POEMS
BULL 173
The sun had set, it was over.
In the small town, in growing darkness we followed the crowd
down narrow streets to the plaza where it lay.
Black, number 173 burned into its thigh, a bull that we
had seen die to cheers that day.
Now in the light of gas lamps, the butcher stood in his
clean white apron, ready with the knife.
Men tied ropes to the hind legs and 173 rose to
the low limb of a tall tree.
It hung, an unnatural ornament swinging slowly, horns just
above a pallet deck.
The butcher pushed the legs apart and with one down stroke
cut from groin to neck.
He parted the wound, and out from so black a body, it rose
into the now cold air.
A mist, a shimmering white cloud out into the coming
darkness as we stood in silence.
Slowly it rose through the leaves of the limb bent
under its load, upward through branches passing
pale white between the green,
Up above the topmost branch it hovered, then swiftly gone
no longer seen.
At our feet the black body was being cut to blocks of flesh
while above something had risen into the night.
From we rationalists circled round came a nervous laugh
- what had we seen?
What was it, out so unexpectedly from the butcher’s work? -
the essence of the black bull with 173 burnt into its thigh?
There up into the darkness of a Spanish night - what had left
this pile of flesh and blood spread across a palette?
A Spaniard joked, “Yes, to that place where bulls and matadors
live in peace and butchers are early in bed on
bullfight nights.”
We laughed still looking, looking upward, hoping to once more
see what was now out of sight.
TITLE POEM - A POET HANGING
Outside my window for all to see
I have a poet hanging from a tree.
His hair is matted, his face is blue
His coat in rags, the winds blow through,
And his left foot? Gone, eaten by a leaping dog
At my door he came to ask a meal,
A bowl of tears? A taste of heel?
I struck him! and gouged his eyes,
How sweet to hear a poet's cries.
And between his sobs? Words! I held my ears.
In my fire I burnt his art
Those damning lies, that trusting heart.
Dangerous! Dangerous! a poet's like a rat
That gnaws at greed and tames the cat.
And if they live? Even one, the real world,
our world, done
So, outside your window for all to see
Have a poet hanging from a tree.
REALLY A PLACE
There is that place where bluebirds bite
Where spiders sing all through the night
Furry Teddy bears there rough-up tots
Sharp-eyed rats uncover plots
There is that place where dollys tease
Where Poison Sumac sweet-scents the breeze
Cozy fires singe and burn
Ugly witches to be loved just yearn
There is that place where fun’s called chore
Where the ignorant teach, learning’s a bore
Youth change places with the old
The poor have closets filled with gold
There is that place where kisses kill
Where beating don’t hurt and never will
Apple trees refuse their fruit
Pirates door to door hand out their loot
Ah, what a place for all to dwell
Some call it heaven others hell
But you who read these words are wise
And know that poems are often lies
FOUNDRY
Short pants, short sleeves, rope-soled shoes, these foundrymen
raised the white hot crucible up out of the oven.
They were about to cast my sculptures into bronze, as I the artist
stood watching.
In the foundry they wear no protective clothing, not in Spain, no
fireproof capes, no hard hats, face masks, gloves, or boots,
None, for year after year nothing has ever happened, the melted
bronze, liquid as water, flowed easily, glowing into the
waiting molds.
But today was different, today would be the day that had never
happened before, as I the artist stood watching.
From the steel gripping tongs, from the grip of the foundrymen
lifting at each end the crucible slipped free, it fell, white hot, down, back down into the yet roaring oven, then silence.
A moment, less than a moment just time for some to quickly
cross themselves and then came the roar,
Up as a volcano squeezed through a cannon’s mouth it rose into
the air above us all,
White hot comets, meteors, glowing, hissing globes each just by
touch to burn through flesh.
The foundry was lit by this brilliant rain that arced above to fall
down, down upon us all, as I the artist stood watching.
Falling streaks of light, heat, the smell of burning, angry buzzing
as liquid bronze fell and ran in fiery puddles across the floor.
I wildly brushed my shoulders and hair while dancing around
the bronze flowing at my feet, hoping nothing had landed
on me.
I saw us all dancing, this wild dance, arms brushing, heads
shaking, leaping high into the air over white running puddles.
As we danced, around us a miracle had happened, no one, no one
had been touched by the white hot rain, it had fallen, every
drop, harmlessly.
By luck? No, not luck, for this was Spain where God is great and
his protection above us over arching.
Safe would be the foolish foundrymen, and safe as well the atheist
artist who just stood watching.
NO JOY IN POVERTY
There is no joy in poverty.
To live the poor artist life while uptown millions are
exchanged at auction houses sucked from the
bones of so many sweet young dead.
Their drugs, drink, and despair hang in the corners of
cheap studios,
Where dusty paintings and half done clays crack quietly
recalling ancient dreams unfulfilled for lack of funds.
There is no joy in poverty.
To spend mornings weighing food against art supplies,
counting the months or days to opening a well worn
check book to find a bottom line of zero.
Thinking, why should artists survive at all, what do we do
we who have no market value just the thin belief
that we are pressing eternity like roses between the
pages of the morning’s news.
There is no joy in poverty.
Senselessly bound to this hard task, long after God has rested,
to create by mind’s eye and hand new Edens that would
not exist but for us while serpents whisper - what value
to an Eden that can not be sold.
I cup my hand to a not yet missing ear and hear Van Gogh
calling as the sea.
The ship frail, the rudder bent, I bend again to the oars and
that siren song.
MYSELF AND I
We said good bye, myself and I
To bed until the morning
Another night to spend apart
Wouldn’t meet again ‘til dawning
I went my way, you to went yours
Laid out as still as death
While I rode wild upon the waves
Across the ocean’s breath
Your body lying weak and limp
While I in dreams awake
Fought pirates, freed a maiden
For right and justice sake
You, your head numb upon the pillow
Ignored a fallen hero brave
Tranquil, though I be bound in chains
And sold to be a slave
A sleeper’s sigh escaped your lips
Mine in grimace tightly bound
I broke my chains, cried out, “revolt”
And my comrades rallied ‘round
Cold and limp hung your hand
Mine hot picked up the sword
And cut a path to freedom
Through a vicious swarming hoard
Your eyelids faintly flickered
My eyes wide all aflame
As I in triumphant they carried home
Through throngs that called our name
You deaf but to the clock’s alarm
While I to valor did not shirk
And so exhausted climbed in bed
As you awoke for work.
SONG OF THE TERRORIST
Up, and up rising against another painful dawn.
Mad is our manner, hard is our method,
Knowing without doubt that God will shine
in our glory.
Out, and out to remake a mottled world
Soft in its indulgence, lead-foot to paradise,
Snake-like in its whispers of the wonders
of worldly wisdom.
Over, and over again, the innocent must tremble, fearful
Of our just revenge, they who mock our Lord
All such must be destroyed, as death and destiny
are by him decided.
Never, and never the cup of compassion or a tear
Of tenderness. What we do is but his will.
Spilt blood purifies as fire and flame cauterize
the invading canker.
Wrap, and wrapped tight around the hidden waist
The swift avenging blast. The sacrifice that surely
Turns time back as buzzing nails and whirring bolts
spring from my martyr’s body.
MORE ELEGANT
More elegant than done, the remnants of what
was left undone.
They hang like comfortable old clothing, faded, worn, in the dark
corners of a far back back-closet.
I rummage where old cartons long ago taped shut lie on the floor
next to bits of brown leaves once stuck in the soles of those
hiking-boots that took me far from home.
Above, stained shirts with crusted paint from a distant art school
where I dreamt of grand designs as I stood next to her, a
true work of art, and would have never said a word.
Beside, the jeans with knees scuffed and torn from touch football
when distracted, as I knew she was watching, I dropped the
catch that would have won the game and
she smiled sympathetically.
On a hook, the hat faded from the sun that I waved as the ship
left port and my parents and she, looking very sad,
waved back from the pier below.
In a cardboard box the scarf with the crest of some obscure
European football club. She was wearing it around her
neck when, by chance, we met again in Rome.
And in the far far back, smelling of mothballs and distant pine
leaves, my old wool sweater that she would wear to bed
on those cold nights high up on the hills in the borrowed
camper where we would live together forever.
Why don't you throw it all out? I am asked. They are of no use
and you will never wear any of them again.
Standing in that back-closet, in my mind I wear them all again and
wonder. Where is she now? Married with grown children
perhaps? Does she ever think of me? Do I in memory hang
like old clothes in some dark corner of her life?
Memories, old clothing, long ago replaced by more substantial
stuff, hang forever elegant by their being never fully worn.
WHAT A PLACE
What a place,
Put but a toe into its waters and
the whole body is clean.
Fruit abundant, the ripe, the green, the
apple and the pear, just the
barren fig tree banned.
Here the lame walk, no hunger, heat or chill.
In this watered garden, in unstained robes, all sing
and dance so joyously that there is only
sweetness in their movement and song.
Above stands the city on a hill and there
off its golden streets a house.
Upon its door a gentle knock.
I open it and see my father, young, tanned
and fit in a faded bathing suit
returning from sunning himself
on a bleached-out beach.
He smiles, embraces me as he had never
done before. In his eye a tear of
joy at seeing me.
And there my mother, a teenager, so happy in
her fine dress for graduation.
She hands me a rose from her black and white
bouquet and it is bright red.
Though I am older than she, she puts her hand
to my forehead to see if I am well
How she worried about me but here she smiles
for she can see that I have arrived
safe and sound.
There beyond the windows are my friends, all of
them, anxious, smiling, waiting for me to
come out to play. I can hardly wait.
My wife in a tight college sweatshirt puts down her
books, and placing her long arms tight
around me asks, “Do you like it here so far?”
For a moment, but just for a moment, those
lustful thoughts return, she nods and says,
“You will, you will like it here.”
Yes, it is wonderful, all so wonderful. I am so happy.
“Now rest, you should rest after your long a journey,”
she says, “Lie down in your bedroom and
sleep.”
She kisses me gently on the cheek and I know
that here I am truly loved.
“Yes, I shall rest but only for a moment,” I say and
open the bedroom door.
Inside it is dark and cold. Great roots hang down from the
ceiling.
Worms and beetles crawl among a tight tangle of
branches and there in a far corner I see my bed.
Simple, wooden, no soft pillow, no warm blanket,
hard not made for comfort only eternity.
I turn to return but I know that there never was a door.
EXAMPLES FROM A
BOOK OF 200 POEMS
FOR MORE INFO CLICK BOOK COVER