The homeless, marvelous diverse
Community, sit huddled against the cold
On benches meant for more affluent folks.
They colonize each grassy spot.
Their rusting shopping carts
(Heaped with the frayed detritus of their lives,
With can-filled bulging bags—
That day’s hard scrabble wage),
Testify to mute despair.
What are they thinking, huddled there?
What dreams provoke their lives?
Trembling beneath layered rags,
Do they, too, yearn for bliss
(A simpler bliss by far!)—
For warmer days, a lucky find
Of half-eaten food amidst the trash?
Perhaps the cycled cans will generate
A modest fix, a jar of wine.
What are they thinking, huddled there?
What will tomorrow bring?
(12/13/07)
For M.B.
A friend of mine who reads my poems
Thinks I should publish them in tomes.
She, to that end, presented me
A five pound book called Poetry
Market—2005. Tight lipped,
Grim, I refused her gracious gift,
Declared “I’m not a narcissist,
Will not plead to grace their pages.”
This reticence might be assuaged
If they pressed me to relent—“Please,
Show us your stuff”—and, I agree,
That will occur when hell grows cold.
Yet I am simply much too old
To duck ‘neath fake emotional
Defense erected to annul
Those harsh judgements of inspection—
Those brutal verdicts: Rejection!
Proud stand against narcissism?
Nah! I just can’t face derision.
Now truth’s laid bare, and it appalls:
Fragile self-love—and worst of all,
Spirit’s abyss—and coward’s fall.
(12/12/07)
I keep sending poems to this magazine
And it, politely, keeps rejecting them.
Ironic—‘cause I wasn’t all that keen
To publish there, felt my poetic gems
Too hot, too bright for their phlegmatic taste.
My scribbles rage, shout, argue, stamp about,
While they prefer their writers to abase
Themselves, evoke what’s grim, fashion the knout
Delivering sharp self-inflicted pain.
Those images of loss, of disconnect,
Of all the incidentals of regret,
Bespeak a panoply of lives in plain
Misery. Often, I confess, well done.
But poems must wound and heal, not simply bleat
Emotional distress, not lie meek, prone—
Advance rich fertile dreams—not drab retreat.
(12/06/07)
Page two of any LA Times provides
A sharp insight into western culture.
It really does. For on that page abide
Stark, gripping ads, the fertilizing mulch
Nourishing our lives. Three thousand bucks buys
A neat crocodile-skin purse from Neiman,
While a mere six hundred seventy pries
(From Gearys) a charming carafe—decant
Your wine therein, then pour from it the bling
Embellishing your meal. Three hundred thou
Fetches Winston diamond cluster earrings!
Your Ulysse-Nardin watch waits at Déjaun.
Wide-eyed, I stare, shake my addled head, sigh,
Then muse: who buys this awe-full stuff, and why?
(11/19/07)
For J.G. on the occasion of his repossession.
A guy I know down at the courts, called Jim,
Took in his grandson, his pregnant daughter,
And her husband—this in a very slim
Apartment. Hard to imagine tauter
Conditions! Hyper active ten year old
Luc bounced off the thin walls (literally!)
While his mum toiled, and anxious step-dad trolled
The WEB pursuing work, some place to be
Provider for that new family. Then
The baby came—talk about your cramped space!
Fate rescued him. But they would have to wend
Their way three thousand miles east. For Jim: grace
Of space, divine quiet—yet stilled by gloom—
Delight, yet rue—that silence like a tomb.
(11/17/07)
For R.B. upon returning to port
Though the middle of November,
The soft air shimmered, balmy, warm.
As the sun, trite dying ember,
Touched the sea, a voracious swarm
Of marlin breached. One intrepid
Fisherman, caught a predator,
Blue, swift, and sleek. In the tepid
Air, at once, that noisy furor
Afflicting all the world grew still,
Silenced by awe, and skill-caught thrill.
(11/14/07)
