The Lost Language

When I gave myself to him,
It was the perfect rhyme of couplets.
He: the smack of consonants against teeth and lips;
And I was all the vowels in long sighs and high-pitched pleasure.
The words we formed now buzz in the silence,
Almost audible in this empty apartment, humming me to sleep.
A lost tongue never to be spoken again -
No matter how many tongues of how many lovers
Touch so lightly this skin again
And drive from this vacant throat a groan.
It isn't the same. Lost is that sudden breathlessness
Of not knowing what to expect.
And a different sound is added:
A rising inflection like a question,
'Is this the one? Is this the magic again? '
And another sound muffled,
A holding back, waiting for disappointment,
Fighting against letting myself be taken,
Remembering the pain of losing that private language.

Written May 1978

I Pierce the Mist

On my way to meet you
I remember our first
Encounter months ago.
Again I drive through the night
For the second time,
Making my way from the coast
To the Hill Country
With fog enveloping my car.
As a canoe would pierce
The delicate skin of water,
So too I pierce the mist and the fine
Membrane of time that is tomorrow
And part its sensual lips --
So moist and so mysterious,
I am tingling with anticipation
As I enter into unknown territory
Like a diver into the darker depths
Or like your kiss that sucked me into
Your world where I move eagerly
But quietly into your body --
Full of awe and reverent
In the presence of this soul
So much like me and so different.



February 2004

Sermon, Accompanied by Woodwinds

I know why all the bones are hollow.
Pick up any vertebrae or rib,
Any os or fossil. Don't matter whose -
Bird, ox, lizard or saint -
You can peek through them all,
Use one as a spyglass on the world,
Or make a whistle or a flute.
Maybe that's why the Good Book says,
'And God breathed into man a soul...'
Breathed into him!
Blew his moist breath right down those tubes,
Played a tune upon those pipes,
Then left it there.
Where else would it fit?
Not in that cramped skull
With all that gray mass,
That's for sure.

Of course, we talk as if
We got a monopoly on soul.
But just think about those bones -
Bird, ox, lizard or saint -
Any of them can carry a tune.


written April 1977, published on Poem hunter April 2009

Through the Windows

Through the windows
Of my body you enter--
And suddenly I see my world anew:
My drab house is full of light.
Through the half-opened skylight
Your energy streams.
Through these apertures
Your aura slips.
Through fenestra
Your music flows
Like cool fresh air.
Through my secret portholes
your plasma swims.
Some of these hatches
Have been locked so long
I've lost the keys,
And the tumblers have rusted.
But you have come
Armed with your own master key.
With aromatic oils,
You anoint the inner workings
Until the right movements crack the vault.
You have pierced my inner sanctum,
And my heart's doors are standing agape,
Unfurling as the wings of the dove.
You can feel the flutter
As they beat the air before flight.
And we will rise together in the updraft
As the heat of our passion
creates thermals for our souls to soar
Through the windows.

Beauty Of Imperfection

Hard shelled,

Smoothed by many currents, many tides,

Buffing it with all that sand

As the waves cycle through,

A cool fleshy lump of life

Lifts a finger

To get the weather report

On the motion of the seas;

Lifts a hand to grab morsels

From the smorgasbord passing by.

And deep within the briny, sweet pulp

A tiny blemish enters,

Creating a dimple

In its silken, delicate skin.

And the seed of sand --

Like the pea under the princess's mattress --

Worries the oyster,

As it turns and turns the fragment,

Bathing it in tears,

Coating it with slime,

Layer upon layer of pain and angst,

Rubbing it like worry beads

Until it is polished to a fine luster,

And now this irritant emerges: a pearl.

In a lifetime of imperfections

Can we make even a single pearl?

Sound of the Downpour

So much rain has come down

Seems that everything has melted

And become a liquid.

The sound of the downpour

Has been embedded in my ear,

Like the muted downbeat of breakers

In the curling innards of the conch shell,

From so many years sitting empty

On the ocean floor, being nudged along by currents,

Then bobbing ashore with dead fish

And purple blobs of Man-o'-wars,

Caught in tangled nets,

And finally thrown deep into dunes

By a rogue wave or tsunami,

Where it waits for tides to return

And take it home to the sea.

And all the while it hears that drumming surf

Echoing down its spiral staircase,

And it whispers back the sacred chant of waves.

So this rain remains in me

As the underlying wisdom I have learned

And becomes -- like breath, like heartbeat --

The rhythm of my poems.

Witness to Ike on Galveston Island

The rain in a hurricane
Is not rain, but an ancient glacier
From a bygone ice age crumbling,
Shattered into a billion pieces,
Melted by this raw energy
That is locked in every drop
And hurled with the roar of thunder.


Rain in a hurricane does not fall
Nor does it slant;
It cuts like shards of glass,
Tastes of salt,
So gritty with debris
It leaves me bleeding.


The storm surge of a hurricane
Is not a wave,
But a wall of water
That trumpeting winds call down.
It is a flood
Shaped like a circling maelstrom sea
Boiling over the brim.


The wind in a hurricane
Is not a wind
But the rage of Titans,
The scream that drives sailors insane.


The eye of a hurricane
Is not the Eye of God,
For it would be weeping,
No, this eye is blinded
By the fury of void and chaos -
Tohu v'vohu * - the forces of creation
God wrestled into shape.


But remember when the tempest passes
And you return to your shredded home alive,
God rested on the 7th day and made it holy.

Tohu v'vohu is Hebrew for " unformed and void" in Gen.I:2,


Written May 2009, published online at PoemHunter May 2009, on poetfreak, published in Bayou Review Spring 2010

Sleep Kisses

Sleep kisses are petals
of a dream lover's bouquet: 
touch softly or they fall into the deep
well of night and nothingness.


October 2009

A Waltz Wave: Running Away From Love

White
silk scarf
waves
in her
wake - the train
of her
gown.
Crossing
fields of wheat, 
her feet are scorched
by flames of
sunset.
She
escapes.
Fly away
if love
is
a gold
cage.

October 2009

The Moon's Departure

Science tells us the moon is leaving -- 
A slow uncoiling of its constant orbit --
Widening and widening
Until it is unraveled from the earth --
Set free from our gravitational tether
To fly away towards worlds unknown --
Taking its somber face and moody dark side,
Astronaut footprints and flags,
Lunokhod (the Russian Moon Robot)
And our mirror-studded laser reflectors
That let us know within a millimeter
Just how far the moon has strayed each day.
What others in the universe will make
Of these mementos is hard to guess.

But more important to us
What will regulate
The flux and flow of madness?
To say nothing of how this will lay waste
To reams of astrologers charts, calendars
And farmers' almanac tables.
And will menstrual flow cease,
Making eggs be planted
In old uterine membranes,
Not freshly minted each month?
And come to think of it,
Will women still be labeled unclean,
Without that flood of blood?
What need will there be
For niddah regulations?
I suppose we will have to invent some engine
To motor the tides on schedule
And the synodic rhythm
That ebbs and flows
Inside every cell of life.

I think we will have to lasso
That lunar orb to earth with cables,
Or duct tape and kite string
If all else fails, and not let it go.
Or fetch another moon from Saturn
(It won't miss just one
With so many gems in its crown.)

Otherwise what will stand for its image
Of muted light and mood change in our poetry?
And what will happen to the role
The moon has played in our dreams?
What beacon will replace
The aura it throws on amore?
How much courage must we lovers have
On a midnight walk on the beach
Without moonlight
To pull our heartstrings together?
Will my heart have to leap
Into the gap between us,
Like a blind aerialist
Not knowing if my beloved
Has reached out, heart open,
To catch me?

August 2010