GOD'S ONE FINE DAY
Where be God's grace
On this fine day
As you passed by
I heard you say
Hid, mourning lace
Your face within
Bustles black
A raven's wing
Satin soft
Your whispered talk
So not to wake
The dead, you walk
Through your glove
You spin your ring
Another day
Remembering
Horses white
Ribbons tied
Braided manes
You rode beside
Dames and doves
Filled glade and sky
An altar made
Time brushed aside
One wish bade
One wish would I
Lift your veil
Once more my bride
Come, lets walk
This prison's gate
I bid you leave
Here, I must wait
Wonder, walk
By stone and grave
They who share
My ghostly fate
When Sunday chimes
Your sweet bouquet
A rose, you'll lie
Now where I lay
You'll lie beside
And so I'll wake
Until, I'll bide
God's one fine day
On Christmas, many people eat
The feast of seven fishes,
With salted cod and smelts and eel
Among the many dishes.
There also might be shrimp and calamari,
Clams and mussels,
Prepared by Mom or Nonna
Who, for hours, sweats and bustles.
But as a Jew, I might partake
Of fishes of my own,
The kind that every New York
Bagel lover’s ever known –
There’s sturgeon, whitefish, sable,
Plus baked salmon and some Nova
And belly lox, depending on
The people coming ovah.
To make it seven, you could add
Some herring made with wine
Or cream sauce, or some mackerel;
They all would work out fine.
No matter what your fishes are,
To those who celebrate,
Have a very Merry Christmas day
And Gey Gezunteheyt!* (pronounced Gay Guzzinta Hayt)
*Go in good health (in Yiddish)
Sat by the jetty overlooking the waters
of Tombia
Waves and ripples as boats drive
pass speedily
Passengers and luggage alike all
disembarking
All by the Tombia waterside in the
riverine Rivers
Free from the hustles and bustles bedevilling
Port Harcourt
The mayhem and chaos in the Oil city all left
behind in the city
Yet such serenity by the waters of Tombia
Piece, quiet and tranquility quieten my
stress
Trying to be patient, but my patience is
running riot
Trying to stay and remain calm by the waters
of Tombia.
Roasted peppered fish and plantains my
consolation.
All by the waterside of Tombia.
Miss Juliette trips the light fantastic
To temporary, temporal, tempo clocks
Pirouettes and dips, like tight elastic
In her bustles and bows and bobby socks
A whirlybird, a wonder, a wisp of the wind
Tippy-toeing to tantalize her toes
Spinning and grinning, unaware of the wind
Tippy-toes tapping to where the wind blows
Erotic prayers are typed like tattoos
on her virtual skin. She clutches at this man;
prints his likeness over her tongue. His words
are as close as a bedtime story told to her flesh.
An ethereal fruit grows ripe, nearly tactile,
hung from dendrites where desires open.
They meet at the verge of a vision,
still conversing to distant screens.
Motel doors slam. Daylight bustles
through echoing corridors.
From each side of twin lamps,
they lay tongue-tied. Tangled sheets
their only eloquence.
Later, they flew apart, as bats will
when caught by a glaring sun.
Busty shaped and large of hip
the busy winds of October
buffet my brain
within its whistling cave.
Around the shoulders
of every lumpy molehill
taverns and tankards
bloom in a russet corner of light.
September leaves
leave, shaking their brittle cuffs
and frills,
they fly sideways
riding upon broken rafts
of tangled sticks.
October blusters as it bustles,
its wide-spread mouth warmed-over
by wafts and beery blasts.
Now is the time to flap long coats,
to run ahead of a creaking moon
as it rolls drunkenly
into winters nippy
and thin-lipped ice.
what is a hope
if not the most desperately fervent
wish of a man— a dream so deeply
staining the edges of reality
a hope lies dormant in my belly
sleeping like a dragon curled
on the hoard of my desire
breath like smoke wafting
past my eyes and up my spine
tinting my retinas; seeping into my brain
it fires my neutrons and my body says,
why not try again
the days spent in despair— the people
who jeer— the coffee stains and
splashed puddles and fumbled papers—
i hope to hate them a little less tomorrow
in this suffocating swirling world
my hope-stained eyes see
a new dawn a new day
a light at the end of my tunnel
even cold wind warms my face;
around me bustles with life,
sun seeping through the cracks
waking up my slumbering hope
today will be different. today will be good
today, a day i’m living for the first time
i have a hope, wide awake in my core
it tells me, it will all be okay
Those madcap Victorian horsewomen were super confident
Silly when you realize they were riding at breakneck speeds, sidesaddle
In those day a woman did not know it was okay to wear pants.
The closest thing she could be caught alive in would be pantaloons.
I am staring at the screen years later, wondering ….
Do they break their tailbones when they fall off?
Or do their bustles serve as a landing pillow?
Alone I sit and ponder on my fate,
A solitary soul in this abyss,
No friendly voice or hand to mitigate
The emptiness that fills my heart amiss.
The silence echoes loudly in my ear,
A haunting sound that chills me to the bone,
And though I try to push away the fear,
I find myself in solitude alone.
The world around me bustles with its noise,
But I am deafened by the stillness here,
And though I long for someone's loving poise,
I know that loneliness is all I'll bear.
So here I sit and wait for something new,
To fill the void and chase away the blue.
In a humming white room
mother was up late but unresponsive.
Her face and body hooked into tubes,
We stood around whispering inanities
not listening to our words
just the gasping sounds
of the life support machinery.
A young nurse bustles in:
"Maybe tomorrow
Doctor says it's touch and go."
The next morning it was go
and we were late.
Sun shines
until a cloud bully
bustles his way
to the forefront.
Breeze takes note -
shadows matter,
first fall leaves
tumble scatter.
Leaving goosebumps on my skin,
Autumn shares her puckish grin.
The King
The king was quite old, but not senile,
And his problems with sex were not penile.
He could rut with the best,
When put to the test,
And got plenty of rest in between while.
The Queen
The queen wanted Sir Bruce for her lover,
But said knight had his sights on another.
She became unenamored,
When she caught him unarmored,
And in bed with Sir Frederick, her brother.
The Prince
The crown prince of a country in Asia
Loved a commoner named Anastasia.
When his parents demurred,
He said, "Don't be absurd",
And promptly employed euthanasia.
The Princess
The queen's plot was more than merely a jest,
But still Princess Winifred proved she was the best
When that small pea-sized lump
Left a dent in her rump
And allowed her to pass the "sensitivity" test.
The Duke
The Duke of Milan was an arrogant man,
Pugnacious, mendacious, and vain.
He was also a mess
For he loved to cross-dress
In ruffles and bustles and trains.
Erotic prayers are tattooed
onto virtual skin.
She clutches at this man;
prints his likeness over her tongue.
His words
are bedtime stories for the flesh.
An ethereal fruit grows ripe,
hangs from dendrites of desire.
They meet at the verge of vision,
upon distant screens - images melt.
Then they come together.
Passions nail cyber secrets into reality.
Hotel doors slam. Daylight bustles
through echoing corridors.
From each side of twin lamps,
they lay tongue-tied.
Tangled sheets the only eloquence.
The known has laid with the unknown.
Later, they crash apart, as bats will
caught in a glaring sun.
Summer Nights
Setting sun, the light is fleeting
as this day in June’s retreating;
twinkling stars, the darkness greeting,
welcoming this summer night.
Sparrows in the treetops nesting;
daytime bustles now are resting;
calm of twilight now suggesting
gentle are these summer nights.
Fireflies flicker in the twilight,
amber jewels of summer’s birthright,
drifting in and out of eyesight
on these warming summer nights.
Honeysuckle scent is drifting
through the air as moon is lifting;
silver beams she’s gently gifting
on these lovely summer nights.
Breezes through the treetops prancing,
causing leaves together dancing,
like young lovers’ sweet romancing
on these tempting summer nights.
June’s warm nights are soft as sable,
thus I write this like a fable;
hold these moments while you’re able,
cherish now these summer nights.
One day midst the dying embers
on a day in deep December
thinking back you will remember
how they were, these summer nights.
June 1, 2022
Poem of the Day - June 2, 2022
Thinking of you
The world outside
Waiting for the lockdown
To be lifted
The lonely moon,
The stars and the clouds
Know my hearts
Yesterday suddenly everything
Come to a standstill
Less night back man
Less morning jogger
Less cars and pedestrians
Less hustles and bustles
But lights and humps
Can never block us
Going out is a song
Singing rhythms of life
Road is a river
Flowing out to a greater sea
Home is a gloriette
For people and backpacks to rest
Thinking of you
The mountains and the sea
The youngsters and the oldies
The drawing of the famous Chinese art piece
Hundred sons and thousands of grandchildren
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