Wednesday, July 15, 2015

To Capture All We Want





White, the absence of color

If all people were colorless,

What else to talk about,

How different to see the world and everything in it,

Would they see each other,

Each as one "just people?"

Monday, September 1, 2014

The Soul of Man is the Candle of God





“The Soul of Man is the Candle of God”


Back home and a generation later,
I wondered what plans you may have made
for a 20th birthday you would never see.

On a December night in an Ardennes foxhole,
with exploding shells alit like apocalyptic candles,
did you think of September 1st, your score of years?

I feel the soul of you in a Psalm and reach out to place a stone.
You would be 90 now. I alone am still counting,
like they counted on you. The flame is alive.

Billy, the letters you etched remain on a red brick wall,
a petroglyph on the Tremont house in Hartford,
I found nine years ago, to the owner’s surprise.

I received your posthumous high school diploma
and reread proclamations your sister pushed aside,
her passing, seven years ago, with a still open gash from your absence.

Nonagenarian, no cake, no wrapped gifts, no more loud noises
only a yahrzeit candle lit as my burnt offering to you,
a flame still burning, until mine too is extinguished.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Being White


Letting my mind escape to snow
I travel the trailing of a single flake

Virginity, fragility, tranquility
That is the dimension of being white

Of letting go, letting God be your guide
Putting all else behind you, being in His hands

And so I exhale deeply, inhale gleefully,
To feel like a smile inside itself

Sent from my iPhone

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Corduroy Sky






There you are in a corduroy sky
wide, smiling, cumulus piece of me
past the cancer, the congestive heart
without a needle's poke or probing
no Doctor Quack or bureaucratic clack
now, just a puff, floating in blue, in pink
in orange, in lemon, and lavender
in all the greeting cards ever written
with a tooth's quarter, with a crisp dollar bill
love is now shared, daily, through hugs of air
and all I have to do is open my mind to feel them.



Copyright @ 2014 OrangeUaPoet All Rights Reserved

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Jo, 50 Points



Jo, 50 Points


Scant flakes scattered the skyline
and I felt guilt from not sharing
just one more cup of tea, with you

Boston’s Orange matching your hair,
its intricate spice matching you,
making the silence smile for us, like steeping

Those Jade-ite rituals together,
Scrabble in all kinds of weather,
made me into a poet, like Longfellow wrote it.

And know you it.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Superman, Where Are You?




It might have been a gray storage room
in a black and white warehouse or an elevator or closet in
an unknown location where Jimmy Olsen or Jonny Quest or some
unlikely hero found themselves unsuspectingly sprawled out on the floor,
woke up, stood up, pulled on the locked door handle, pushed the buttons,
yelled for someone to let them out, then felt the walls closing in,
the ceiling lowering, the floor escaping below their feet,
the thickening of air, the tightening and urgency
of the moment as the certainty of their
demise squeezed them, despite
pushing back, arms and legs
 taut to stop their flesh
from feeling the
reality of being
 the olive in
 the press,
 turn by
 turn


But he was no superhero,
with the line quickly forming behind him,
after the cashier bellows, “Price Check, Aisle Seven,” and the
serpentine column of glares mordaciously piercing right through him.
So he begged the clerk, “Could you open another line?” Confessing, “I have
this social anxiety thing and need to check out now, please.”
Scarlet drips dark down his face to legs screaming inside
to exit the walls of a retail coffin,
reverse the press’s turn,
let the bounty rot,
one step right,
heroically,
to shop
another
 day.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

The Fallen Season

Winter wind reflection
wondering when he will visit
grave sites, place stones, say Kaddish
the rituals of an elder son
still mourning, each morning, alone

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Where Living Begins

The imperfect moments are where living begins

Hearing white in "We're letting you go" or worse
"It's me, not you" and the thinness of your first rejection letter
a pet or child rushed to an emergency room
feeling the warmth leave your parent's hand
the closing of a cold cell door

You learn to run through them
like the time you ran through the clacking
of willow branches blowing in a harsh wind

It's how you get from a to b
One step at a time

With a shoelace undone

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Autumn

Autumn


There are days when the leaves are
a perfect shade of liquid gold or
a redhead you used to make blush

When a city fountain dances in the
Autumnal light of night, whispering, whispering, whispering

When the deal goes better than expected
when the chicken diablo needs a celebration
when that song plays, you know, that one

When times cries out that it should be shared,
that it must be shared

Those are the minutes you miss her,
when a held hand makes you whole

Like a first grandson, like sleeping in spoons,
like saying softly, good night

And hearing a voice say back,
you're a good man





Friday, September 13, 2013

Baby With the Bathwater


























What happens when the sky shines only black
and clothing feels like the wearing of a leaden robe

When the call for help goes to voicemail
and that unspoken name and number are rote

Where every step forward freezes into concrete
and the past and present see no future

How favorite foods are cooked and grow mold
like days that pass one by one by one

This is how it feels, how it wears down,
how life transcends to tears that pool in caves.

And so it hides in the hands of a clock that ticks
waiting for its movement to cease from rust

Or it can’t wait, so beats the inner drum,
so scarred, scared and sacred is time

The pen is picked up to write on paper burning
with words shared for someone else to feel the pain