Monday comes along, rainy.
Gloomy and overcast and all past
indiscretions overwhelm. At the helm
of the mastship, safely docked
in the harbor secure and warm, nestled.
Settled in from a long night’s journey
and yearning for a good and proper
good morning. No storm warning
is signaled, for danger does not prevail.
I set sail in your tranquil waters,
making my own waves come alive.
Passions churning, turning for port
time and again. Wrapped in the comfort
of a loving shore. The more the ship rocks
the more at peace we become.
The hum of the waters lapping,
the white caps rolling, rolling.
The wave crests. The ship finally rests.
Safe in the love of a good and gentle
woman, our day begins. Monday comes
along, rainy. Gloomy and overcast but
it does not cast a pall on the morning.
Loving each morning; every good morning.
No need for warning; the days begin.
Category: Under The Surface
WHISTLING
Whistling past the graveyard
only darkness lurks within.
Whistling past the graveyard,
yet I hear those sounds again.
The creaks of barren branches,
only evil lurks within.
Still, I take my chances
I find the noise unnerving.
The creaks of barren branches
has left my tune unswerving,
A frantic blow through nervous lips,
I find the noise unnerving.
Then suddenly the walkway dips,
a shadow figure beckons.
A frantic blow through nervous lips
would save my soul, I reckon.
Whistling past the graveyard,
a shadow figure beckons.
Whistling past the graveyard.
LUCA BRASI (Rispetto)
A boorish brute, loyal to the last.
a henchman, evil and brutal.
He’d seal your fate with one quick blast,
begging for your life was futile.
Don Corleone was your boss,
protect his life at any cost.
Brasi, your death was quite messy.
Luca, dorme con i pesci.*
* Sleeps with the fish
BELLA MIA
I see you in the morning mist, a vision;
my tired eyes welcome it. And your gown flows
in a gentle cascade, my only mission
is to take you up into my arms and show
you all that my love can teach you; a lesson
your mind will learn, but your heart already knows.
In close silhouette, your beauty is revealed.
My longing for you cannot be concealed.
SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
It seems that sleep is elusive,
a sometimes thing that fights my will.
It’s disruptive and effusive;
but wide awake, the room is still.
I listen to the lack of sound,
a gentle respite all around.
The silence of the night soothes deep,
I do not hear it when I sleep.
CONCRETE TOWERS: THE SHADOW OF MEMORY
I
t
w
a
s
Late summer in NY. A day like
any other; New Yorkers loved
days such as th ese. The sky
was clear; the air was crisp and
life went on as it usually did.Taxi
cabs jammed in traffic, and some
commuters were too. Pedestrians
on the pavement heading to their
nine-to-5 enslave ment. A sense of
urgency had gone unnoticed but that
was business as it usually was. Men
and Women head ed to work, or to
drop the children off at daycare. Today
is September 11th 2001 and all is right
with the world. The sun rises, casting
the Statue of Liberty in seductive and
glorious silhouette; a shadowed sentinel
set in the harbor to greet all travelers to
the “Land of the Free”. Like those folks on
that inbound jet and others like it. It holds
the hopes and dreams of all aboard, as it does for all below. The airplane’s
shadow is cast ominously across the expanse of concrete, metal and glass;
a close pass to the constructed mountains above. Most unusual on this usual
day. Nothing changes on usual days. Usually, but not today late summer in NY.
BEFORE THE STORM
How strangely still
the water is today.
Calm and tranquil. strangely still.
Dark clouds on the horizon,
harbingers of things to come;
clouds that obliterate the sun.
The air seems cold; it chills,
winds stirring through the clearing.
Winds of change do not thrill.
How strangely still
the water is today.
Peaceful thoughts; I get my fill.
And then, the clouds converge,
driven by gusts of fire and winds;
a nasty dose of an ill will.
Before the storm, it seemed quite warm.
How strangely still
the water was today. Such a rapid decay!
A 9/11 poem based on “Sea Calm” by Langston Hughes
MORNING MISTS REMIND ME
The sun, not yet awake;
me, slightly more as I sit sipping.
Another morning begins like every other.
Dark. Silent. Lacking motivation,
a sensation I share this early.
Dressing for the job, just another slob
in a nine-to-five hole; my soul
sold long ago for an escape from seclusion.
The illusion of this dawning comes
with no warning necessary.
I tarry a moment longer, bracing
for the moment for which my heart longs.
It is strong, this urging; this poetic purging
of thoughts buried deep within. It is a sin
that I need reminding. But before
the blinding sun peeks above the horizon,
my eyes see through the morning mist.
And I think of you. In the shadows of the trees,
a silhouette lives and lingers. Fingers outstretched
and reaching; beseeching me to return.
I yearn for these moments, long buried,
as are you. Moist and enveloping, developing
contact with every inch of skin exposed.
I am deposed and rendered immobile.
Your eyes, tear filled and vacant, had pierced me,
pleading for a last longing look before death
took your love and replaced it with
these thoughts and memories. Your eyes,
moist and enveloping, drench my spirit
and I hear it in the rustling wind
running its cool fingers through these branches.
It enhances my morning. The sun begins to illuminate
and I wait for it to show its face.
There is a trace of you in it as well.
I can tell by the smile it brings me.
It stings me sweetly, completely
filling my day with the beauty it espouses.
It houses these feelings that languish within morning mists.
And so I am reminded. Morning mists remind me of you.
NO CRY FOR HELP ( A Trillonet)
A boy, the age of seventeen,
still standing on the cusp of dreams,
wandered lonely in his despair.
A handsome lad; athletic, lean,
not bound to someone else’s schemes.
Eyes, a bright blue; brown shaggy hair,
kept to himself, no one had seen,
Troy coming apart at the seams.
On the surface, without a care.
Who would have guessed that this bright teen,
would end his own life amidst screams,
his final breath with no one there.
A bullet blast, and now he’s gone,
A promising life had gone wrong.
“Troy”, a boy in my youngest daughter Andrea’s English class
ended his life yesterday afternoon. He sat in front of her in class
and although they weren’t good friends, had sided with her in a discussion yesterday morning; aside from a shy hello when they passed, verbal exchanges weren’t a part of their routine.
Now, my bright seventeen year old daughter doesn’t understand
why life is “so fucked up”. Me, a man of words, had few answers.
WALK LIKE A MAN (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons)
Striding, head held high,
a strong classic chin leading,
your breeding shows, and she knows it.
You smile, pearly whites, bright they are,
each a shining star in your oral galaxy.
Broad shoulders and a chiseled boulder
for a chest. You’re doing your best
to display the package; a knack you’ve had.
It doesn’t make you bad as you nod,
an acknowledgment to her passing.
A beauty in her own right, you fight
the urge to speak; a mysterious smile
guides your wile. You look back
and as she strolls away without fail,
you exhale. Your chest drops
as does your belly, lapping your belt
like a bowl full of jelly. Short and labored
is your breath as you struggle to retrieve it.
Who’d have believed it…that you still
thought that act would get you noticed.
You trudge away, another day in anonymity.
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 