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.