Category: My poems

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Gerry & Lenny

have the same vocal tic
an explosion of air from the nose
with the tongue in the back of the throat

each time it sounds like laughter,
a commentary on their own speech
then back or not back to the matter at hand

“I’m waiting for a Jew to turn Catholic!
Can you imagine a Jew submitting
to the goddamned pope? Jesus Christ!”

Like Lenny, Gerry stops in the middle —
in mitn drinen, they would say —
to tell stories and to follow tangents

Like Gerry, Lenny draws water from
a desert oasis and pours that water
into molds of his own design

“The Catholic Church has given the pope
permission to become a nun.
Just on Fridays, though.”

Gerry was born in Pittsburgh:
grew up with bituminous in his mouth,
ate the ash-gray snow

Lenny was born in Mineola:
within weeks, Sally was back on stage
and Lenny drifted from house to house

Gerry has been a poet laureate
and has won awards and prizes
and taught at prestigious universities

Lenny died on the bathroom floor,
syringe near his arm,
camera lens in his face

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Some Poems Have Titles That Are Witty, Creative, Unexpected And Just Generally Better Than The Poems That Follow Them

This is one of those poems.

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Hero

he pulled the sword from the stone
and it turned to ash(e)
he swung ’round to stare at the sun
in defiance of the natural law
the point of the needle
the twin spiral stairway
the walls fell and the enemy surged through
years before, he’d been stopped by white
unable to pass through the veil
while others’ backs were turned
and now, the final indignity
he swung ’round to stare at the sun
it burned away his memory
he pulled the sword from the stone
and it turned to ash(e)

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This was an idea I had for a short story, but I decided to try it as a poem.

on Tuesday, all as one

on Tuesday, all as one,
every creature on earth
experienced a moment
of pure happiness

not the exhilaration
of acquisition
nor the momentary joy
of orgasm,

but a feeling that all
was in its place
and the way ahead
was clear

no babies cried,
no dogs howled,
and the sleepers sighed
and unclenched their fists

a smile stole
across the face of a boy
sitting beside
a baobab tree,

and two lovers
turned toward one another,
their quarrel
forgotten

babies born
at that instant
entered the world
quietly,

their mothers and fathers
exhumed
from beneath mortgage payments
and piles of bills

as the clinical beeps turned
to a tone
and she released
his thin hand,

a daughter saw
her father’s brow
un-knit and watched the pain
pass away

shafts of sunlight
fell
across the needed places
of the world

and on the other side
a starry night greeted
watchmen, nurses
and late-shift taxi drivers

voices lowered,
index fingers relaxed,
jaw muscles loosened
shoulders dropped

in the coffee shop
on the corner
near the library,
everyone was laughing

and the child hiding
in the boys bathroom
stepped out
into the school hallway

true, the moment passed,
but forever after,
strangers passing in the street
caught one another’s eye

and some would grin
and some would smile
and some would simply look,
knowing

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Biography

I could do anything.

I want to do everything.

And so I do nothing.

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A love poem.

The Soft Friction of Sliding Glass

On the living room carpet, after the prom,
she raises her pale arms in the light
coming in through the sliding glass door.

Understanding, amazed, he reaches down,
takes hold of the bottom of her sweatshirt,
and slides it up over her head.

For the first time, there is nothing between them
but air, skin and propriety.
He can’t believe that this diminutive, angelic gift is his.

He leans over to kiss her,
but even more to feel her skin
and the rise and fall of her breath.

They slide to the floor, arms around each other,
mouths and hands and thighs and stomachs
searching for every inch of long-sought completion.

For all that there have been many moments of exploration,
long afternoons desperately quiet in her upstairs bedroom,
it is these few moments that he will remember most.

Sitting quietly on the couch many years later,
accompanied by the gentle rush of a fan in the next room,
he will close his eyes and once more

feel her under him,
his palms remembering the soft friction of her,
his body still responding, even now.