Poetry

Here is an aspect of New York
The majestic city
On 153 St
Where heaven and earth come together
In six lane highways that never sleep
And graveyards
Where once people sleep forever
Where the most marvelous bridges
Span the most magnificent river
And a tiny lighthouse
Sits dwarfed beneath miraculous towers
Staring forever at the flowing Hudson
The boats at night
Illuminated beneath the beloved bridge
A miracle of correspondence
Uniter of states, of families
And regal palisades

Ancient gravestones sunk into soil
Reflect the moon on all Manhattan
The fish beneath the water
The fallen
Paintings brought home
From junkyards in France
Carvings and cravings
The expression of Africans
Books and bottles
Darkness and light
Consumed and consuming
Eternal, finite, beloved island
 
Home of the Weckquaesgeeks
Dancers and fish spearers
Nomadic hunters
Camped on the river
Making kettles of bark
In their canoes
Sacred Algonquin island
Decimated entirely in a holocaust
Wrought by greedy, armed, sick
Mercenaries and missionaries
Their sachem taken captive
Negotiates a treaty of peace
And the island is bought
From those who do not own it.
 
Generations and centuries flow by
And people live here still   
Want to live here
In the millions
The soil good
The rivers rich
The hunting blessed
There are magnificent bridges
To what is known
And shall never be known
Where heaven and earth come together
In six lane highways
Along the river

When you didn’t come home
When I didn’t hear from you
I was strangely unafraid
Lonely for sure, but not afraid
I sensed where you were … more or less.

I called your office
They said your wife said
“You’d gone missing”
Though they were still searching.
I knew this might happen.

I waited for a phone message
Even email
None arrived

Then one day a postal card
With a foreign town’s cancel stamp
As the return address.
Your writing was teeny
And covered every inch of space.
It had directions.

I called my office the very next day
Told them I was leaving
Laughed with the receptionist
Who said she wanted to leave too
“Take my name,” I told her
And perhaps she did.

I left my not job
My not apartment
I had so very few strings
So few attachments
And I craved you so

There is more
I arrived at the airport
Used my credit card
To buy a one-way ticket
Dome money
Two plane rides
Three bus rides

When I got to the beach
At the bottom of the mountains
I pulled the post card from my pocket
As you asked me to
And read again

“Find the most beautiful beach
Follow the steepest road
Downhill is always the wrong direction
Pay attention to the smell of lavender
Look for pages of an old passport
Land snails climbing the highway reflector posts
Look for praying mantises
And note the direction they are pointing
See the flocks of dragonflies
Listen to the bells of goats
Listen for the biggest herd
The greatest range of bell sounds
Be that music

Walk on up, hard as it may be
Cyclists coming down will be singing
Cyclists going up will be saying “difficult”
This is a sign you are on the right road
Where the seeing-eye cacti stop growing is a church
You will see it from miles away
Four windows in the bell tower
High above the trees
Light pouring in
Real light

The priest will take you in
He will know nothing
But word of your being will seep out
And my shepherd will hear
He will go to confession
He will bind the Father
“Tell her only where to find Him,
Only tell her.”
And the father will,

“Passed the goldenrod,” he will say
“No one ever goes there
There are marigolds
Pine trees
A ladder straddles a fence
A stone house
The smell of freshly made cheese
Of sheep
A fire”

It is there you will find
A freshly made bed
Myrtle
Clean linen
The earthen floor swept clean
You may even find me
Or find dried bones.
Just in case
Bring the heart meds.

I misplaced my car keys and phone
And couldn’t find today today.
My knowing that the sun
Had rerisen on a new day didn’t help,
Nor did attending a meeting
Scheduled for today
And conducted in my native language
Where I couldn’t understand
The meaning in this context
Of any of the words used
All of which I knew the meanings of.

Even the meaning of “and” and “or,”
And/or, more specifically,
And which and or or applied
To which criteria today
Was lost
Or couldn’t be found
Or agreed upon.

So we didn’t reach closure,
Someone said, “today,”
And the matter was put off
To another today,
The date of which also couldn’t be agreed upon
But at least had not yet been lost.

I hoped this poem would be lost
And/or should have been,
On the day I couldn’t find today,
But that today went on to become yesterday
And a future I imagined would exist
Became the tomorrows of today
The day I couldn’t find today
And I found this poem still there
Or here, today.

I visit with a good friend today
And find him crying.
My impulse is to lift his spirit
From whatever darkness has overtaken him.
“Would you like a hug,” I ask
And he nods yes to me.
Holding my friend in my arms
I feel his shaking,
His heart beating,
The expansion and release of his ribs
With each inhale and exhale.
I see the air that comes into his nostrils
Watch as it journeys into his lungs
As his heart pumps
As oxygen molecules attach themselves
To the riverboats
Riding on arterial rivers
That travel north and south
Coast to coast
Deposited at cellular transfer depots
Like baggage being transferred
From ship to dock
Each atom of oxygen
Picked up and greeted on its arrival
The contents of the molecules
Sorted from their shipping crates
And instantly put to use
Enlivening the recipient
Who then gives back
What was not of use
Along with a small gift
As together they rejoin the river boats
On the mighty rivers
Flowing further into the interior
And then back into the lungs
Where again the boats take on new passengers
New suitcases
Brought to recipients in need.
I notice my friend has stopped sobbing
His feet are rooted more firmly on the earth
Whose energy helps him stand upright.
We look at each other
We step apart
No words are spoken,
We smile.

fathers await their sons
and sons await their fathers.
who is it they hope shows up?
someone honorable
someone loving
smart and athletic
is good
courageous perhaps
respectful
loyal

fathers and sons
adoring each other
in a love unrivalled
fathers also crush their sons
they lie and spit
and scratch their asses in public
they talk a great game
and sometimes live it
but often not

they await each other
father and son
in utero
at the threshold
in the schoolyard
from the battlefields
in their hearts

some times they harden
as they must
they accept limitations
they break
like porcelain
leaving sharp edges
and tiny shards

they break like chains
of bondage
they break like bone
first the blood vessels constrict
then the cells die
then if fortunate
they bridge the fracture gap
and find one another
right inside themselves
hoping to remodel
in love
not rage
accepting
toiling
bonding
terrified of their needs

admiring
seeking a relationship
and guidance
poor telemachus
a man among men

brtaub

© 05/07

Watching in awe and wonder
As a well-trained woman
Named Light
Who makes her living
Washing her hands
And putting on thin blue gloves
To pierce veins leading back to the heart
Asking people to repeat their birthdates
To prove they know who they are.

My blood is rich
I am rich
Still, like my blood
The challenge of moving
From where I was
To where I must go is real.
And the ventricles must beat
To take the steps needed 
To reach the bank, the grocer’s,
The transfer station oasis
Where I separate garbage from fact
And am then ready
To journey on.

The 80 year old virgin
Needed quite the shove
Though it’s true that she had known of men
This time it seemed like love.

It’s quite a tender story
I’m not sure of where to start
But if you asked our heroine
She’d say it was her heart

Or if she’d really let you know
She’d make mention of the gate
The one that yielded down below
On occasions that she’d mate

And there were all the offspring
Numbers one, two, three, and four
And physical penetration
Both in and out the door

But still the sense that this was new
Pervaded her whole being
In ways they say that once blind folk
Newly report they’re seeing

It started in a yoga class
The sense that this was new
For even those of 80 years
Can see they’re not quite through.

A tingling I think she’d say
In parts that long lay still
An opening of her heart and thighs
Quite vigorous and shrill

A pounding of the vesicles
An awakening of the senses
I’m sure you know at eighty years
She long since had her menses

She’d said goodbye to thoughts of love
She’d music as her passion
But this was more than notes or wishes
This wakening of her mind and fissures

A quickening to the words and deeds
That spoke of hopes and parted weeds
She said she’d never felt or known
The ways she’d laugh and how she’d moan

It’s all quite new, exciting, fresh
The joys she felt in mind and flesh.
Take me, she said, though surely shy
I’ve left clay soils, I’m flying high
I’m frightened – sure
Of course that’s true
But this is real, these feelings new.

I never felt such passion or urges
Nor sought relief from shrinks or sages
I just accepted this as fate
And I was sure it was too late
To think of love in quite this way
As to her virgin heart she’d say
I love my kin, I’ve let men in
But here I am, it isn’t sin
I’ve throw away all fear and guilt
I lay quite open on his quilt.