I once believed
I had the right
to make things happen
even if they weren't supposed to
or that my will defined
what should happen;
Now I question
if I even have the right
to be here
waiting
for something
to happen.
is like driving past mansions
in a rusty car
glimpsing in massive outline
a few striking details
a mansard roof, white columns
a gardened portico
the soft glow
of Palladian windows.
I'll never walk through those
oak doorways
or pass beyond those
wrought-iron gates.
find things that are
slightly profound
and write them down
perhaps someone reading
in subway darkness
will see a small light
walking by you
with all that is implied
in my slow, deliberate step
and your refusal to look up
you could be
anywhere by the sea
Odessa, Lagos, Hebrides
and I would think, yes
you belong just there
keen winter winds
gutted
leave airy skeins
musk of hot sand
childhood summer
an old story
casual, deep
of sea
of sun
the muffled crash of waves
when we're asleep
and visit those
who show us
what we love and mourn
and let us wander in the stream
think not that when the visions close
they follow us into the storm
as we to ragged flesh return
angels don't dream
I would pass through
sliding glass doors
onto a luminous green lawn
sloping to the shore
where breakers ride
and storm clouds race the sky
charged with bright edges
the world at hand
but seething in restraints--
like Tesla's lightning
Luciferian
as willful lover
at my lips
your breast
pen leaking ink
a splotch
a blotch
my fingers
trail of
wrong choices
missed chances
forgotten lines
wrecked sets
ruined scenes
acts
gaffes that should have brought the hook
except the Gods were
laughing too hard
"what have I given?"
what withheld?
firmly shoveled under
anonymous dirt
some grateful
mosaic dance floor
sand-swept
edging into sea
barefoot in warm surf
fingers behind my neck
fragrance of hair
swaying into shadows
along the beach
waves rushing
hushing
all Brazil the sound box
of a blue guitar
and in New York
the breeze
is still enough
in the morning silence
harbor flat
a faintly hammered glass
drift through moonlit branches
falling in cuneiform
ancient voices
starlight deities
syllables chiseled
in silence
When she took highest honors
at Stanford pre-med
youngest in her class,
I was a guest
of her best friend
my daughter
at her graduation dinner.
I told her beaming father
we had something in common--
beautiful, brilliant daughters.
His was crushed to death
in a car.
Later
on a height
above the shining Pacific,
I read his words on her stone:
Joanne Hsaio
Sunrise 1979 ~ Sunset 1999
O, now I see her golden hair
between the branches, on the breeze
vibrant in the summer blaze
yet cannot follow where she flees
into the forest of the air
lost among the leaves of days.
A coffin may enclose the dead
with silk and waxen lilies lined
and all the ceremonies said
but what I cannot understand
is why she hides and why I find
vermilion petals for her bed.
I don't feel the drama
as you do
the existential moment
in the ozone-charged twilight
under the el.
For me, it's just another
spring evening
no platform at Elsinore
no airport in Casablanca.
And who am I to
judge people as you do:
dolls hanging in rows
waiting to be jerked alive,
bimbos
hard working stiffs?
I slouch about
reading in corners.
Still I wonder what fire
flows in your veins
and the price you pay.
as a jigsaw piece snaps
into its matrix
or a tool clicks
into its socket
her shape ignites
instant
global
response
a thought that darts
into the world's mind
forever
the old comedian
harlequin of costumes
wigs and rouge
hiding behind the mise en scene
a host of glittering shadows
winkle Him out
pin down His formulae
unmask His poems
learn how on the fly
He flings up sets
creates those fabulous
special effects
in breathless action
see if He knows
who made the world's
uncertainties
or why kids starve
men die and
love
however briefly
flares
the dark, suburban woman
with her stylish clothes
and warm thighs
I'd travel a long way
to explore her vulnerability
but it's her fierce independence
that I prize
my house is in your mind
your body in mine
the gales of your mind
shake my house
the needs of my body
bend your mind
© Copyright 2-2-97 Martin A. Abramson. All rights reserved.