What happened to these eyes of long ago?
…full moons shining from faces of antiquity…
They search me for answers.
I do the same.
A glimpse of truth from the forgotten…
….a barefoot boy with a tear stained face
….a blind crone with elephant skin
….a somber New Orleans prostitute
….a stern broom beard
Who were they?
hopers?
dreamers and schemers?
I am the same – no different. searching and hungering….
….living a life
I know your dreams
….you are not forgotten
He rises with the matins bell
as he has done every morning
for the last thirty three years.
Warm feet on cold stone confirm
once again that slumber has
been broken.
In the darkness, wax papered
hands assemble to solicit
undeserved graces; cracked
lips mumble and stumble for
forgiveness in a time when
Babylonian bones stained in sin
seek solace within the white lily of
the flaming heart.
A single bead of sweat drips off of my chin
before falling silently onto my cotton dress.
I place a Billie Holiday record on the turntable
and close my eyes to focus on her delicious sounds.
Billie’s sweet salty voice travels into every
corner of this tiny tomb while outside, the crickets
strain to hum along – they yearn to sing like her too.
As I greedily lap up the prayers that are being
washed into my ears I see Billie in a smoky
Harlem nightclub singing for her supper.
She is resplendent in a white satin gown
and scarlet heels which match her lipstick.
The boys from Syracuse sit at the bar downing
every note that escapes from this lonely lady’s lips.
I stand up and begin to sway to the memory
of days gone by when a gentle breeze wafts
in from the open window to baptize my silver head.
Eleanora – it’s only midnight – why did you go so soon?
There once was a farmer from Daegu
Who had a strange fondness for beef stew
Said his wife one warm eve
As she darned his old sleeve
“Our feast just ran off and mooed, ‘screw you!’
In this maddening tangerine sea,
we are sheltered under
olive fruits of unity in a time
when the hungry ghost shining above
swallows the earth in Bendis’ name.
Sons on horses hoist hot torches
beneath undying skies, bearing loving
light that shall carry us home
as wool spinners weave the looming
dawn from fermented flesh.
Smoke swings in the air,
drowning us in oyster fumes.
I’ll never scrub it out of my skin.
I sit here waiting, having
arrived ten minutes ago.
I was hot then but now
I am turning tepid.
You sit there and feebly flirt;
bumping me with your elbow
as if I’m not even here.
Why did I bother?
He’s not really interested in you, you know.
He comes here; he passes time with you, but
do you honestly think he will take you home?
Or pen you into his biographical tome?
Why do you bother?
Stop blowing smoke in my face!
Wake up!
Don’t you see that he is looking past
you into the mirror to ensure that his
hair is still perfectly quaffed?
A suspicious wife is a willful wife.
I’ve tried to shine truth upon you.
If I could walk out right now, I would.
You must leave first.
This night grows weary of your laughter.
I grow weary of this night.
————–
This is the second in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.
Fat cherries in my mouth
Fresh bruises bandaged in white
The sweetest sunset fading away
The sound of regret
The sound of your hand against my cheek
The sound of you loving me at daybreak
Salty blood
And apple flan
How it tastes like cough syrup
This ill spent scarlet afternoon in Illizi
stole my salvation.
My burdened arms row under a smothering sky.
Father stands in the middle of our shikara
observing the current with a mournful aspect.
He shall soon pay old debts with fresh blood.
Tomorrow, my sister will be yoked to a man
whose face is as unknown to her as the ocean floor.
She is eclipsed under a white hijab yet silent
tears have made her pashmina damp with
anguish for the woman that she will become.
The dolls that she supped with yesterday are
already relics of more innocent times.
Our little sun with coffee colored
eyes has a face like a sacred lotus.
I am glad that I cannot see it now, for such
sweetness marred by suffering is a sorrowful vision.
Mother sits next to father, draped in black
in preparation for the requiem.
Her tears roll inward, down to her heart,
but she makes no sound.
An ancient troller in a smaller shikara briefly
locks eyes with me before he docks for his
midday meal; he watches our somber collective
with curiosity and then turns his attention back
to the shore, convinced that the four shades
behind him were only a mirage.
————————–
Inspired by the work of Abbas from the Magnum Photo Cooperative
Four feet shuffle on and shuffle off,
laying a last charge upon the ledger.
Dragging on despondent devotion,
they cling to each other as startled eyes
look on beneath bright cafeteria lights at
damp faces and that charming cherry skirt.
Under her unreal parting bars he is
weary in a world, that for him,
cannot exist.
—————————-
I will always remember Robin Williams for his dramatic roles, because I think that is where he truly shined, despite that he was known for being a funny man. Yesterday evening I watched Awakenings, which is one of my favorite movies. The scene where Leonard says goodbye to Paula in the cafeteria has always touched me.
Sailors watch willful waves crash over the
Starboard as a venerable concertina wails
Shamelessly against the charcoal bolt.
Sargas casts his naked brilliance o’er the
Surface of frightened alabaster faces while
Shaula slings celestial tears upon the somber
Schooner fore it slinks into its frigid grave.
sundry folly 