The Cat I had was a King...

When T.S.(milkstain) Eliot moved with me to a private house in Tuscany, Italy he would check out the property as if was it was his own private hunting grounds. he was a most particular cat and I loved all his of idiosyncrasies. The poem pays tribute to this king among cats;




T.S.(milkstain) Eliot

He was T. in the morning
announcing the reverie at his
prescribed purrs.

He was T.S. in the day
hunting and sleeping
With feline nonchalance.

He was T.S. Eliot
with a trademark milk stain
to break otherwise perfect lines.

And so shall he remain...

Nor' easters, the wind and the rain...

The poem goes back to my childhood. There was always much drama to witnessing the impending storms that would gather over Gardiner's Bay on the east end of long island. The work should speak for itself;



Gardiner’s Bay

November’s grey mood
had poised itself
over this sea-splashed scape.
Gardiner’s Bay is deep in its
green hue. Swells of tide
slide and ply and we glimpse
the white insides,
so quick they hide.

The poet’s raging rhythm
and ancient rhyme, the mariner knows–
has heard so close the sea’s ceaseless song.

Off Montauk an ornery nor’easter
forms; brings ominous cumuli gathering.
An autumnal storm bears down
you can smell its briny breath
the plain sense that Stevens knows
is the season of pending death.

Upon a knoll a cottage sits
A fire of driftwood from within burns,
embers warm those inside...

The Peace Within a Child's Sleep...

When my daughter was just a baby I would put her in her crib at night, and during these moments I would find songs to sing to her to ease her to sleep. I would repeat the songs(about six in total) night after night. The trick seemed to work because she drifted off to sleep without much fuss. One night I even recall that I started to sing John and Paul's "Blackbird" and she began to sing right along with me. It was a special moment between a parent and a child. This poem is in memory of these ephemeral moments;



To Boo...

Do you remember
those off-key, night-songs
sung?
There were untold attempts
at “Sugar Mountain”
by Mr. Young.

And you like a nestled bird,
I had to try to sing
John and Paul’s “Blackbird.”
I’m sorry for you
that I was born tone deaf.

Sunken in cradled crib,
your scent irresistible.
Eyes, once so ocean-wide blue–
(I gave you the nickname Boo)–
closing shut, now night
waits;

for that succulent, silent sleep
a place of peace ‘dropping slow’
only a child knows..

No Rewards for the Reluctant Ones...

Having read Joyce's Dubliner's as a young man I was always struck by the character of Little Chandler in the short story "A Little Cloud." There was something pathetic and sad about him as he is described by Joyce. I began to think about artists who never materialize because of their reluctance towards failure or even worse their fear of greatness;



How Ever small
(or Little Chandler’s Lament)

Within him was that apparent relentlessness,
yet reluctance, and yearning
to capture life in the written word–
as the Old Masters he read and devoured.

A little cloud within a vast sky...

With shaking hands and spectacles
through Dublin’s dank night, pub mood,
his night-light burned. Perhaps all in vain?

Distraught by that which he had wrought
he sought the songs of Byron.
What was the genius within their thoughts?

Distracted again, by the cries of his son
he re-entered the mundane.
Peering down he read night’s production–
as a solitary tear appeared
he re-read the only line;

"A little cloud within a vast sky"...

Of Human Will and Endurance...

This writing came out of quote about 'vulnerability' that I happen to read in Time magazine while seated at a doctor's office during one of the many appointments for my aging parents;

...of Will
(Vulnerability: is like that moment when you
see your father catching his breath on the stair
and you realize that someday he will die...)

Will the lapse of a Man
be known prior to his self-inflicted
collapse?
Will a Man know when his bell
has toll?
Will he hear its knell?
Will he endure to listen
to its sonant ring?
Will a Man know to lean
before his cane–
before his crutch–
is made palpable to him?
Or, will he just fall into his chair
that’s wheeled, (his chariot with wings)
assign to him,
by some nurse in charge...

A Cold Front in the air...

The poem speaks for itself. It is a writing that comes more from feeling that any concrete labeling or event. It is a paysage moralize poem and I share it with you;


A Cold Front Forecasted

A cold front should arrive,
as the individual fronts his demise
his cold reception--his not providing
enough for her.
In the post-Emerson world of
self-reliance. Thoreau I dreamt on Walden
Pond and in delight.
We still depend upon the rain,
upon the snow. Upon the sun– nature–
To comply and to feed our furtile ground.
Feeling sun unleashed, like ocean waves
That pound and thrash upon the shore,
The wind that moves the grand cypress trees.
And the sleet sheets that sprawl silent
and fall and can destroy all things...
Why? Why? Why? Does the postman
carry his chosen chores though all of this....
Obligation to his given demise.

The Interminable Stillness in Waiting...

The work below grew out a of desire I had to articulate the feeling of something one wants that seems so far away. I had the chance to see someone close to me after some seven weeks apart. The waiting for those seven weeks to pass proved difficult, and the writing touches on this;



Waitings...

In the reclusive forbearance
of longing,
there have been long, long
nights waiting...
when even the air
does not seem to move
and the room is so still–
(almost foreboding)–
and still thoughts of you;
as if the air is moving,
as if the room is full of movement,
as if you are near.

Within these sheets quiet,
echos distant
the hungry wolf’s howl
inside growls
a heavy heart’s beat, waiting...
waiting...
the interminable (stillness)
in such long,
waitings...