I've added some more at the end of all of this. Jan. 16/2004
These are some poems that I have written over the years. Some have been published in the Loyola News
when I was attending there in 1972. Most have been languishing comfortably
in a folder in a box in the basement.
Recently I brought them up for air and noticed that some weren't half bad. If you have comments about the work on this site
please email me here Here they are!
Poem 1.
Once, just once
we talked deeply.
Having confidence in my ability to communicate
I decided to try to open her mind for a change
reveal it for what it was...
I have a thing for naked minds.
We sat at her picnic table and started slowly.
As we went deeper
she became closer
I thought I was making it!
Eyeing the mustard-stained knot holes in the planks
I realized she was holding something back.
The sun left us
bored to rain with our pettiness
little acknowledgements
and fingerplay.
Poem 2.
It was a spring sun that came in the window
and slanted across my arm onto the table.
It was a warmer and brighter light than I was used to.
It promised me that it would remain there until I decided
to move.
What with an angry girlfriend and long classes ahead all day
this little piece of security warmed me.
Poem 3.
Last night I heard the wind,
the first wind of winter.
It curled around the corners of my room and flew past my window, screaming ...
from fear I suppose at it's speed.
It was the same wind that had frosted my cheeks in younger days
and caused my nose to drip onto my sweater.
It was the same wind which had caused me to climb a tree last year,
reminding me that it was probably the last chance before the snow fell.
(I had neglected my tree climbing that summer.)
It was the same wind which reminded me of a night a week or so before.
That night the wind was warm and full. Her name was Linda. We had talked of the wind.
Alone now, I see that the wind and her love were similar and had turned cold together.
Poem 4.
Title: Dawn in the a.m.
The holiness of the morning,
the music
the whispers
the blinking caution light in one carpeted corner.
Your blondness
the nearness
feeling ashamed that my farthest advance was to sweep a curl back,
rather clumsily from your forehead.
Poem 5. May 1978
What does it take?
Sitting in front of an open window
the summery spring breeze coming in.
a glance
Driving in my car,
the hot sun burning my arm red
blinding me but making me see?
I guess whatever's handy.
What does it take?
All of this and whatever I can find to write on,
a matchbook from a restaurant
where we've eaten,
a notepad from a motel where we've stayed ...
your soft white skin.
All of this and a conversation with you.
A moment out of this world.
All of this
and you.
Poem 6. I Lost Myself Tonight
Sudden it was.
One second I was there safe and sound
in my career chasing,
and in the next breath I was lost in the fog,
the pea-soup stuff that you can't see your hand in front of your face in.
I was on a turntable going round and round.
I was losing the game of chess I was playing,
rooks and pawns gone, bishops off,
my queen on a journey with my knights and there was me
strung out in the corner of my enemy's territory.
Would you believe it?
I was the toy in the cornflakes
in the box at the back of the shelf.
Desperate, I looked up my name in the phone book.
Aha! I was living at the wrong address.
My number was different from the one on my phone.
I was away the hell and gone on the other side of town.
I figured I'd better get home soon
in case you'd been trying to call.
Poem 7
She checked through my pockets last night.
I had to think quickly
to see if I should make a point of it,
if I had anything to hide.
Ten years ago she would have found a dried leaf
maybe a bent pipe or two,
some doodling papers
or a frog or a snail.
Ten years from now she would stumble upon
an empty bottle
a torn novel,
some cries and whispers might float out
with moanings and groaning of losses and costs.
Last night she found a scrap of paper
with your name on it,
spelled incorrectly and illegible,
a telephone number and a broken line of poetry.
It meant nothing to her.
Today, she would have found this
and a cold wind,
some snow
perhaps a tear or two
and many meaningless utterings
of promises, prayers and goodbyes.
Poem 8. April 13,1974
I saw a girl today who was naked under her clothes.
She tried to hide it,
coyly looking at the sidewalk,
keeping her eyes from mine...
but I knew it.
I could tell by the way she walked,
thighs held together tightly
to keep the secrets from falling out.
All in vain, for they tumbled down in a path
behind her,
wet streams of lights.
The old gentleman stumbling along behind her
saw them too.
He bent double every step
pretending he was picking up silver coins.
Poem 9.
Sometimes I hear footsteps
and tiny handpatterings at the door.
Flinging it open I expect to see you there.
But it is the wind.
Memories are the only people who knock at my door,
mind skeletons.
I hear the telephone ring in the early morning hours.
It is a lady looking for Dianne Casey.
Her voice moans on the line
and a thousand children's voices lament
in the background.
We talk for hours about lost and missing people.
We both wear our hearts on our coats
and our smiles behind our frowns.
I hear you calling my name in the dead stillness of the evening.
It is a hollow call,
a meaningless chant coming from the end of a tunnel
a hundred miles long.
Sometimes I see you in my bed,
just before the lights go out.
Only for an instant you lie there
until I reach up for the switch.
I try to stop my arm but it won't obey.
Flash
and you are out of the window
chasing the fleeting shadow strangers.
Sometimes I hear footsteps
and tiny handpatterings at the door.
Flinging it open I expect to see you there.
But it is the wind.
Memories are the only people who knock at my door,
mind skeletons.
(this was written in 1998.)
The World at Bayview and Eglinton
Maybe it was your dress,
It's light fabric following the wind everywhere
as you bent and twisted
Checking the plants
to see if they were healthy
and the men
to see if they were watching.
Maybe it was the way your skirt slipped over your cheeks when you
Unbent yourself from that long search
for asters and attention.
The steaming hot day,
Full of earth smells and exhaust
And the noise of traffic just before noon
Masking my scream to be single
for the furious few minutes it would take to complete my
relationship with you.
Maybe it was me.
Covered in paint and sweat
Growing older as I looked at you,
a passionate Puritan,
angry at the intrusion of arousal into my workday
while reveling in it's awesome crush.
Dec. 7/99
I can write.
But I can also dream, stare, and catch leaves before they hit the ground.
I can push out words that make sense, sound good and come back
to each other in a full circle sentence, sparkling
with amazing clarity.
But I can also love, chat and breathe in the scent of a woman,
a ripe apple or an achingly beautiful fall morning.
So I write.
And I also dream, stare and wish I was catching leaves.
I push out words but I also push aside thoughts of you
and your scent, your wonderful scent.
I still love, I still breathe and I still write.
I can write.
(This is the first creative thing I have written since The World at Bayview and Eglinton which I misplaced. It doesn't replace it and it doesn't even have anything to do with it but I just thought I would tell you that. Something or someone has captured my imagination and, with luck, this might be the beginning of a long writing spell. Someone has inspired me, it's been years. Can't tell her, can't tell you ... I am not sure I can even tell myself. I'm just hanging on for the ride.)
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