THE DEEPEST WOUND: Part.2

Without Her...


I turn to glass--

don't touch!


I can deflect emotion

but not much


the past closes behind

leaving a choice


a tossed-off bottle

leaking dregs of time


or stem crystal

burst by a voice


Jet-Storm

For my daughter


You have flown off

leaving an empty airport

at six a.m.

the aura of your presence

swept away


wing-lights flash and fade

scaling dawn sky

you catapult the zenith

arrowing west


and I turn back

to wintry houses

in a dented car


Caribbean


a turtle's lower jaw

the huge blue contour

of the turning world


splendor of clouds like hair

fine combed

sweep carelessly in sky

merging to night


wildly beating sea birds

careen like moths in floodlights


stingrays hover

at sand line


in gently pulsing surf

on the stone pavilion

amid a storm of laser motes

we dance, we dance


Departure Eve


I want to remember

the soft wind

lights of Cancun

across the bay

bright walls


and living chambers

of the sea


women lovelier

than saffron blossoms


flowering bougainvillea

in alchemy of silks

and ribbons


elusive

achingly desired


Storm Watch


Areas of depression

scattered across the Heartland


spirals of dry leaves

whipped to tall funnels


roiling black clouds

a landscape of flash-points


utterance of thunder...

the neo-Nazi, Stormfront,


on the farm porch

angry, failed men

with rowdy skinhead sons

riding the edge of turbulence

into the heartland.


Stock the cellar

with candles, food, water

guns and shells

against the coming ice-storms 

against the frigid cold


the wind chill factor


Mood


in extreme evening

raw smell of grass


limp leaves

melted slate-green scales


old magazines in porch light

empty Adirondack chair


deserted house

drifts on the dying year


Seven A.M.


cold now

we are estranged


first rays highlight

chrome toaster

bike pedal

sugar bowl


on wall

grasshopper

a folded leaf


on window

dragonfly

a jeweled, clear winged

brooch


dog snores

on sofa opposite

eye-slits fixed on me

staring in sleep


Harbor


full moon

blazing phosphorus


Venus climbing

flush of sunset rouge


silver canals

set with a few lost skiffs

stranded in ebb tide


old men in derelict cars

scowling at stars that will return

when they have sunk

below the mud of time


a quiet layering of seasons

folding the latest on the last


soft summer air


Parsifal (after Wagner)


The King:

        whose phallus

        maims the man

        and blights the land 

        unhealing wound

        crazy desire

        basts all


The Cup:


         vaginal urn of birth

         brimming with blood


         fountaining radiance

         of grace


The Fool:


          armored in innocence

          learning passion's power

          from one taste

          of a harlot's tongue


          fuses the charred fragments

          of the spear


          restores the crown


The Spear:


          Amfortas

          humbled by impotence

          purified by pain


          worthy again to serve the Grail

          healed by the same spear touch,

          finally understands

          love is the deepest wound


Diner Booth


side by side

in summer shorts


bare legs graze

their surface hairs

crackling with charge


the unreachable imago

whose smile lights the world

only inches away


while on my spirit map

one inch

equals a thousand miles


Recognition


I too felt the riveting instant

of masks half-lowered

to reveal

transparent eyes


of selves exposed

beyond biography


worlds realigned

beneath the barely rippled

surface of words


Last Meeting

for Carole


the love that never was

in sudden ending

in fog and rain


accepts the rending

that deletes the cause

accepts the pain


too soon into my world

she sped

figure in aura

fire too bright to know:


breathless attempt to follow where she led

always a step behind, a beat too slow

until my clumsy shadow broke the flow

I stumbled, chafed her ankle


and she fled


Mirage


still I pursue

the woman, Carole,

who is and is not Carole


who in a flash

embodies her


a shimmering congruence

I cherish in my arms

till she streaks back

to the periphery...


a dream of Carole


Anima


perpetual angel of my solitude

siren of my abolished memory


you pierce the liquid glass

to join your semblance


phantom and flesh converge

in breathless focus


almost too late

I strive to be the man

I must create


Through a Galilean Telescope


starlike

you swept through

my lonely orbit


grabbed by your field

I felt my speed increasing

swiftly, swiftly

flung toward the bright galaxies!


the light that blinded me

poured from behind my eyes

as I caught fire


Encounter


she is a spear

flung fiercely

faster than thought

piercing all preparation


a truth that leaves me paralyzed

impaled on the tree of life


whose fruit rains down

like diamonds

at my feet


Apartment Houses


red-rough

gray-striped

walls of dream

how far

far back

words echo

against brick


In Twilight: After Eliot


               1

condos across the water

clusters of glowing tiles


a radiant fist of cloud

grabs peso moon


then opens to a stage

backdropped by stars


exhilaration of old age

and rendezvous

at the last milestone


in glare of alien light

gramophone needle

floats on polished vinyl


turntable of galaxies

the isolation of

and in the flesh


          2


a dream of trains

clatter of wheels

clash of all things


chafing

relaxed bodies


choral sway of speed


let the wrecked cargoes

rot on ocean floors

let wild baboons

devour

rags of past


let me turn face to fore

turn love to fire


the sea-wash freshening

from the ship's apron

pathing with luminous shadow

Atlantic darkness


cradled by glowing waters


Solitaire: Homage to Yvor Winters


if love is a game

that plays out in time

for the purpose of mind

they are nearly the same


time sunders the elements

love seeks to bind


when love is abandoned

death is the game


love shimmers in memory

bleaches in time


my loss is my gain

when remorse is the law


we bet precious hours

to win perfect pain


fruition is balance

we play to a draw


Regret


days don't foreshadow

selves unfolding

wrongs

beyond redemption

tears


the desperate instant

love withholding

haunts us

for a thousand years

 

                                                                       © Copyright, 2-2-97 Martin A. Abramson. All rights reserved.