Poetry


Memories For One Eye


© 1972, 2012 – Ray L. Saunders

     Poetry has been part of my life as long as I can remember. Other children listened to fairy tales – I listened to poetry. Others read the Bobbsey Twns – I read Kipling and Yeats. Others wrote gossip notes in class – I wrote poems.

     I began to take it seriously in high school and began what turned out to be the traditional seven years apprenticeship before I created my first real poem.

     I was stunned. My first response was disbelief, but I was unable to deny the facts. I immediately dumped seven years of practice in the garbage and began my first volume of genuine poetry. I never looked back.

     I cannot imagine a world without poetry. If I found myself in such a world, I would leave immediately.

     One thing my training as a linguist taught me is that each language has concepts which it expresses better than other languages do. Languages have idioms and turns of phrase which speak volumes about the speaker’s culture, life, outlook and history. Yet even if we were fluent in every tongue ever spoken, there are some things that are inexpressible within the disciplines of a language.

     Language arose to deal with the everyday world and only clumsily handles the extraordinary. The spiritual world needs a different vocabulary and syntax.

     That’s why we have poetry. That’s why it’s sacred.

Even this shall pass
away, for it is in
time.
Always in time for the first battle
bullrun bottle battle butt.
But if
tomorrow isn't
then
how today?
Notice we ask naught
why.
Why, it is easy if you know how.
How!  Paleface speak
with forked tongue
forked flocked fucked folked
tongue the larder of bees
and the sons of bees.
Go, delicately seize the seas
without touching the see-weed.
Part the salt from the water
and take your choice
your choice your choicest
morsels feed the dogs
dogging our footsteps
fall
Lucifer-like.
We go our separate ways.
I bid you grace and beauty.
You must pay
your own
fare
well.

                     The Trial

                Not insane, your honor, by reason of guilt.
                (The jury is the future, witnesses are Them.  The trial
                an unwise laughter.  Only the sentence
                is real.)
                There are no walls anywhere.  I hammer
                toward your voice, against my slylence.
                That frantic fool was one of us
                and not quite you, I think.
                Nor me, though you may not
                believe it nevertheless
                (ALWAYS the less!)
                it is true at least.
                Your honor, I call for my first witless...
                The adjournment is postponed til yesterday.
                The judge is dry as wit.
                A gust of wind....the powder-dry face is blown away
                and the leering vacuum appears again.
                You knew it would, but you are surprised just the same;
                you are just the same.
                Any last words?
                In the beginning....
                But you know there was no beginning.
                Can you face there was no beginning?  Liar!
                If you could, you wouldn’t be here.  Not Guilty!
                My client pleads the mercy of the court.
                The court has no mercy.
                My client pleads his mother.
                Off with her head!
                My client pleads.
                What use?  You know that he was long condemned.  He knows!
                He knows.  For my last meal: Bagels and locks.
                We have no locks.  Will keys do?
                Doors!  Give me doors for my keys!  Oak doors, iron doors,
                screen doors, scream doors, any doors for my keys!
                The victim is too keyed-up, and the judge chuckled at his
                weticism, cracking his porcelain beard.
                To the scaffold!  On with his head!
                Help!
                There is no help.

..."A false world ends in real debris" -- Elder Olsen

Weep only that it must have happened,
not that it burned the day.
Sooner or later, best perhaps at first,
as all your close-held anger
singed that heart too often
and love went up in flames,
leaving the best we could gather;
ashes of a beauty that was.
There are two kinds of tears
and both have blessed this night
and seeded the honest day.



                ..."We move this way to keep from going blind" -- Weldon Kees

                No need to scorn us, friend,
                you proud.
                We move this way to keep from going blind.
                All that we know of mind:
                a cloud.
                We move this way to keep from going blind.
                It ends as all things for us end:
                with tears.
                No need to scorn us, friend.
                You proud,
                a cloud with tears.
                No need to scorn us, friend.
                We move this way to keep from going blind.

The psycho-pseudo-hallucinatory world
lies curled at our feet
in all its sweet dispicability.
What pass for faces pass.
That bitter note you hear
is fear.  The symphony is many notes.
The incomplicity is breathing worlds
as worlds and times go by.
These cold, castrated, trembling functioneers
click-click about their work
until the sun invites the night
to cover shame with silence and with chill.
Playtime, boys and girls!  Have no fear!
Your faces are unknown, and who’s to care?
Who dares concern, that twisted shapes
and minds more twisted yet,
beget, regret, forget and spend their nights
in quivering denial of themselves?
The would-be watchers have no time for you.
They too are torn by private passions,
creeping sleepy in the dust.  Lust
comes and goes, leaving sharp mismemories
to garnish the winters of their age.
Rage is never spoken of, and love
is talked to death.
Goodbye, goodbye!  The tide is full
of meaning, and Meaning is hog-tied.
We sail tonight.  Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
It's time to go
you know.

                ..."we walk, if merry were, our merry way." -- Paul Goodman

                I don't go on willfully.  I just continue.
                I am beginning to learn that
                what I knew as Hope
                was merely Expectation.
                I go like a parachutist, having jumped
                for the animal joy, just for the hell of it.
                It’s too late to stop and consider,
                waiting to be stopped
                finally,
                meeting the Earth.

When I have finally died for real
and all your bright medicine men
can’t pump my silverdust of blood
down those long corridors of so much of me
as they can measure;
when my irony at last gets the last word;
when my sentiment plunges gloriously into oblivion,
singing at the top of somebody’s lungs;
when I’m dead, gone, out, fini, kaput and morte;
then do for me this final kindliness:
Bring my flesh beneath a winter moon
and lay me on a silver bier with roses,
the soft-pink kind
and strike a fire to the whole damn mess
and stand back.  The moon will claim her own.
At dawn, grin at the sun for me
and save my ashes in an earthen urn.
In Autumn, when the hillsides turn to gold,
wait for a day when the wind blows toward the West,
then scatter my ashes, all that remains of me,
and go home laughing.




                Bird out of nowhere, white bird flying,
                let not your flight be questioned.
                No perch upon this dark earth
                but what the Earth contrives to steal your secret.
                Let not your flight be questioned! 
                Turn, bird,
                a grace on the stillair
                and answer with flight,
                white bird.

Keep today your silences.  The world
screams everything a man might wish to say.
One need not speak of snowflakes in a blizzard
nor curse at war with Armageddon here.
The Elements - Earth, Fire, Water, Air -
are dying now despite your litanies,
and Man's unconscious, precognized defeat
is agonized through trumpets made for joy.
Nothing that needs saying needs be said.
The meaning of a word ends with its speaker.  The listener
hears a meaning of his own.
If you must speak, speak personally,
of love.

                What we tell ourselves in lieu of silence
                is counterpoint to what we keep concealed.
                If minds were tape-recorded and revealed,
                the accusation of our gentle violence
                would blow our world apart.


                Nachtsmertz has a machine
                that hears what people whisper
                to themselves
                at night.

                    Nachtsmertz listens 
                    all night long.
                    All day long
                    he writes biographies.

       The Unspoken Word

It festers behind tight jaws,
turns ugly and sour.
Forced painfully out,
falls like a stone
hard
dead
belonging to another time.
And spreads an evil smell.

                We bury the dead in convenient haste,
                my family.
                A legacy perhaps.
                We were pioneers
                and those who struggle have little time
                for Death.
                The act is stark, a black-and-white thing to do.
                The Puritan knife that was our Will
                carved a narrow way of life,
                for all that life's variety.
                By a dying fire, good hunters, cleaning our weapons,
                we turn, curious, in our hands
                bits of lives that met our blade
                but did not turn it:
                a summer bluejay;
                a favorite mare;
                the odd young Englishman who cut the hay one year;
                the son who drowned - was it accidental? - 
                big snows,
                short summers
                and a full table.
                Death
                was a held    breath.

I bless the touch of love that follows Love,
mellowing sorrow and polishing regret,
as a jeweller turns a stone, through craft and care
to something precious.

                Only the shadow of a shadow
                marked where the white bird fell.
                Only the echo of an echo
                sounded the unicorn step.
                When Dark had stifled the affairs of man,
                the mythical beast arose.
                Of Shadow born, to Echo wed,
                the breeding darkness woke to find itself
                supreme,
                alone,
                and built the Earth out of its loneliness.
                And, lest it be too generous to mankind,
                invented Memory.



A plain of silver grass and one black horse,
one horse that ran beneath the lime-green sun.
And out of his mouth, a dove;
and out of his head, a rainbow;
and the great red heart sang, sang.
And a white mare stamped the Earth,
dreaming of silver plains.

                Gray shadows rose on the sharp air, yellow
                air of summer.
                Riding a glance beyond horizons.
                And the earth cried out in its emptiness
                and ash-white graves
                clutched at the passing birds.

Out of the darkcore, into the wind
the blackcrystal wind of night,
a great white bird flew
delicate as sunlight
singing the beginnings
of a new sun.

                Three birds came to announce the wind,
                the soft blue wind,
                three birds flying as one
                over the hard green earth.
                The garden was quiet, very
                quiet
                as if things
                were buried there.
                And one red rose
                (so dark dark dark it seemed about to bleed)
                fell red-bursting on the silver air
                and shattered the hard green earth.

I have my heritage, and yet I seek
for those who are exactly what they are,
that my time be worth the time it takes to be.

                The women I have known were more than kind,
                and yet, I brought no gift beyond myself.
                It seemed so insufficient at the time.

I hold your kiss tonight inside my mind
and touch the gift your womanhood will bring;
for you are true to youth, and I am silent
to tell you how you are
more than you know.

                At the edge of a desert a coyote sits
                watching the shadow black upon the sand,
                the shadow of a bird that cannot be.
                The ignorant beast unveils his fangs
                and trots in sly pursuit.
                Beneath scrub cedar he waits
                and sees flat darkness hover by.
                He leaps.  The gray dust rises
                dry and choking.
                Silence seeps between triumphant gasps.
                The shadow is gone.  The coyote is content.

When symbols finally overcome their source
and I feel more the host and less the guest
in Mankind's pleasant house of fantasy
I shall return to where my heart can rest.
I shall wander on a Western shore
and build a place of quiet to abide
and watch the ebb and flow of endless skies
and muse upon the ways of man and tide.
By heather-perfumed sunlit gentle hills
that step so lightly down to greet the sea
beside white cliffs that guard the pebbled shore
where sea-birds carve their silent melody,
there will my mind be witness as it can
unto a world never made by Man.

                I make my way through hillsides spread with gold
                and listen to the passage of the deer.
                Now my city mind is brought to rest     
                and my wilderness heart awakens to me here.
                No trail threads among the silver spruce
                but has its double running through my soul
                and, unconcerned, I let each trail lead me
                alone, but never lonely, to its goal.
                The hawk and eagle, beautiful and cruel,
                invite the peaks to join them in the sky
                and rise up like a challenge to the sun
                while down below lie Earth and Beast and I.
                And though I'm stabled in a city stall,
                a part of me is still a coyote's call.

Dawn broke cloudy and no sun arose.
In this bleached night no single sound was heard.
Rain hesitated, waiting for some word.
Not all the darkness is outside, God knows.

                The Sun so lightly hid its heart
                out of pretended sophistry
                and Moon fell screaming screaming down
                and there was a smear of blood across her breasts.
                Moon-white her flesh,
                Moon-cold her ivory tears,
                but hot as Hell itself
                her voice, crying 
                blood, blood, blood
                that must be paid with blood.

In a cloudy dawn, the rain
hesitated
long enough for a white
bird
to define the edge of Now.

                Yellow yellow winds thread tree-to-tree
                weaving nets to catch a silver bird.
                The granite rocks have whispered a gruff warning.
                The silver bird hears, laughs, and flies aaaaawwwaaayyy!

There are some silences that are not dark,
just as there are shadows made of silver.
Only a fool could fail to believe
but more the fool who thinks such days will last.
For love is like an ocean, wild or calm,
whose beauty is its changeless rule of change.
Yet every ocean has its time-teased shores
and every wanderer comes home at last.
Now fast at harbor, wiser, weatherbeaten,
an echo rages in the sailor's bones
and he remembers to his dying day
bright silences and shadows made of silver.





Remembering
                         one woman
                                           dark birds flew
inexplicable
                         birds
                                           across the sun.
And explanation
                         a primitive
                                           wariness
                              held
                  above
the tongue.

                Oh sweet improbable of guess, and who was I to know
                that words I spoke in faith would turn out true?
                I looked into your eyes tonight and memories returned
                of nights I saw your eyes and witnessed you.

                And Memory was in the air, for when your hand touched mine,
                it clung and, hesitating, dropped away
                as if you sensed the love we had was even now not done
                and in your laugh was what you dared not say.

                Old dreams, lost dreams, mirrors and memory,
                dark nights, dark eyes, kiss and leave us true.

I do not seek remembrance in your mind
that labyrinth of immovable images
through which your restless sparroweyes will flash,
seeking the remnants of a singing dawn.
When I am gone and the starburned nightingale
of your dark blood investigates the years
let it find no trace of me in that soft night
but as a tear that falls into surprise
from some unguessed delight of yesterday.
For such of me as persists within your flesh
should be unknown, or it bring you to regret.
Then hold me blindly in your Autumn hand
and tell your children some careless phrase of mine
but forget the origin of the words your speak,
that only my love may claim immortality
as innocent wisdom, a heart within your heart.

                Pacific ocean, calmer of my heart
                stretching your endless blue across the miles,
                how confidently you ease me with your art
                when in your breadth I see my lover's smiles.
                And how your breakers clatter on the shore
                and seem to slice the tropic night in half
                as waves in their self-echoing delight
                match the music in my lover's laugh.
                Sea of Quiet, how your boundless deeps
                give me but a hinting of the whole,
                as - half impassioned, more than half asleep -
                her sea-deep eyes reveal my lover's soul.
                I love you most, serene, pacific water
                because you are her mother ... or her daughter.


I have too thick a skin to fear the thorns,
God knows.  You know
I'm defenseless with a rose.


Preoccupied with images
                                       of love
I have been passed
                                       upon a real street
by love
                                       upon a thousand woman-feet
whose steps were abstract
                                       to Oblivion.

                You think
                your game of unreality is cheap
                at most, a way to kill some time
                until arrives a morefun fantasy.
                What do you have worth more than the time your burn?
                You have your dreams
                and life has its revenge
                (for the fantasy is cheap but dearly bought
                and the cost of maintenance is high
                acid-high, grass-high
                or just plain flip-out).
                I'm sort of a funny bird myself
                but there are some games that I will not be
                and I would rather fuck with a shaved ape
                than monkey with the monkey on your back.
                You don't believe me?  Baby,
                it's your doubt!
                If you're so smart, then where's your magic
                wand?

On the floor
amid the Sunday papers and old magazines
on the floor
lies a roll of rice-paper
once thought suitable for a scroll
a mural perhaps of poems.
Romantic.  At the time it seemed
a good idea,
one of those beauties I never got around to doing.
It lies empty blank unwrit-upon
like an idea never bodied in an act.
And forty feet of tissue paper that missed its chance
sullenly reproaches me
and claims kinship with other things I know.

                What is it I said
                baby bothering you?
                Is the greentooth girl come
                gobbling your candy
                motherhood?
                Stares the red-eyed watcher
                on your goldenwindowblind
                nudity?
                Or maybe
                the yellow balloon
                that broke some twenty years ago
                and your heart?
                Your first love still remembers
                you and I have not forgotten
                yet.  What more
                could you expect?
                Baby
                what the Hell I said
                is it
                with you?

You chase perfection
and if today isn't
then
goodbye tomorrow.
Even things complete
call up memories of when
and then
you die.
And if you think
you have troubles
now
just wait
until you stumble
onto Beauty.

                Baby I could say Oh
                all sorts of things and things
                to please you and to please you
                I will
                say So.
                But you got to remember
                they're just 
                things said.
                If I get real
                you got to expect it
                now
                (let's remember Beauty is a luxury)
                and then.

When your blood moves
slower than parting lovers
and night's own beast
grazes upon disaster
in the loneliness of dawn you'll hear a horn
sweeter than an angel's dreams of God.
Then look for me from your window
and me upon the meadows
along of the drowsy trees
waking the birds.
Then look for me from your dooryard
and myself down the street,
turning the corner
as if it were Ace of Trumps.

                All the sorrow of Eve is in her face
                as she perceives the way the world is planned
                and in her hand the future of the race
                and on her face the plea to understand.

The wind swings North by West
and I hear you
singing in your heart.
The wind blows from Southeast
and I feel your
fingers on my soul.
And the wind dies
and leaves us
hanging in the air.

                Like the Earth that yawns and flings aside
                the sheets of night and, naked, meets the day,
                out of darkness, out of sleep I come
                to kneel at last, who never learned to pray.
                Like a bird that fills its silver throat
                with praise of all each new-dawned day will bring,
                full of hope and filled with simple awe
                I lift my voice, who never learned to sing.
                Like the tumbleweed before the wind
                which moves with grace for all it moves by chance,
                I set myself adrift and seek the breeze
                to leap for joy, who never learned to dance.
                Because I love, the world is fresh and new.
                I learn, I am, I say myself...for you.

The sea-slick landscape, oil-bled and gray,
goes slapping gently at the piers each day.
The sturdy wood must think it can withstand
the water's formless, weak and splashing hand.
So we may laugh at all the blows of life
because the world is so inept at strife.
The piers forget the water's strongest trait:
although the wood rots slow, the sea can wait.

                This innocence, this beauty yet unnamed,
                this untamed, fragmentary, virgin smile,
                this mild helplessness, concealing strength,
                this lengthy, comic, circumvented truth,
                this ruthless, serious, child's cast of face,
                these pacing eyes that measure expectations;
                the explanations hiding in those lips,
                these hips suggesting nights as yet unseen,
                the being, aloof, concentered on a role,
                this soul that binds me with its innocence.

The chief objection to a tear
is that it makes one's sight unclear.



                It is not wise to toy with Irony.
                It is a habit alien to the soul
                but native to the mind.
                Whereby we find
                a man can die
                laughing.

Three pregnant ladies waddle down the street
and when they meet
reflections in the window, peer inside
to hide self-consciousness
I guess, or they
are just concerned with Insides maybe.
Baby doesn't know how
proudly Mama hides his size.
He lies 
within
while mamas grin
and talk of things like Him and Her.
And so it were:  three pregnant ladies
waddling into Spring.




The day was summer
and Central Park
turned over on its griddle.

        Everything was settled
        until the pigeons went home
        angry.

In June
the snowplows ran amok
from boredom.

        Dawn came on strong
        and streetlights tiptoed off.

All the snakes surrendered
when the subways married.

        One day at noon
        the buildings walked away.
        By nightfall
        the stones had learned to dance.





Who are you
When you're not
Who
You think
You are?

                Bits of time are finite,
                countable.
                Some people spend their time
                counting.

If you would leap, take care
you do not stumble
over the World
's steppingstones.

                For one to deal in broken imagery,
                the objects of another hand and will,
                the fabricated births of restlessness,
                Oh that is art more brewed with deep regrets
                than half-a-hundred lovers' memories.
                Art is both the molding and the breaking,
                the turning of corners when the dawn is breaking,
                the re-unfragmentation of the soul,
                the skill to catch the heart just when it's breaking.

Tatters and the naked man beneath
and the grime of the forsaken past
and the keepsake purity of what was future,
more anger than a failure can maintain,
a rigid pride where wisdom would be silent.
This man has seen harsh seasons
yet none so bitter as his shade.
You who find a challenge in each sound,
notice the scars and the shuddering reflex,
consider how he came by his compassion
and wonder that
his touch burns like a brand-iron.
There was a time he moved as an animal
and his will sufficient for his reach.
There was a once he did not feel his skin crawl
at the sight of a suspended moment
or gasp to hear his world
crumble beneath thundering centuries
and hush.
The knowledge of his world as it fell,
it cracked across his mind and who he was.
This man remembers an instant out of time
when he shared
God.

                The unreal pain finds ways to sting
                the thing which is not there.
                The non-existent footstep rings
                on the non-existent stair.
                Nature defeats this minor technicality
                by birthing minds which also lack reality.

Where the moon stands
look for the angry wind
fresh from victory over the fragile sun.
Where the moon stands
look for the blackthorn trees
surrounding the helpless hill.
If traces of the pale-ash moon
survive the wind's attack,
if silver moonstabs penetrate
the blackthorn wall,
look for a hand's-breadth of rarity
(Oh once-in-a-lifetime-vision, life, new life!)
and on your palm read mirrored
the world's destiny and your own.

                When I realized
                my father didn't have a moustache,
                I felt sad.
                And when I realized
                I didn't have a father,
                I felt like killing the bastard,
                all because of a moustache.



Somehow, it seems to take a whole lot more
to satisfy me than it did before.

                Commitments and a strict morality
                have hurricaned the mind's most sweeping arc
                and left the twisted arts that might have been,
                screaming for light in furious, windy dark.
                A child's voice that asks the name of sin;
                and older voice that seeks a child's eye;
                hintings of a pure fatality;
                these are things for which a man might cry.
                Visions habitate the close-held dark,
                promising one last fatality,
                thrown into a heaven-searing arc,
                free of innocence and free of sin,
                blessing those still free enough to cry.
                What stopped the passage of what might have been?
                Seeing once more as by a child's eye,
                commitments and a strict morality.

The grass is
earlyspringlike
coverednotquitecovered
with light
snow
patches connected
yet interrupt
ed and continuously
dis con tin u ous.
Doublesight lightnings with visions
paradoxing grass-and-snow
with the phenomenal uniqueness
of grass
blade
and snow
flake.
Things are, in many ways.

                I will remember water and silver and wind
                in a pale sky.  I witnessed what I saw;
                the hand that shapes experience from event,
                smiles, tears and silences that spoke,
                blood that sang and things unwordable,
                the tune that mingles with a woman's voice
                when Love is noun and verb and adjective,
                when you and I seem somehow quaintly past
                in the unexpected present tense of We.
                There is no end to this, for having been,
                it will be, as long as memory.
                After the storm and sadness of goodbye,
                you I remember: water and silver and wind.

They say they care, and cynic those like me
who doubt that they are very much concerned.
And then they die and do not care again.
I have seen a thing to haunt my sleep:
Eyes that mourn, in a face too proud to weep.

                Though there is no peace
                outside of death
                and though death is a myth
                so there is no peace,
                I would not mind so much
                if today didn't cost me
                all my yesterdays.

Still Life with Lemon
with sour grapes and rue,
with sorrow and tomorrow and you,
with choices
unchosen,
buds never to flower,
an unpassed past,
the future always in the future,
and no Today.  No
Now.
Living still
life.
Why?

                I urge my roses on,
                coaxing reluctant blooms
                from bad-tempered stalks.
                They naturally resent it and impale me
                every chance they get,
                but I'm afraid if I left them alone
                they'd never bloom again.
                What a shock to find one wild in the woods,
                covered with a carpet of flowers.
                In their own good time...

I wake up in the middle of the night
speaking bad French or mediocre German.
I don't speak French at all
except when I'm asleep
and little German
at any time
except when I'm angry.
When I'm very angry
I speak Russian.
When I'm absolutely enraged
I shit in English.
So
there I was
being philosophical in French
and my philosophy
(my French being what it is)
sucked.
Or rather, it remained unexpressed,
like anger and love and other
things I could mention.
Sometimes I think I do that
deliberately - philosophize in French.
It reminds me how much is
inexpressible
in any tongue. 


What
if     
we
all
decided to          ?
shit                     ?
in the middle of Fifth Avenue
& 57th Street.
At High Noon.
On a Monday.  Imagine
thousands of bare
asses
commenting
on the State/state of the world
(and commenting on 5th Avenue and 57th St.)
and making their comments on
5th Avenue
and 57th Street.

                Time is the burglar to whom we all
                open our doors.  Casually
                we watch him
                rummaging through our lives,
                examining with his commercial eye
                our lives
                bits and pieces that are
                our lives.
                What a puzzlement when he chooses 
                inconsequential knicknacks
                we haven't looked at in years.
                What fear when he scrutinizes
                a cherished heirloom of our past,
                polished religiously, kept in a place of honor.
                What disappointment
                when he tosses it aside.
                "Take it!", we want to scream,
                "It's important!".
                Expressionless, he looks at us
                and shrugs.


Sorting through the collection of our lives
having decided on
a rummage sale of the soul
we gaze curious and disremembering
on joys and pleasures
pricing them by whim
til all are sold.
We will not sell our pain
at any price.




Some people throw us Life Preservers,
some people just throw stones.
We seize what's nearest
and wonder as we s
                 i
                 n
                 k
                 .


                     CHUMLEY'S
                It is pleasant to see
                the poet/letter-writer/whateversheis
                smile
                as she looks up from the paper,
                smile as she glances at the others
                or at some private thought
                or because she feels like it.
                She has a nice
                smile.
                I'm jealous because I didn't invoke it.
                Maybe I did.  Maybe
                she smiled at the sight of me.
                And maybe
                she just smiled.
                It suffices.  Today
                is not a total waste.
                Thank
                    you.

There are beauties I have seen
over the years and over the years
the beauties cling in memory
like cockleburs, persistent, tiny
and a little bit irritating.

                God, I love beautiful women!  I could
                spend my life in adoration.
                But more I love more usual women
                in those moments when their beauty leaks out.

    Brooklyn Heights In Spring
Amazed at the variety
of people every
size/shape/headstate.
What most attracts, surprises and disgusts me
is that each thinks
he has
the Secret,
knows best how
to live
Life.
The women are pursuing themselves
as time permits, as times permit,
for their lives are complicated
by the men.  The women put up with them.
It uses most of their energy,
putting up with the men.

                What there was to take,
                I gladly took.
                What there was to give,
                I gave with joy.




 

Oh long-lost love, you stand there in the rain.
I have not yet forgot the heartache and the song.
Today I cannot say which of the two is dearest.
I only know that both have have left their wounds.
But one without the other were Today without Tomorrow
so I accept them both, the sorrow and the joy.


                Wenn man ein Wunder sehen wuerde,
                muss man ein Wunder sein.
                Aber die Seele is nicht zu gut;
                der Kopf is viel zu klein.
                Gehst du so froelich durch die Welt,
                wirst du zum Ende kommen.
                An jeder Stadt ist Tod gestellt.
                So is dein Leben genommen.