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Lord of the Lies
Perched awkwardly up on my teacher's
desktop,
As I swivel around like a pig on a stick;
Sharpened at both ends, stabbing at truths
In the ground, in my skull .. 'tis it all a trick?
Is a littlun' telling what's really
not there?
A beastie of symbols, of colors and schemes;
Projecting through children some adult nonsense…
Hitler and Oedipus and other found themes.
Invented for students who just want
a story?
Like ink on the pages, "Keep it black and white;"
Red hair and a pink scar, and, oh yes, the conch,
Should I let you just read and let novelists write?
But no tongue in cheek, I'm no Lord
of the Lies,
Nor a simple Simon giving fruits forbidden;
Don't wait for the pilot, sail out on your own,
And you'll find what we authors have carefully hIDden.
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Merry Go Round
You can pay a fare you can afford,
Sometimes you're with a friend;
And before the man throws the switch,
You hope the ride won't end.
The music goes tra-la-la-la,
And the motion brings the breeze;
Like this rhyme, it's oh so steady,
And those horses don't have fleas.
It's a safe ride, never a problem,
Others say "ya-dee, yah-dee, yah;
As you grow the music changes,
Far away from the tra-la-la.
You are like a music box dancer,
In one place going 'round and 'round;
Step off with confident steps now,
Take a chance at new rides and sounds.
You go nowhere riding in circles,
A new song you now must sing;
Lean out, it may feel off balanced,
It's only brass, so go for the ring.
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Click
Here to sing along to the Music Box Dancer
Music Box Dancer
You walk in the room and you're wearing a frown,
You reach for the shelf and cradle it down
The Music Box Dancer, what does it prove?
Only that you need to see a statue that moves.
A tutu of satin, bordered with lace,
Slender lines, agile legs, a wonderland face.
Her beauty is balanced, an immovable pose,
Eternally destined to remain on her toes.
Music Box Dancer, she is only a toy,
Project upon her your dreams of wanting life's joy;
She's perched on her stand, and never will part,
A final gaze upon her, now the music will start.
You wind the doll up, it's nostalgic because
You've been here before, so give one final pause
To dream of the future, to reflect on the past,
Music Box Dancer start your whirling at last.
The room fills with music, such a cute song,
Watching her go 'round and 'round, she's where she belongs;
Bring joy to the watchers, spreading a glow,
Whenever wound up, she'll put on a good show.
Music Box Dancer, do you think or believe
She could step off her box if she wanted to leave?
So easy it is, twirl around with such grace,
Staying in her circle, she remains in one place.
Such a brief moment, a small time to spend,
The dancing will slow soon, the music will end;
In real life we're plastic, nature's unfair,
How can we breathe life, how can we share
The knowledge and insights hidden in tombs,
We're all Music Box Dancers all alone in our rooms;
We sit on our shelves where objects reside,
We don't allow the music to get right inside.
Music Box Dancer's now completely alone,
No winder or no listener, because nobody's home;
How long before someone will re-wind the spring?
The room will now be witness; and silence can't sing.
Song by Frank Mills: Music Box Dancer
Lyric by Norman Pollack, 03-17-81
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Dizain: On reading "In memory of W.B. Yeats"
by A.H. Auden
Why stand hues, awed in memory shades
of voices past?
Should death of pastel poets keep them from their poems ?
Not ashes, but their verses have been gently cast
to small cafes, to classrooms, and to brownstone homes.
Silence invades the suburbs, the reader mournful roams
the streets of raw towns isolating the busy grief.
A few thousand will think their days here were brief,
Yes, their bodies revolted, poets dying bring sorrow;
Wystan, William and I share that eternal belief:
Their works are the import of their noise tomorrow
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Punctuating Someone's Life
Our lives are not composed (in parentheses)
There is something before and something after
But we did not ask that any of it be written
We are authored ... born without asking
to be
We are given a life sentence whether we like it or not
And we try our best with our own free will to complete the thought
Knowing that life also brings a death sentence
How should we punctuate someone's
life now that they're gone ...
An exclamation point seems perfect!
in appearance and function
the separation of the part from the whole
in autumn the falling of a leaf from its branch
an abrupt end
finality
an exclamation point will not work
A question mark might work ... but will it?
again separation ... one from the
other
again abruptness
finality
but with a lingering plea for answers
and unable to hear the response
a question mark will not work
A period would seem most appropriate.
a standard simple ending
completing the structure
a simple dot
cloture
but there without any more words
a period will not work
Only one punctuation mark belongs at the end
We will choose a semi-colon;
yes a separation in the mortal sense
but the dot above the comma
leaving us the thoughts and deeds the kindness
and all of the goodness of the person's life
still being written
as we continue to compose
the rest of her unwritten sentences
and we will end them all with a semicolon
to punctuate our belief that they will live forever;
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sentenced fragments
traveling today
to board
carrying so much baggage
so heavy and difficult
to lift
on to the conveyor belt
nearing the portal
beneath the archway
then pass
to the other side
ding-ding-ding
rejected - sent back.
everything out of pockets
that might
be objectionable
into the little basket
for pass through
ready again
beneath the archway
then pass
to the other side
ding-ding-ding
rejected again - sent back.
belt off,
hold up pants
remove watch,
time wasting
anger those behind
ready again
beneath the archway
then pass
to the other side
ding-ding-ding
rejected again.
scanned, spread eagled
up an down,
side to side
hey, inside,
those pieces shrapnel
left over from vietnam
ding-ding-ding
but passed through to the other side
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Sold Out
About to take a trip,
back to her high school reunion.
my love, and my wife,
desperately fingers through her
hand-crafted jewelry box;
a question, and duress,
what will go with that dress?
Then the thought occurs to her:
"I wish i had that stone-beaded necklace right now."
Another trip,
I go to the pantry for a snack;
the love of my life has shopped well
and the cupboard is not bare,
and the choices are plenty,
those walnuts for baking
are mine for the taking.
Then the thought occurs to me:
"I wish I had that antique walnut cracker right now."
A weekend trip
we're off to the Florida Keys;
my love and I
take a dream-walk in the Atlantic,
a quarter of a mile out in green aqua water;
wet only to the waist
all other cares erased.
Then the thought occurs to both of us:
"we wish we had that that rubber boat for two right now."
By these, and others, we've been burned.
I think a valuable lesson's been learned.
Next time, those profits will be spurned,
We will have no more garage sales
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Sudden Endings
Aware that the pages number more than a thousand,
We read, unworried, not anticipating the end.
The stream of consciousness journey
Simply carries us to tributaries
Even Daedalus never traveled.
But if on page 474, Joyce and Ulysses stopped
Hearing the second of tradition's four movements
We listen, unworried, not anticipating the end.
Larghetto, surely only the second,
Schumann is only in the spring of his symphony,
Where more seasons will yet be heard.
But what if at second movement's end, Ormandy and the orchestra stopped
Like life at middle age, inside this poem,
We read, unworried, not anticipating the end.
More stanzas are visible beyond this point,
They're yet unread; there's time enough to enjoy more words,
Since our lives don't end midstream, mid-poem,
But what if, by fate's trickery, right here, I, and my poem stopped
Neerket lomil jen culn foir sivn cale en sluinj
Werf oilfer selt pern altine loorkeen teolkinsire.
Thren bur fet kest wern jerquole,
Alzen orton pir ekilojkil eki ghensten.
Loffo ter zeck tfible loj courpirted sen riftime,
Fi ghur psering egan ull, drimt mevot.
Ekfil tmidal geap fuir empo strynst ling hoilfern,
Snoease yulnef murndy's tetling visper.
Scroalplens nelstids crezwaned izursome desploke
Cwarl dees ortems, kreslik nezo inder kivcik,
Serjun, koob-ufel yonpym ponirkum yirn graz,
Oinzim mup gnig ploorzine, munyiped namron.
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Munich Tee Shirt
i saw a
gentile boy
with a Munich
tee shirt on.
i asked him what's
with Munich, he said
i don't know,
some athletes got killed?
i saw
a Jewish boy with
the Munich
tee shirt on,
and ask him
the same
he said
it was the
olympics , Jews died.
the games went on.
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My Teenage Stepdaughter
In the excitement of one night
My Mets could not find a victory
So I gave up the game
And turned the T.V. off.
Alone in the dark without a win
Is an empty ball park at any age.
Many middle aged men have memories
About their little ones on their laps,
Imparting advice into tiny minds,
Ofttimes with callous words
But, you met me full grown (well, almost)
I was there to smile with pride
At your latest steps, words and poems
You might still be teaching me, sport,
Who knows?
But to me, you never were this Daddy's little girl,
And only sentimental moments have created visions
Carrying me back to your mother's ponytail, bobbing
Seeing you in her image
But we're tightly held together, you
and I.
In the worst of times, and best of times,
Carried by a glimpse of time and space,
Caught up in our prides blinding our growth, together
You'll never be my little girl, Leslie
But I've cried with the same joy and pain,
Because you are my daughter.
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Death Car Mourning
From mourning, unanswered ashes
Dusted by a filament of nostalgia
A newborn nation, lungs brought to life by
Crusted, guilt-laden governments of modernity
Emerged from its own black hole in history
Prey to the arrows of blinded retrogrades
Who, expressionless as the former yellow-star murderers
Gray and already entombed in pyramids of vengeance
Slipped their unholy war into an innocently parked car.
Shadows of stone, a sarcaphogas floats
Porous, unceremoniously, the unsepulchered ark that it is
No way to drown out the sounds of the
Chorus of intractable newsprint spewed forth
Blotted only by the gauze from a splintered child
Who, swaddled only in stillborn hope, and
Never suckled at the wall, will never ask the four questions,
But we have one: "Must we always place these stones
Forever and ever, on graves conceived in hatred?"
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footprints
as the pastoral moon sang its tearful aria
in the key of want
some star-crossed dream was born
daring the morning dew of conscience to intercede.
from different times and directions,
he and she came running, daringly, along the shoreline
from distant, different sand castles,
on a collision course predestined by the unknown,
arriving toe-to-toe
with night birds crying, twenty fingers groping,
longing for the grip that would hold four hands together.
and while the rest of their worlds slept, they kissed
and re-lit a fire of confusion on that spot
within their souls.
aflame with questions, they embraced,
transfixed, unmoving, until the sun appeared
then, gazing down at what had brought them
to their private place, here and now,
looking beyond this spot over each other's shoulder,
they cried in rhythm as they simultaneously wished
they could see no footprints in the sand.
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Political Party
On the other side of a whispering morning
In a subliminal hangover,
My childhood serves up a memory, unasked,
From the rides at Asbury Park
To the utilities and railroads which were
All I could ever buy.
And I lied about liking being short, too.
Elections and awards, they all drip from the window sill,
Glistening fragments like an autograph of pain:
"Best of luck at Indiana University."
Here's to the English teacher and his rye toast,
I didn't lie about liking kids.
Amalgamated, consolidated philosophies
From the page to the soul, like politics
They ooze through the cracks in the earth.
A distorted legacy out of focus,
This ballet of honesty,
Twirls on the rim of a champagne glass
Left from the party.
And they never tell lies, right?
Old age will still come knocking,
Faint music on my door harp
As one door closes and another opens.
Another evening with the gang,
Uninspired time caught in my stream of unconsciousness,
And who's gonna clean up the mess they all left
Lying around here last night
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Progeny
lovers on the barren slick of nowhere
not needing the nestling and not
proclaiming squatter's rights in some barren place
at the center of the meaning of alone,
crouched together for their own genesis
of being,
variables unknown, companionship's passage
forming a corridor for entry, a conduit for spawning fulfillment,
huddling in the security of a still-life union.
a brood could be spawned, a sense
of togetherness realized,
the heart(s), the soul(s), the womb( ) of beginning,
giving birth to the hope of a litter
destiny wished on them.
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Those Sonnets!
Oh, what hath made this bard among
the rest?
Forsooth, what perfect poems! Away my pen!
Get me to the back seat, there at the end
And shed my tears alas, he is the best!
'Tis not for us to wander in the master's
den...
But to marvel at words he doth well frame;
No way we poets 'ere could write the same
Great lines so perfectly, that golden pen.
Reader, I cannot write more, this
charade,
Make no mistake, l n'ere would have the ink
That has this genius' words to paper link,
I so admit, no such poems have I made.
Alas, I quit, no more I'll look upon
it,
Will, how did'th thee ever write those sonnets?
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unhappy birthday
in the photograph of evening
as i was gathering more queues instead of dispelling them,
on a beach,
meekly daring all the insects of summer
to join in the flogging
i watched as an incurable rash spread over my thoughts.
an allergic reaction to my life
no new philosophies at my feet
i, borne of gravel,
un-grew here, decomposing, until only this granule remains.
dark, underexposed,
an old photo,
an artifact left from the fossil of youth
i mark my birthday anyway,
a private celebration of despair
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Anticipation
Toe the sand, let it sift through
the valleys,
Return again on a beach of tomorrows;
Grains tickle and hang there .. they won't leave the skin
'Til brushed away, they're romance borrowed.
At the foot of wanting an extremity
waiting,
An unlikely source for a promise suspended;
One step, then a dash, touched by love's fingers,
Barefoot and lonely, as if yesterday ended.
Ankle deep in those that are joyous,
Connected, divided, by the beach clothes worn;
Chills from a hand, not the waves of a moment,
Seem to 'waken the body, and a spirit reborn.
Toe- finger...foot-hand...ankle and
wrist,
Imagining how the rest will be kissed.
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one last song
in a hospice room,
two artificial flower arrangements are on the sill.
evening's sunlight pours through the window,
a spotlight on the granddaughter chorus
as they sing where or when
to a beautiful lady.
it is here and now
that the generational songs of love and caring
cascade across the bed
where time has stopped.
one of the choir is kneeling,
gently caressing her hand
while the other stands,
softly stroking her cheek
as their mother,
her daughter,
at the foot of the bed,
smiles through the tears,
knowing that death cannot silence
the music of life
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fading leaves
like the valley
protected from the wind,
no dust dancing,
tearfully focused on memories,
light as a feather, dreams in the head,
divulging all, none,
opening her eyes on the other side
where mournful light is reflected, deflected
on the oak book cases behind the rocker,
it appears
not in a mist like a shroud,
but crystalline,
as if truth had perched on the sill.
terns on the beach
boughs against the sky
moon on the horizon
mesmerized
by the smell of firewood
the bare feet on the wooden floor
the aroma of trailing, flowering plants
the dulcet tones of Pachabel's Canon
the flickering candle
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inside out
a cloud moves across the musing
as weathered tears moisten
the branching wrinkles
within or without,
time cannot whitewash reality:
does the heart or hand draw those
lines?
should o'henry paint his last leaf here?
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Love Colored Space
All we know, this, or any other time
Is that love-colored space
Will always take the place of gathering emptiness.
Abstract, uneventful paintings
Are miraged onto unsigned canvases
That we hang in our imaginary galleries which are
Right beside the Museum of Modern Lonely.
"As the World Turns" needs us inside
Not just as unfulfilled reflections
Or as looking-glass deflections of pity
Stay-puts for the teenage coroner,
We're featureless life forms in heat,
Synthetic dreamers in hollow sleep
Awaiting a charmer's kiss for better, worst
Downstream from where the pollywogs mourn
There is a new personality for spring
Wherein the fire birds brilliantly sing
Into the wind's indifferent storm
Resourceful songs, not construed and real
Serenely pulling, an undertow of hope,
Into the tributaries where we can finally be ourselves.
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returning
i return to you, not just to touch, but to be in touch
to re-touch those moments only you and i know we had
not so far from mandalay, near a monastery of commitment,
on a bridge over un-troubled water, on the sands of time made for us.
not running from, nor desperately
towards,
not temporary, not permanent,
just a sincere, deep longing to feel at peace with you,
discarding time into a vacuum so we,
at least once in a while,
can belong to each other.
this is our link to what never could
be, and to all we really are:
an instant in time that has us as one, creating a time we can cherish
and seal in our hearts so that when we need the warmth
of what we mean to each other,
we'll only need to remember this time,
and the glow will be forever
returning.
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out of seasons
explorer, seer, perceiver, friend
from whose eyes, and to what end?
knowledge is anguish, love is pain,
i can't always make sunshine out of the rain.
frustration is knowing the future
is now,
so damn-fire sure I do know how
to create what's beyond, there but asleep,
youth, expectations, all of them keep
the hope of a moment in a bottle of
time,
all out of seasons .. poems out of rhyme;
caught in a mind-scope, an unwrittem plot,
some mirrored phantasma, ignited or not
i cry for the image, the gift is inside,
not body, an experience, wider than wide;
the top of a crest, it hangs for a while,
until swimming toward it, there's only denial.
the tune's always playing, glassy
eyes listen,
i'll never know who will read or will listen;
my mind is an undertow, time's even shorter,
and messiahs with magic cannot dance on water.
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Snack in Time
It's dark and cold inside this place, many thoughts are in my brain;
The solitude surrounding me has me ponder, "What remains?"
Am I leftovers from a meal, preserved
for a snack in time;
This carcass once had life blood, And it's only proof that I'm
Still here, at least in body, a mere
part of what was whole;
Amidst refrigerated neighbors, now part of a common soul.
The visit, just like life, is brief,
we should savor every morsel;
As if life itself is sustenance for very living mortal.
For eaten or not, we'll all return
to where all life is found;
Consumed or not in this life, we all will nourish the ground.
The door is closed now once again,
I hope all is not for naught;
I want to have meaning in this life, so at least I'll be food for thought.
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| Note: to be read with
an Italian accent!
Vanilla Viannelle
Little can I offer, in a villanella
and what more could I do. It's just a poem.
This bard is not a real happy fella.
I'll write it, I dare, a poem vanilla
to show that I, could maybe be at home.
Little can I offer in a villanella.
They won't say, " lovely, schoene,
bello, bella,"
in every land wherever I may roam.
This bard is not a real happy fella.
I'm struggling now as if you couldn't
tell a
poet, though all my poems could fill a tome,
Little can I offer in a villanella.
At least I've tried, so few rhyme
with "ella",
and this line's even messier, a comb?
This bard is not a real happy fella.
Normally, poets mold like moistened
loam,
No more a poet, now they'll call me "gnome",
Little can I offer, in a villanella.
This bard's is not a real happy fella.
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Two Voices Converged
Two voices converged, a cappella,
stood
On the precipice singing a song;
and as one voice, we knew we would
reach higher than we thought we could,
back when our tunes were not as strong.
We'll write each other's lyrics in;
we knew not all our words back then,
because our rhymes had never been
that close. Who knew where to begin?
But we took up that pen again.
And each day as these tunes are shared
not leaving notes on clef alone
every beat will have been paired
in cadence with a meter shared,
a wondrous rhythm, a special tone.
I tell this with a sigh, you see,
our songs are here for ages hence.
two voices converged, a cappella, and we
stand on the precipice, in harmony,
and you have made all the difference.
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Repentance
A stray waif catapults himself
Onto the beach of vanishing repentance,
And we wonder why a youthful whale
Would seek the barren, infertile sand.
At that same moment
In the dust of Sinai
Long after the Omer had been counted,
A forgotten serpent curled inward
As if suffering from cramps
Brought on by Creation
Fast days will have us belch forth
Jonah
And the break fast will have us pass the stones
Not left for Danny Fisher.
But the innocent will have to pay indemnities
For all the unleavened sinful, not repenting souls
Who should have been consumed in the desert
Even though they were David's offspring.
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Raven Poe try
Needing you to the fullest measure,
Wanting you for all that pleasure,
Loving you, oh, what a treasure,
I really couldn't ask for more;
More than lovers, we are friends,
More than beginners, we've no ends,
More than receivers, we always send
Greater feelings than we shared before.
If tragic moments cause us tension,
And the pain's too great to even mention,
Give our love even more attention
Than we ever did before;
My heart is pained, my soul is smarting,
I cry inside from thoughts of parting,
Instead I always should be starting
To find new ways to love you more.
I cannot stop my jealous feelings,
I've no hidden cards, no shady dealings,
I'm into oils and mirrored ceilings,
On the couch and on the floor;
I'll love you, be it here or there,
Your body and your soul I'll share,
I hope by now you are aware
I plan to love you evermore.
Never again should you doubt my goal,
I'll never again wish to play some role,
I now desire to show my soul,
Like I never did before;
I cannot always tell you why,
You'll learn to trust me, by and by,
I will not leave you 'til I die,
Say you'll leave me, nevermore.
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my music, your music
an empty page of music, a never-written
song
a poem i should have started, a lyric never said
i wonder 'bout the dissonance of years gone by
i ponder if the two of us ever will know why
our thoughts were not in rhythm, our minds could never wed
the chords were so discordant, the notes just came out wrong
my music, your music
notations in the key of difference ... not
indifference
your music, my music
taking note of tones of distance ... a song
that makes us one.
unspoken words of caring, softly written metaphors
hidden meanings everywhere, esoteric complex rhymes
i wonder if i spoke to her in simple words
impromptu, no symbols, no re-writes afterward
this song can't capture yesterday, but maybe it's the time
for my poems to tell you something, then the chorus would mean more
my music, your music
notations in the key of difference ... not
indifference
your music, my music
taking note of tones of distance ... a song
that makes us one.
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mural of clay
a mural of clay,
molded with the
oblivion of poetic trinkets
in the twilight
beneath the ever-flickering serpent's tongue
hangs itself in
the hall of hedonistic daydreams
beyond the cliffs
of a young girl's loam.
a malic after taste,
not from a seraph's
fountain,
but a reptilian's
subtle unsheathing,
decaying, dried,
wrinkled skin of morality,
beyond the garden
where vicious minds create nightmares.
a moral from the knowledge of the
tree,
(not be confused
with the abandoned family tree),
there are no olive
branches when lies are so deep-rooted,
no watering of love
can save infested plants from
beyond the deceitful
forest they choose to die in.
a manic, artificial flower in an artificial
garden
infected by the
silent, ululating vipers,
those crawlers in
the night,
constrictors 'round
the neck of caring
beyond the birth
of sin is the death of truth.
a
life of lies taught in the garden,
she
lives only on a mural of clay.
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meant to be
walk into an edifice designed for cure,
and
let the masters of the scalpel
bring
you sight, and return you
to
your loved ones ten days later....
but
it wasn't meant to be.
so many more days to live,
and
people to see; all the events
of
joy and promise that were
yet
to be yours......
but
it wasn't meant to be.
all of the inspired dreams you had for us,
and
the love and the care
you
were going to bestow on us
as
often as you had before.....
but
it wasn't meant to be.
you could have died at eighteen,
and
all three of us would
have
no memories, have no offspring,
have
no mind to ponder over
what was or wasn't
meant
to be.
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impromptu to the keys
the pleasure of the sea past midday
the liquid luxury it brought
wrapped itself about our
ankles
seated in beach chairs
at low tide
while ghostly crabs brought
me out from despondency's shell.
a whim, like elusive butterflies
from the maternal thoughts
of reckless abandon,
postponed the nature walk;
we hit the pavement
whistling toward the southernmost
point
to catch a glimpse of
sunset off the water.
the keys to success, one after the
other
the poetics of "duck"
and "ramrod"
flying over the seven
mile bridge
and to the isle of the
conch
and roads for tour trains.
on track; such a celebration of a
day,
an evening filled with
the warmth of whirlpools,
the sounds of street life
under luminous stars,
elegant dining outdoors
in the city of bones,
delighted by the moments,
and
in each other.
a
glittering memory-ride to cherish always ....
the
joy of impromptu to the keys
with
those we love.
Norman S. Pollack, 1995
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A Holy Place for Icons
It makes my temples throb from time
to time
that mortal heroes have to them ascribed
such kudos that the gods ere in their prime
would dare to call them prophets or describe
on Scopus parchments all the modern phrases
they receive. The discus thrower's steady.
Flexing now his sinews for their gazes,
He strikes the pose, showing them he's ready.
Eyes fixed with adoration, while we
wait,
the walls resound with silence. Muted souls,
we witness all the feats that men must rate.
Poised before the victory, playing roles.
Breathless, spin the story, wave our towels,
Feet on clay... a faltered step...he fouls.
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Ceinture
It wouldn't go away.
Wallace Stevens put it there
A few lines ahead of "baboons and periwinkles."
Reveries,
Mockeries of my unignited poetics,
It now elusively murmurs to me
From under a lid,
Dancing onto the golden side of my mind.
Rekindled flames of green, yellow and blue,
All come rising from the roof of
A haunted house of verse.
I must hold on to the ends of the cloth
Aspiring to pull myself up,
Reaching for it,
Experiencing, once again,
"Disillusionment at Ten O'Clock"
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Triptych: From the Mountains
(1) From the mountains to a hurricane
From the Pacific mountains
they set them down,
those lofty pines.
With deliberate chainsaws,
they shattered the silent nights
while ears could still hear
the buildings rising.
The armies marched apace.
While broken splintered pillars
were loaded like slain ghetto victims,
on to cross country wheels.
They were less majestic,
lying prone,
not moved by winds
off distant shores.
The flatbed hearses
all in a row,
conveyed their cargo ====
a caravan of progress
down the highway.
All milling about,
some stood for hours
in line at the depot
waiting for Andrew to arrive.
(2) From the mountains ? to a cemetery
From the Tatra mountains of Poland,
the wind saw them cut down.
Those lofty pines were
Once supple, and strong.
Now like shattered glass,
the silent nights
can only hear the saplings' sighs.
The armies marched apace
while splintered branches,
and brittle, mangled twigs,
were piled onto pushcarts.
The cargo loaded,
=== lying prone ===
unmoved by prayers;
they never heard from
those who were not there.
Boxcar hearses
on cross country wheels,
those caravans of progress
hauled half?dead timber
down groaning tracks.
In the shadow of Gerlach, *
those once majestic pines,
are now a graveyard's raw material.
Milling about,
they stand for hours
in line for selection,
soon to be sawdust.
* the name of the highest peak
of the
Tatra Mountains
(3) From the mountains ? to a mountain
From the oldest mountains,
he was told to cut down
those ancient trees
made strong by prescribed flames.
Lightening shattered
the silent nights,
and the water drowned
the saplings' sighs.
They had marched apace,
two by two,
to save the world from itself,
loaded like victims,
the would?be the survivors.
The cargo secured,
they were unable to move
until the storm began;
There was a clap of thunder,
then came the fear of dying
for those who were part
of an unnatural selection,
a floating caravan of One.
Time's shadow passed over
the devastation, until finally,
two left the graveyard.
One returned with the branch
of hope.
Atop a Turkish mountain,
millennia away
from the peaceful mountains,
from the Tatra mountains,
and further still
from the forest's necessary surface fires,
some began to plant
the seeds again
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