened
to caring at all that
a little skin on skin
with someone else isn’t
really gonna’ fill that void?
darlin’
in these past ten years
just how many of your friends
have come to you crying?
yet another marriage up in flames
and now your bestie girlfriend Linda
and my own sympatico soul sister
her heart is now ripped inside out too
found he was cheating 4 of their 16 years
so what ever
happened to everlasting?
so what ever
happened to committment?
so what ever
happened
to caring at all that
a little skin on skin
with someone else just
causes such unbearable pain?
and we thought she was safe
their marriage passed the test of time
and we felt so shocked and helpless
you just listened…letting her cry and cry
and darlin’
you know i don’t get this mad very often
but this news just sucked out my breath
so i just had to put this upset somewhere
and writing poems…it’s how i show i care
look in her eyes
for you Linda
from me
from what souless depths does it begin
or can your smooth deceptions justify
breaking her, piece by piece?
and mouthing your nonchalant swift lies
as if her world was still everything she knew,
spinning on it’s easy axis.
did you really think a day would never come,
that day you could not look in her eyes
and tell her what you’ve done?
so yeah,
it was touch and go there for a while
with you coming home late after later nights
being that best friend forever that i know so well
and sometimes it just all works out the way it should
so darlin’,
our brave Linda she slowly found her footing
maybe even sooner than she believed she could
and nailing a framed copy of her poem to the wall
nonchalantly showing that now ex husband to the door
.
.
.
both Linda and Scout, my partner are singers and this song
speaks about the power of music. if you feel like a second read,
please play the song and pick up the tempo the poem was written to.
.
who could know then 