WHO I AM

WHO I AM

On a slide, under the microscope,

tissue says I am bone and flesh and blood.

My swift life propelled by a pulsing heart,

legs to walk me down paths that lead somewhere;

two eyes that see and too long had been blind

to what really matters in this meantime world.

Both of my faces played out accordingly:

opportune smiles, the look of malcontent.

A seeker of truth rummaging the wrong

treasures, I sought silver and gold, bright stones,

all false measures that mislead pilgrim souls.

One day in prayer I heard His voice reveal

to me how to live a life a child of God,

repent of sin, amend the wrongs I’d done,

love the Creator, Redeemer, Giver of life,

wear the armor, battle the demons.

The new road I walk leads to Heaven.

One day I’ll lay aside this shell for glory.

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THOSE OTHER FACES

THOSE OTHER FACES

Friends who claim they know me insist flashes and poems

I write are purely autobiographical:

somehow that sudden blast of wind or fallen tree or night’s

darkest sky reflect a part of my psyche those

other faces donned to hide the innermost me.

They scoff at my simple explanation: I write

the poem, but I am not the poem. The images

I borrow from nature are not vestments the lines

wear or camouflage to conceal the true me.

I write the poem with pick and axe, digging the earth

to reach the depths where life’s true meanings lie waiting.

The poem lies not in discovery but in search

of ways to light the wick of my candle life.

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LOVE BEYOND WORDS

LOVE BEYOND WORDS

What else do I have but these words

bulbously looped or scrawny

and tall as wind-blown weeds,

these slashes, these vowels

open-mouthed and sometimes closed?

How else can I explain my love

for you except with words that paint

second-rate images of what

cannot be touched or expressed?

Still, I feed the words to blank

sheets and screens and pray they touch

the heart of you where I would like

to think my words are somehow

transformed to a living authenticity.

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POETS ARE NOT INFALLIBLE

POETS ARE NOT INFALLIBLE

It ended, not the way Eliot spoke

of the world wasting to a chorus of

children and frightened cats and dogs whimpering.

It ended, sputtering away in sizzling shards,

in jagged grasslands, mountains exploding,

ponderous snowfalls of many colors,

mostly red, orange cinders, silver shrapnel

teeming down like spears of mercy on those

too weak to run, life seeping through clenched hands.

It ended in wildfire this time.

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WAITING FOR SHELLEY

WAITING FOR SHELLEY

My dear brother in poetry,

I waited for your prompt return

from the Gulf of Spezia where

you sailed the Italian waters

with two friends who likewise loved

to sail the Ligurian Sea.

Only the month before, we cheered

your thirtieth birthday. Mary

prepared your favorite supper.

We toasted goblets filled with wine.

We cheered your poem “When Soft Voices

Die.” Now July gallops away

with you in tow. Percy, silent

the lyrical lines you will not write,

unheard laughter at Casa Magni!

    How deep the sorrow, how great the loss!

    I spend my hours now reading

   your poetry, your timeless sonnet

   of the colossus: “…boundless and bare 

   the lone and level sands stretch far away.”

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