Moonlight

I never knew the meaning of moonlight
Until I saw it thrown over the sea
Like the arm of a lover, like a silver blanket.
At night, the moon and sea are lovers.

And so are we. You and I together
As you lay sleeping, your face etched on a silver pillow,
moondust bestowing a silent benediction.
One blends effortlessly into the other.

I know the secret that only the moon knows
that night is the keeper of all things
All things are equal in the eyes of the night
The universal solvent of dreams.
We come together in moonlight.

Now That I'm a Published Poet

Now that I’m a published poet I can wear a beret
You can wear a beret if you want to,
But it would look silly on you,
Because you are not a published poet.

I can wear puffy shirts, too,
And write with a quill pen
But it would seem a little gay if you did it,
Because you are not a published poet.

Now that I’m a published poet
I am legally licensed to carry a metaphor
Or at least I will be whenever I get a card
From the Department of Poetic Security.

But I am already licensed to handle similes
I’m quick with them, too, firing them ratatatat
At low-flying bits of nature.I always hit my target,
Because I’m a published poet.

Now that I’m a published poet
I am allowed to use words you can’t
(No, not those kinds of words)
I mean words like--Genre, strophe, and ennui.

As an amateur, you should never
Put a word like ennui in your mouth
Not even smothered in barbeque sauce.
Cause you don’t know where it’s been.

Now that I’m a published poet.
I’m legally entitled to look morose
I can even look soulful without being laughed at
Your try that, and see what happens!
They’d laugh you off the bus.

Now that I’m a published poet.
(And this is the best part)
I am entitled be called
An eccentric genius
Instead of a crazy old man.

Swan Lake

Somewhere in the middle of Swan Lake

She remembered that she was faking it.

She faltered, for a moment at the remembering

As if someone with a club had hit her

Upside the head, she remembered

That she lept when they told her to leap

And twirled where they told her to twirl

And she did it all as if she had no mind of her own.

The audience knew she was faking, too

As they sat like dour Olympic judges

Holding up invisible signs of judgment

Rating how she executed the traveling art of dance.

Ten thousand pleiets, a hundred thousand stretches on the bar

And all that twirling and bending with chalk on her hands

Until at last she bent to the right depth and form

Yet there was no swan in her, dying or otherwise.

She was only a little girl, making posings not poetry.

But as quickly as the remembered she forgot.

She stretched out her hand to the floodlights,

And she became a swan.

The body carried on without her

And she felt the agony of death, the hopefulness of love.

And the audience forgot her, too.

They gasped in the beauty of it—

Of the dying swan, of the delicate rose.

And all of them, crowd and performers

Were breathless with wonder before it.

And all became clear to her.

We are not what we are.

We are what we dream ourselves to be.

From Echoes from The Inner Mountains

Night train to Moscow

The engine scowls above the tracks
With its brooding Breshnev face
Sad as a Slav, dark as a gun barrel
Its one in the morning, and it waits
As all Russians wait with patience
Russians are the greates waiters in the world.



At one fifteen, the passengers go forward
Carrying bags on rounded shoulders
Shuffle with purposeful quiet steps
Drifting ghosts through cavernous stations
Their clothes and hair smell of tobacco
Smelling of oiled wood and of old wool.



Street lamps tear white holes in the darkness,
And burrowing through the blanket
of the night go nameless travelers--
Twelve mothers with children, two Turks,
A bearded Hindu, two hundred workmen
Torn by their jobs from their homes,


And one American, joining the others
The conductor hurries me up the ladder
Into the belly of great black beast.
Like the others, measuring the turns
Of the wheels and the number of miles
That stretch between me and my family



There is a sameness to all places
And all people who struggle to remember
Their paths to distant glowing homes
Tonight, I am one with Odysseus and Gulliver
And all the wanderers for countless years
Who have passed through distant lands unknown.



n the glowing rail car, my rest is peaceful
Looking out on this alien night and know
That the Watchful Eye holds me in His gaze
And holds my loved ones in His care
And the same star that guards my land
Guards me on my long way home.

A Leader's Prayer

God, who is just
Help me be just
When I must be the judge.

God, who is truth
Help me see truth,
When I must look for answers.

God who can see
Help me see,
Beyond the moment’s business.

God, who is kind,
Help me be blind,
To myself, my feelings, my own desires.

God who rules,
Help me rule,
With wisdom and with love.

D.C. Monument

Somewhere off the sidewalk
On the mall, there is a monument
A white slab of stone
With searching columns overhead
And a marble dome above
And on the dome, these words:
“The Great War to Save Civilization.”

No one much goes by there
Bands That once
held summer concerts now disbanded
Sinewy trees stretch skyward
Where people walk their dogs
And children run in circles
And beneath their mossy sides--
And few if any stop to read and ask
Which war? Which civilization?

Men died in the war; that we know.
Men lay down in the mud and mixed
Their blood in the thirsty ground
Mothers lost their children, children lost fathers
In that war, and now we ask:
Which war? Which civilization?

Whenever did war save civilization?
When did that most horrific thing
That ever spewed from hell
bring salvation to any civilization?

Why are there no monuments to those
Who lived in peace and worked in peace
And did not use a gun or bomb
To break another’s body,
But suffered long and labored hard
To build that civilization?

Those men deserve their monuments, too.
But the proud boys in their shiny helmets
Who march in the fools’ parade called war
They always get the credit
For saving civilization

We do honor those proud young boys
As we know we should,
Who stand on the front lines
And lift their guns.
But we should honor even more
Those whose arms and legs and minds
Spent their blood and backbone
Building that civilization

Let us honor those who worked
Those long, full days of toil
To build a monuement of stone
So in our time the trees would grow
And people would walk their dogs
And children run in circles in the sun
And live in peace—
So that when the guns grow still
There would be something left.
They are the ones that we must say
Have saved our civilization.

The Perfect Rain

It’s a perfect rain
on a cool evening,
between dusk and night
on a calm, cool night,

when there is no wind
and the only sound
are padding raindrops
like a child’s bare feet

and the only sensation
in green scented air
is the touch of raindrops
on my head and hands

like a lover’s touch
standing beside me
Soaking up stillness
Like a perfect rain

twilight Fog

The twilight fog appears
Deep in secrets as a half-closed eye
a heavy-lidded, drowsy thing

Dullard and unknowing
Not quite sure, if it is
Made of night or day.

Off in the distance, a low moan
of something, not quite sure
whether to come or go

the fog, like Hamlet, holds in itself
a baleful question.

Before Sleep

I breathe you in and out
Taking in your scent,
Taking you soft in my hand.

I hold you as a holy thing
Between my arms and legs
Feeling you breathe.Feeling your life pulse

And there,
Under the blanket of darkness.
Is unspoken truth
Is quiet beauty

In the distance
A train goes by
the soft chattering of the rails
and the soulful whistle call

And we wonder
Without mentioning it
About the other bedrooms
And the other lovers listening

And we wonder
Without mentioning it
If they are so far from us
As our solitude imagines.

Under the low moan
We lie together
Drinking in the dark
Taking in the silence
Riding together in our minds
The train into the night.

Why Ballarinas Get Sore Feet

Work
Nobody likes it.
That’s why they call it work.

Work is always boring
Or it is hard
Or it is tiring
Or there is too much to remember
Or it’s the old same.

You get up early or you stay up late
You don’t like your boss or your customers
You have to work with jerks or you never see anyone
And nobody cares--not ever
Nobody thanks you, Not ever---
---That’s why they call it work

And the secret of life is this--
It’s the same for everyone.
I don’t care what you call your job.
Ballerinas flitting across the dance floor
Like lovely, graceful doves
Want more than anything
A foot massage and a warm bath.
Priests, delivering the sacred host
At the midnight mass on Christmas
Grumble about having to get up early.
Presidents wish they could turn their phones off
Just once--but they can’t, you see
It’s their job--
--That’s why the call it work.

But take heart, brethren
There is another secret of life, also
A secret given by an ancient sage
“There is nothing better
Than to eat and drink
And find satisfaction
In your work.”

Work makes us happy, but only in bits and pieces.
We find satisfaction at work, but never from it
Satisfaction hides like child in the basement
It’s there, but only if we look for it
It’s there in the easy laughter of construction workers
As they eat lunch on an I-beam
A thousand feet in the air
And look at the city below.
It’s there in the faces of the garbage men
Seeing the first rays of the sun
As it glistens off broken glass at the dump.
It’s there in the in the rhythm of the hammer
In the music of the saw
In the laughter of children at day care
In the cheer of a crowd
In the aroma of a well-cooked meal.

Go and find it, my children
Find the satisfaction of your work
Or better yet
Let the satisfaction of your work
find you.

Or not, if you choose.
Whether you find it or not
you still have to do it--
--That’s why they call it work.

Introduction

Poetry is a means of exploration. By this I mean that it is not so much a way of stating what we know as a tool for seeking what exists behind the world we already know.
When we write a poem, we are never sure where it may come out. A poet enters into his subject with the same feeling of discovery that Lewis and Clark felt when the first explored the land beyond the Mississippi. This world of reflection is a wild, unknown place. We have no idea what wonders may await there. Often, we sit down to write one kind of poem, only to discover in the subject something else entirely. We may think we are going to write a love poem, a hymn or nature poem, and something else comes out of the chaos and demands to be written. We can never be sure, when be begin the exploration of our own souls, where we may be led in the reflection of a moment.
A human soul is a vast and unknown territory. Inside us lay territories, limitless spaces, profound truths, burning passions, and deep wells of mystery. There are paths that lead to contemplate the heavens, the temple of God. There are unexpected shady places of humor and grace. There are deep and horrific realms of darkness. There are fields of quietness and beauty, jagged thunderstorms of anger and fear, and hidden bowers where love dwells. Those who have succumbed to the slavery of the literal leave such places alone. They know they are there somewhere inside, but they leave them alone. Prose is a useless tool to probe the inner realms. Poetry is more suited to record the world of the Spirit.
A poet must understand the difference between objects and feelings. She knows before she ever puts pen to paper or touches the keys of her computer that her observations are of realities that exist only in her imagination. He subject is what lies in her own mind. It is not the thing itself, but her reaction to the thing. She doesn’t care. Objectivity is the stuff of science, not song.
Poetry is really an exploration of self, not the world itself. The poet does not fall victim to the so-called “pathetic fallacy”--the confusion of our own emotions with the world. Sunflowers do not smile. We smile when we see a sunflower. Trees do not applaud. Something inside of us applauds when we see a tree. The outside world is without feeling or knowledge.
When we observe the world, reacting and acting in it, reality makes echoes inside us. The cry of a baby, the smell of a rose, a sunset on a summer evening resonate inside us, causing our feelings to stir inside. Those inner echoes are what poetry is all about. It is the record of response to what exists.
Poetry is personal archaeology. It digs out the secrets of our past, both personal and collective. It blows away the dust of the years, and reminds us of feelings we have forgotten.
Poetry is personal astronomy. It peers outward from our center, giving us a glimpse of our higher selves. It maps our relative position to what we can only glimpse with our imagination.
Poetry is personal physics. It struggles to split the tiniest particles, to trace the nearly indedectable nuances in life. At the same time, it seeks the grand unification of all things. It seeks the face of God.
Poetry is spirituality. It looks for answers to unanswerable questions. It reaches out in hope for paths that lead to God. Poetry makes concrete the numinous realms of faith. Once is is written, that faith becomes “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
Poetry is our lifetime companion. It rocks us to sleep when we are children. It makes our feet move. It comes to us in the songs we hear. It eases our pain as we lay near death.
Poetry is all this and more.
For most of my life, I have written poetry purely for my personal enjoyment. It has been a toy to me, playing with words like building blocks. Other times, it has been my mirror, revealing myself to myself. It has been sacramental, lighting the pathway that leads me to God—or more accurately that led God to me.
Now I want to share some of what I have written with you. These are the music I hear in my head which I have kept inside. Now I have a desire to share it. and see whether there is anyone out ther who can dance to it as well.
So, friend and reader--I give you these verses. Do with them what you wish--read them, forget them, remember them, or cherish them. My hope is that they may enlighten some corner of your own inner world. If these poems give you even a small fraction of the pleasure that I had when I wrote them, then I will be satisfied.
Welcome to my inner world. I hope you enjoy your stay.