.raymondtcaffrey@earthlink net

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Received rejection notice on Monday 8 March 2004

16 December 2003

Pavement Saw PressChapbook ContestP. O. Box 6291Columbus, Ohio 43206

Dear Folks:

Enclosed please find my submission to the Pavement Saw Chapbook Contest, a collection of work entitled, Steering By The Meteors.

Enclosed, you will also find, a CV with a modest list of publications and a check for $10.00.

I do hope you will read this diverse collection and enjoy the variety and range of its poems.

Thank you for considering my work.

Raymond T. Caffrey, Ph. D.

STEERING BY

THE METEORS

by

Raymond T. Caffrey

Late night fog hung over the field and obscured the wood like a veil of ancient mist

from which the earth had not yet emerged.

I heard the midnight train brood slowly down the track.

I packed up my dreams and sent them ahead, somewhere, intending to follow them, later.

I am smitten by your charmsand wonder do you knowhow thorougly your eyesso bright and dark disguise

your thoughts and shroud your feelings, yet your beauty shines like the stars.

Our love shone warm and bright, memorable as sunshine that washed over us and sang

like a soft sea breeze as we lay silent, still, together on the beach in July.

Our love disappeared slowly, more slowly Than the sun that day when dark, angry clouds

Obscured the blue sky, banished the sun, and Poured torrential rain into an impervious sea.

Our love faded slowly when summer Slipped into a colorful fall and died

Away leaving these cold, snow white winter Nights that we now spend alone and lonely.

Her heart

(showed in her eyes with her every smile and she liked to smile;

she glowed when she spoke of her childrenand her grandchildren,

one a college graduate, another a graduate student,

one a late surprisea boy, of whom she was very proud.

She deferred,Toward the end, to her husband who could still hearAnd she leaned toward him To see what she might have missed

And they beamed together As they stood side by side In their eighties now)

Gave out at the last after 83 yearsAnd he said

“I close my eyes and look down fifty years and the best I can do is cry.”

Fuzzy Chaos

Stripped of old illusions, I sat in a corner of myself Looking out on my confusion:my thoughtsShone like shards of fractured light strewn about the street. I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening to recall: a rundown sandstone dwelling

with mirrors on narrow walls. Each spoken word re-echoed like shrill screams at night. A woman, a cat, a baby crying out with shrieks of fright.

If not monks with quills, surely Renaissance sculptureStanding deftly silent in long corridors with thick carpet to lure old men in black velvet gowns, grown Impervious to the echo of age-old folly.

Grim, aging, in long vestments, Father

Wicker stood outside his church And extended a hand, his large wide hand With thick fingers, like the fingersOf the milkman whose hand I have shaken once or twice--What a large handful of wide fingers.

The Rose

The rose is perfect in its fluid scentAnd blossoms with plush contours In elegant shades of yellow, red, Pink, silver though never blue;Yet beneath the bloom grows a thicket,Thorns that will draw blood

From the embrace of the inexperiencedor the naïve.

Eden

Now it’s eat the apples and fear the animals(Too numerous to name);Grow your own and bear up under The entropic orbit of body And chaotic movement of soul. It’s mystery over wonder, time, The elements: we’re not safe; If the earth’s faults don’t a tornado Will, or a parching drought sun, or forty Days of rain, high winds, treacherous Snow, tidal seas, Cain killing Abel, fire, Garbage and seagulls, deadly sinsTo trample beatitudes gone slack To platitudes: “the meek shall eat Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homelessThrough dark allies as if in frantic Search of someone.” The morning Sun rose white hot, a perfectly round, Platinum ball that burned through dense,Floating fog, looking small, like a roving moon. The Yucca bush sent up long snakes of buds To bloom sudden white flowers that struck The first burning strokes of summer; in the evening, Fireflies sparked golden lights that twinkled Briefly above tall broad grasses in the field

That sloped from the road to the low land Near the brook and the woods. We found a crow’s Feather in the garden near the house, and Joe Returned with cantaloupes, a hand made serape, And his smile. We brewed coffee and laughed About the crows that ate all the bright red cherries In the tree top and spit the pits to the sidewalk Where they left red stains. The moon rose full Just before dark and shone that bright yellowish White some say promises a hot day, but I reveled In the warm, silent stillness, compelled by all The summer moon inspires, conceals and reveals.

Mystery

Mysteries abound. Consider: “Give Unto Caesar Those Things That Are Caesar’s.”Who better deserves Caesar’s things?

There are joyful mysteries of annunciation,Visitation, and nativity, mysterious mysteries, Illiterate mysteries, long-legged mysteries, Glorious mysteries, astronomical mysteriesOf politics, economy, religion, psychology,Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance, Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.

What things does Caesar want?

One rather glorious mysteryIs the perfectly proportioned Symmetrical mons delicately carvedIn the stone of Stella’s marble belly. Even dry, it looks slick enough.

Who might want Caesar’s things?

A short, round cleric in black cassock And cloak topped with an egg-shaped head Gone bald, his lips pursed and oysterEyes magnified behind thick glassesWalked by ignoring his students.

He taught mythical mysteries: Circe And her Sirens, who touch the magic wand To pleasure or distress the hunter, the thief,The juror, the milkman, the witness,

The carpenter, the writer, the priest . . . Father Hennessy walked with eyes downcastHis head bent to one side as he picked An unencumbered path through clustersOf laughing boys. One young girl, a teenager Wakes to find herself pregnant. Who will believe She is a virgin? Joseph? An angel told her, She said—quite a mystery, that. Hail Mary, full of grace . . . Je vous salut, Marie . . .

Suicide is a sorrowful mystery. Ernest Hemingway shot himself. I felt the cut. He was dead on page One in large, bold, black, dark thick print. I read his books. Now he’s dead. He took dead aim and shot himself: quite a good shot, too, but he was a hunter.

A mad scramble for Hemingway’s things ensued. I looked the other way. It was all right to read Huck Finn: Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s goneA long time, but Hemingway just shot himself and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself; He had to rely on someone else.

Lazarus died and Jesus criedWhen he arrived. Lazarus, aliveWalked forth and sighed, “Oh, well.”

Father Hennessy liked the old fish story: Jesus told his men to pass round their fish And bread. All were amazed that so few loaves of bread and so little sushi fed so many. A dry affair. No grill. No talk of beer or wine. He reserved spirits for weddings.

Cold water over ice; A drag from the exhaust of a clean

Carburetor white with smokeSuddenly gone. Sit back to rock;Maybe have a red wine. Too much is too muchEven when it’s just enough.

No Persian carpet has ever seen

The likes of their displayShe had a lasting vacancy He was pot-holes day after day

No sooner did he buy her flowersNo sooner did he learn the gameWhen suddenly appeared anotherWith a Cadillac to steal the dame.

Always one thing or the otherThe sun will shine or rainBut a girl who’s after riches Will soon cause someone pain.

Your fear scares me most; not your moods,

nor their swings:

It is your fear That scares me most.

When you feel awfulI feel awful too.

I cannot help itAnymore than you

Can help feeling so Awful when you do,

But it worries me

When you feel awful

On our one day off.

Fall 1992

Those were the days—before the launch, yes-Terday or the day before, when books Were read, and songs were sung—radio;Before television. Now it looksAntique, like a chair in need of glue;They spoke of Modern then, and they thoughtModern meant new: Avant-garde, DadaSurreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They foughtOver a word, an idea, a turn Of image to make better prufrock.

We’ve brightened up Michelangelo—Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clockEither back or forward or around. Turned up a stone age corpse kept on iceThese five thousand years. Someone knocked Off his scrotum, took his boots—a nice

Welcome to this nameless age of rap. Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’sImagination, a myth that cutsThe road to Rome and the scrotum, too. Beware the aged prophet whose handsReach toward your pocket: feeble fingersQuick as a humming bird that darts, landsIts feed and disappears all in oneSudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist,And politics!

Rhetoric gave way To the coy, segment-sensitive twist. Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots. Lipstick girls in slender undress begLess disbelief than “VOTE FOR ME” spots. We’ve had George’s war, and Ronnie’s naps,Jimmie’s piles, Gerald jokes, Richard’s crooks,Lyndon’s spooks, Jack’s back, Ike’s golf, Harry’s Bomb, Franklin’s wheel chair—history booksWill call the game with retrospective Calm: a slow curve (the deep recession),A black-door slider (pretty Flowers),The inside fast ball (a concessionTo incumbent powers): fall chaos Played out like the World Series’ last game.

These are the days of commercial spin,Cosmetic tucks, uninspired nameCalling, shrewd strategies, cynical Calculations designed to sell Hope. Better were the days before the launch—Before the Enola Gay cut loose the rope that moored today to the sturdydock of yesterday and the day before.

Evening

Yellow golden sun setting fire to the ridge;Crystal glowing Venus rising, dripping from the sea;Twilight sky blue black.

Charlotte’s in a dressing gownWearing her high heels;Street kids shout below her window,Howling at the rising moon. She resists a temptation to pitchHer silver spoon.

A little twisted cripple in a sable coat and hatLaughed a curly ha, ha, and pointed To the brat who smirked and wiped his foreheadWith a scrap of Union Flag.

Cynthia was tracking down her own intentionsWhen all at once and suddenly she could notBear to mention . . .

What’s true in motion pictures is not the color nor the tale

And what you see in movies can make your picle pale.

The marzipan magician made a kerchief disappearWhat rag is this asked Robert, lately home from the war,It’s not a fit vacation till you’ve had one lusty roar, But Charlotte closed her window to shut outThe sound of cripples singing psalms.

It takes a lot of work To get a little doneWhich leaves so little timeTo have a bit of fun.

Felicia gave all her men a personalized, engraved gold Cross pen, As insistent an instrument as any in Tiffany’s window.

James lost his gift first off And Felicia bought another,To make her point and he thankedHer and asked her to keep it for him

So he would not lose it again. In time, Felicia found herself with that goldCross pen with his three initials and she tried To wipe off J. D. S. and forget that James

So disappointed her and then disappeared.

Crushed kisses and Heathcliffe limping on broken Sidewalks shouting orders to Isaac Slug, carved in stone astride his granite steed in uniform with helmet, side-sword and pistol. Ever vigilant, he guards the river, an excellent river, deep and wide enough for ocean liners and freighters, ships that pierce the ocean. Slug sits, mounted in stone, ever watchful for danger, remembering dangers past. Below the gaze of Isaac walked an old womanOn wide set legs with heavy hips like a barrel in black,Demure in her cape with black silk lining. She was lost, Like an elephant on the loose on cobble stone streetsBelow the highway where a laxity of rules governed The few trucks that dashed back and forth belowThe old, abandoned highway beneath Isaac’s glance.

Highly polished verseReflects what it observes, like a large sphere, an oversized mirroringOrnament on a Christmas treeThat distorts what it reflects

Don’t pick up the New York TimesUntil you’ve said your prayers:Every page can make you cringe. The plan for space sure scares The rest of us who askWhat secret stuff went up thereWhen Atlantis blasted off,And why did they call it“Atlantis”? Our space warescommemorate the lostcontinent---everyone swears ‘tis splendid progress—technology must advance by leaps and blastsand who cares if the thing works for a short while. All the night stars are mostly debris. What’s a littlemore? Who cares if the sky’sbecome a junk yard” it’s roomy enough—like the olddeficit which dares us not to laugh at money.

Sometimes it is hard to be amusedOr even crack a smile.

She was hard,Pure hardLike stone, Like crystal, Like lightningLike diamonds

More than the sunriseMore than the mountainsMore than the thinnest crescent moonMore than the blue light of dusk,

More than the spring’s first rainMore than the faint light of dawnMore than the willow’s first yellowMore than the daffodil’s first blossomMore than the oceanMore than the summer’s first roseMore than the pink gladiola More than the autumn’s riot of colorMore than the early setting sunMore than the winter’s first soft snow

I love you more and our love is endless Our love transcends time

The poet felt the oceanAnd praised the ocean’s purity. He saw the moon spread A wide beam on the waterAnd stop at the surfaceAs if the black depthOf the ocean at nightWere impenetrable, discrete.

He rode the tideAnd his blood tookIts rhythm and his shipRolled at once with the ocean.

The ocean heaves pure and blind,Faithful only to the moon:It casts its song to every windAnd sings its airs like the witch That conjures life.

And the ocean is untrammeled.

I am worn out with good wishes:Good wishes sent;Good wishes received.

Let us be silent now a whileAnd rest quietlyBefore we must once

Again summon the energy

To send good wishesAnd get good wishes.

Love Poem

You're the milk in my oatmeal!(I hate love poems).You're the sun in my heart(But I will persist).

You're the rain on my garden,The bloom on the rose.You're the crease in my trousers.You're the stars at night

When the moon is new;You're the morning breeze(One metaphor is good as anotherTo a reluctant poet).

You're the blue in my skies,The colors of fall,The white on the snow.You're my recurring dream.

There are two distinguished "T's"in "Literature,"

and like stanchions in a bridge,they uphold their suspended

"era,"

but never have "T's"held forth with such swayas those two tipsy "T's"

in "Tits."

Consternation

Every now and againto my complete surprise

I find myself behind the not so mythic rock.

Never have I enviedSisyphus' aerobic

lot. Up that hill he'd go:strong legs, strong back, and will

for the climb. He'd not beundone by hill, his rock,fate, or the gods. Atop

the mountain he'd look out

over the fields and watchas his work came to naught:did he sigh as his rock, let

loose, rolled down the mountain?

Or did the spectacleof a huge rock jumping

and bounding, gathering speed as it fell down hill

please him, make the journeyworth his while? Did the gods

laugh at him? Or did they too, in time, grow weary

of the repetitiousspectacle of a man

pushing a rock uphillto watch it fall back down

to the bottom where hebegan. At least he knewwhere to push his mythic

rock. I have no idea

what to do with my own.

Once it was an issuebetween the lady and the man;who held the sway domesticwas said to wear the pants;

In time, the clothes designersput the ladies into slacks,to which the fashion factoryfor skirts needs must fight back;

Thus in this age of woman's right,in this the age of rockets,the skirt designers taught us allit's not the pants, it's pockets!

Whatever happened, the trees would not tell though they whispered softly to a passingbreeze, nor would say the chipped concrete sidewalkand curb that lamented disfigurement in stoical silence, nor the shallow brook that flowed slowly in hushed ripples past a wooden bridge, round curved banks, cascading quietly toward the dam it had ruined, and the gorge it cut in turbulent times when the winds blew and clouds fled hurriedly, oblivious, as if summoned away suddenly to answer a cry for help like the police cars, and fire enginesand ambulances, that raced with flashing red and blue and white lights and loud sirensscreaming, screaming, to the road by the streamnear the walk bridge late last night.

Ordinary Time

Simple grey boatanchored, afloaton still water;

a grey perfect skymerged with tree tops'rich subdued green;

white grey lake fogrisen;

an old wood dockgone blackwith age,

we sat alone,at peace,away.

Never Knew A Hooker

Never knew a Hookerdidn't say that she was clean;never struck a workerdidn't lose more than his gain;never blew a blow-harddidn't blow the final scene;never grew a gardendidn't get some heavy rain;never sat the juror wasn't guilty of some crime;never lived the poetwouldn't kill to make a rhyme.

Some motives run deep--unfathomable

as oceans, decep-tive as keen edged seasthat cut the skyalong distinct horizon lines.

I forget where I’m fromI’ve been here so long.Life can be sad sometimes:What you forget, andWhat you can’t forget;What you remember andWhat you can’t recall:There are places I’ve beenAnd people, more peopleThan places, whose namesI forget. Some peopleMade me angry and some

Made me smile. SometimesI see a familiar face but can’tRemember the name. Now and thenI meet someone who knows mebut can’t recall my name—I’m perfectly happy thento let the forgotten pasttrouble someone else.

Steering By The Meteors

Everyone ought to have heart, lips, one dominant trait, sox, soul, a rifle, baseball cards, gas, fingers,feelings, tulips, spacemen, a beach ball, toes, lake front property, sex, snow, grandparents, luck, candles, "it'sneverbeenlikethisbefore," at least once; shoes, shoulders, strawberries in June, a fancy car, moods, no need to care for one full hour, Irish Whiskey, felt-tip pens, birthdays, luxurious lamb skin now and again, a flat tire, Lenox, a nice carpet, remote control, peace of mind, one pink rose, elders, a full portion of fish, God, cabbage, an adjustable wrench, rest, style, hair to last a life-time, daffodils, cheese-cake, an elegant guitar, birds, sea air, children, a light drizzle, autumn leaves, grass, annoyance, soft hands, a bookcase, cherries, neighbors, cash, a dog, split infinitives, good teeth to chew a steak, a

walk along the brook, no sense of time, a long coat, wine, feet, Ds in math, a waltz, pain, boots, chocolate, jeans, Waterford, fountain pens, rocks, dreams, tennis, good legs, cognac, books, ghosts, sunshine, ties, an understanding of James Joyce, a rosary, video tapes, a bike, trash, paintings, a chain saw, memories, a cordless phone, remorse, a good baseball glove, a little fear, Knicks tickets, bank hours, purpose, silver dollars, Halloween candy, one gold ring, true love, warm nights, sound sleep, and a good laugh!

I saw you on the street last night;although we've not met for a long time, your face was pretty as ever it was, and you saw

me, too. I caught your eye and yours met mine, but I could neither stopto say hello, nor rememberyour name. I walked quickly away

to my next appointed chore. I tried to conjure your name. I dressed you in a white uniform, placed you behind a store counter

to no avail; I sketched your face and searched for your name like one walking through dark library stacks

searching for a familiar title,

but I could not find your name, and today, your look of recognition,your brief look of disappointment when I failed to acknowledge you,

whose smile so easily comes to mind, trouble me still.

Late Winter

Sometimes we endure,without joy,without pleasure,though the sun shines brightfrom blue skies,and crocuses tempt cold march windsto bloom white,blue and yellow,and daffodils budand floweryellow besidepurple hyacinths.sometimes we endurewithout joywithout pleasurethough love shines constantas the sunfrom cloudless skiesand we endure like

the dormant rosein winter, awaiting the sparkthat will bringus back to life.

Meticulous fish, schooled in the arts;no word from Fathom who studied the starsto chart his course between Venus and Mars.

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Who knows the scent of fishing boats,the slippery feel of live bait?Who knows the endless hours afloaton oil-slicked bays in hopeful waitfor the subtle bite that rarely came?

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The Bookend Diner's thin chicken souptasted like puddles, but it was worthFathom's dollar to be out of the rain,a tranquil summer day's shocking turnwith sudden lightning, thunder, and wind to make the city howl!

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No rest for the weary, thought Fathom,hearing Sandra's scorn blasting the sunfrom bright blue skies with torrents of bitter invective spit like this wind driven

rain against the Bookend's glass facade.

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Some things still make sense, he thought,sipping weak Red Rose tea. There's nothingunder heaven like a pale blue fifty-sevenChevy. You could trust Ted Williams to hit.Count on Ray Charles, Henry Fielding, Portia,Marilyn Monroe, Little Richard, John Lennon, Davie Crockett, Constance Reid,and Premium Saltines in cellophane wrappersto kill the taste of thin, bitter red tea.

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Fathom watched an old man, freshfrom the sea, the scent of fish on his hands, he sipped the Bookend's tea, and listed to one side and then to the other like an old boat rocking gently on still waters.He seemed not to notice the storm.Fathom bailed out his shallow soup bowl with quick scoopsas if to keep his ship afloat.

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The Lone Ranger did not ride alone,Fathom thought, chewing his saltines.Things are not always as they seem--there was Tonto always near, and Ciscohad Pancho, Don Quixote had his Panza,and who knows what went on betweenBeatrice and George, Tom and Sophie,Rochester and Bertha, Les Paul and MaryFord? Well, there's always Natty BumppoAbbey Road, Saint John's Gospel: it maybe so for all I know, he thought, as he pushed

hard to open the Bookend's glass door and walked out into the wind blown rain.

Early Spring

The new year bounded along like a rockjumping, bouncing down a severe incline.The sun seemed to lose its way; it settled in the south west sky as if gone astray.

By March the Sun eclipsed the moon and Hale-Bopp's comet appeared like a misguided star, too bright, too close; it forcibly stepped on the brakes and kicked up enormous clouds

of trailing star dust as it skid acrossthe sky. Crocuses bloomed, and then came wild yellow daffodils and forsythia, purpleand white hyacinths. Magnolia trees

blossomed pink and the dogwoods flowered white. Easter rushed up like an over-eager child in pursuit of chocolate, and then Vas died, as he said he would, on Easter

Sunday. with overcast hearts and tearful smiles, we walked with him to his bright, Spring Grave beneath a blue sky and a brilliant sun on Friday, a little numb, a little

stunned, sad and lonely to be without him.

a blank sheet of paperhas marvelous potential

possibilities aboundlike the stars on a clear night

when a new moon tugs at the tides from

invisible heights

Nothing dries sooner than tearsnot the rainnot the dewnot the first frost of fall

Love

Too close for words to say what we mean;too close to mean what words can say:

is that love, or is that love's ghost: the old cherry tree that failed to blossom, or the recurring echoof a rose?

Evening Song

Twilight descends like a delicate threat;the silent breeze whispers an ageless taleof darkest night--harmonious discord evoking quivers of unrememberedfear. Between the moon and night runs Venusdripping sea-brine, the brightest star, astraylike an errant diamond, rife with cosmicsentiment. There's magic in the echo

of the Jimson lily's silent song--sunglike the sirens' symphony to enchantthe moon. The ocean rushes a high tideto soothe the weary shore: wave after whitewave smooths its face worn with foot prints and

sandcastles: fleeting dreams wash away like bright clouds blown on late night winds. Faceless figures of sleepless dreams emerge from within tallancient oaks to cast deep spells and weave oldyarns of joyful days and estrous nights when Brigid danced and Patrick sang and Hope rodea brilliant white stallion from North to Southacross white lily fields and rainbows archedthe land from sea to sea and happy werewe then, yes, for one brief, lasting moment.

Sunsetburned goldwithout glare;

spring and sucha dry spell.

The lawn turned earth's best greenbut sparsly;

rain came, light, fine;

half-a rainbow--

formed then fadedslowlyimperceptibly;

a sheer cloudhung before a perfect round, pale,setting sun;

we watched with wonder,near fear, to see the sunlook so like the perfect placid, deadfull moon.

Hypocrisy’s blinding glare toooften obscuresthe hypocritewhose face appears In the mirror.

What do you live with?Everyone lives with something;

What you live withShows: on your face,

In your eyes,In your walk;

It gives meaningTo the furrows in your brow;

It colors your smile, Deepens your frown,

Paces your gait.Does it lend beauty

To your face?It can, you know.

The Salem Witch

Once I'd seen the witchit was difficultever moreto findthe comelyyoung womanin fur and plumewho first caughtmy eye.

Long standing intolerancebegins to look like patience, in time.

Conflict and contention,the ritual argument,create one sort of intimacy,

but a smile,a kind word, an uncalculatedkiss will do as well if what you want is intimacy.

Christine and cookies,Oh, Margaret a lot,Hester’s green tea andThe morning was shot.

Breathless VirginiaCrammed plans into plans,Fifteen for dinnerAll stuffed in three vans.

Clara rode donkeyIn boots with her smilesWhile Bob kissed the princessIn back of the files.

Stale chocolate cake Was what we all got. Jane cried out loud: “This coffee’s not hot.”

Gallery

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

Brassy, old, imperious, a woman set on thinlegs waked an aged strut, impervious,her look pursed in thin-lipped wrinkles:"Tell me how I can assist you."

I could not tell, had no idea, wondered . . .and smiled.

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

The far wall was full canvas: clouds.White and blue, tops of clouds:deep contrast: bright to one side, darkto the other. More clouds to the right.Two walls of clouds, tops of clouds"It's like being in a plane," saidan elderly woman with a happy, bright smile,as she felt her way along the cloudsto find a door.

The curator slouched in his chair,worn down with his rounds.His tough-barked hostess had vanished,leaving the room still as its thick carpet.

Alone above the clouds, I wanderedand was startled to find two long poleswith rocks tied to their tops, leaning precariously against the clouds:ancient missiles from a simple timewhen we threw rocks.I found myself pacing from window to cloud,cloud to window, window to an overlooked

wall with a small canvas: two beetleson daffodil, one atop the other, in "Yellow,Magenta, Cyan."

Catherine came to mind: she liked to grither teeth in pleasure. Her eyes alight,her front teeth slanted forward, her jawset, tense, triumphant. There was somethingunseemly about Catherine's mouth whenshe grit her teeth in pleasure.

Like an apparition among the cloudsthe thin-lipped woman reappeared,"Would you like a champagne?"she urged with her head slightly tiltedtoward the right, her thin lips pursedshut with wrinkles, her dim eyes narrow,estimating, calculating.

"Thank you, no."

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

I felt my way along the clouds. I followed the path of the bright-eyedwoman whose ageless smile shonelike the sun above the clouds, .until I found the open door.

Between you, me, the post and pillar,Cinderella's story of that nice prince, a pumpkin coach and slipper, sounds fishy as Moby Dick.

At timesThe dead are real,Their presencePalpable as music to the deaf,

Color to the blindSong to the mute.The dead are real And incomprehensible As death.

The sunset sky was blue, Blue, bright blue near the rooftopsJust above the yellow at the line of the roof.

Below, six stories of brick and window, more window than brick, were dark, as if night fell early in the narrow street.

Down the front of the building, past arched windows and rectangular windows ran a metal stairway, of rusted wrought iron, the skeleton of stairs.

Parked cars sat

heavily, inert, like the blue grey slate stones of the sidewalk.

From the dark street shone neon lights of blue and yellow and red and white and gold. White streetlights carved vague shadowsOn blue grey slate stone sidewalks. The corner street light flashed“Don’t walk” in red. Blue lights and white lights shone from windows.

A bicycle with an over-large basket and a wrapped packaged waited for a rider.

No one walked and no one drove and no one looked from the windows.

Bright green traffic lights turned amber, turned red and held till red turned green, no matter that no one came.

No matter that the sky above was blue.

We agonized along hot city side-Walks in summer and picked a careful way Over ice in bitterly cold winter Winds to find tea and scones while we studied Ways to explore, perfect, perhaps justify Intimacy. Were we intimate Then when we wondered aloud if this con-Fusion were love or what might it be if Not and why such fascination, why such Urgent desire, why the desire To check desire, why the concentrationOn one another when we were apart, Why the cautious first moments each time we Met?

When we were together, Sensitive to one anotherProtective of ourselves—We saw ourselves as if in an odd

Light that shone in two directionsAt once and revealed one thing to youAnd another to me.

The stone behind the dark glasseson the snow cone is the KingThe queen is in her pantry eating pies.

Crawling down the hallway past the butter, past the sink,the prince is having visions with his eyes.

The Joker traded motleyfor a pin-striped vested suit;His wife puffed out her cheeks and picked his ties.

The priest is running groceries to the revels in the hills.the nuns are painting checkerson the skies.

Princess Carolina dressed In crinoline contrives To raise her skirt and wink at all the guys.

Robin Hood lit Marion’s

Dessert while the friar drank a punch that blackenedboth his eyes.

The inevitable,always comes

As a shock.

I have arrived at that point In my lifeWhen the need to be polite, Diplomatic,Inoffensive to prevailing sensitivities,Sensibilities,Is exceeded only By the inveterate need To have my sayright or wrong.

Discarded Past

Winter Olympics. February. Lent.Snow. Snow. Cold. Like sea shells tossed on frozennight sands, memories rose in dreams drawnby full moon tides: scattered images vividas her face, staring out a bus window:sad, mysterious--I felt her look. Why?What? She would not say . . . young. We had just met,she, her girlfriend and I. Coincidence:a day trip--she was the guest of her friend's parents; I the guest of an old teacher.Bright, warm, summer sun, afternoon--her facehad changed--her slim friend: I had come to seeher--we knew that. Her pretty face eludesme now. Roy Orbison--"Crying," "OnlyThe Lonely"--on a small diner jukebox.I tried to smoke a cigarette--my firstpack. "You look silly," she said. "Let him be,"came in my defense, though I played the fool.A beach in summer, change: I was taller;she was thin. Her mother had a number:a house full of girls. I called. "She's not here,now. I don't know where she is. She starts workat five." I said I'd try my luck. My friendsfrom school were with me--my ride--a car full.A huge beach house: I knocked. A girl answered,curious. "She's home now," and she appearedlooking rushed, unsettled, slightly annoyedby this surprise visit: she tried to smile.She worked as a waitress in the evenings--they found her on the beach and rushed her back.No time to change: make-up, perfume, her long black hair pinned back, her thin legs tan in shorts pulledover a bikini, a light sheer blouse--she did not know why I was there, or why

there was a car full of boys at the curbstaring, curious as we walked toward them.I felt shy, stunned by her beauty--the change:subtle experience, savvy. She foundme naive. We climbed into the back seatand sat close to one another: she wasone in a crowd of strangers, my politefriends. I felt warm in contact with her, tongue-tied: she sided with my crowd who teased me:"you look flushed," came from the front seat. She touchedmy face, "Yes! He's in heat!" That got a laugh.A sedate party in my father's backyard--we'd finished high school. My home town crowd--she had somewhere to go, but she would stopfor a brief visit. She arrived I heelsand stockings, a darkish dress, her full blackhair perfect--she was at her loveliest,her face smooth, her smile relaxed, her eyes darkand bright at once--a beautiful stranger--the crowd went silent as she found her waythrough the roses in the fading sunlightand smiled. One night, a year later? Summervacation. College. I was home from schooland a strange classmate appeared with a car.I called--she was home--we drove to her house--she and I sat on a couch in a largeparlor with a stereo and my friend.He felt like my ride, sat alone, apart,unsure of his role--he tried to ignoreus, and we tried to include him. We talked--now and again we held hands--discreetly--the touch her delicate hand was softand warm. When we were leaving, she stopped meon the landing atop the stairs and kissedme and we held one another . . . gently.I was surprised, naive as I was. Long

afterward I could still feel her presencelike a comfort. The memory faded,though, in time, like the passing of roses.A bright autumn evening--I was engagedand she was seeing someone--we asked herto come with us to see the film versionof The Sound of Music in a large, oldtheatre near her house--she declined but askedus to visit before the show. When wearrived she and her mother sat us downto dinner with her family--she was sensitive and alert, in touch with usand with her mother in a quiet way.It felt odd, though, to eat and leave her therein the driveway, waving good-bye to us.The wedding was a crowded, rushed affair--she was radiant, coming down the church stairs to greet us. She introduced the manwho would become her husband, an olderman. I hoped to see them later, but no,they would not come to the reception hall--was she, by then, and in the companyof her own fiancé, uncomfortable in her role of the beautiful stranger?Time went by like a subway ride--a blurthrough darkness and light--how long ago hadI spoken with her? I called her motherto ask how she was. She said she could usea call from me--get her back in touch withsome of "the old crowd," now that her babywas born. I called, eager to hear of herhusband and baby, her home, her new life--I hoped to persuade her to visit us,meet my boy, and I was stunned by, "How didyou get my number? Why did you call me?I'm married! I have a baby! I havea husband!" "I know." I was shocked. "I metyour husband at my wedding." I did notknow what to say. "I'm sorry to trouble

you so. Did your husband dislike me? Us?""No. He said you were a 'nice young man'." "So . . .What's wrong?" She wouldn't say why she was soupset. I was shocked and confused, sorryto feel I threatened her, though I did notunderstand. "I don't want to trouble you.I won't call again. Don't worry. Good-bye."I felt embarrassed, foolish, discarded,like a shameful past. That was twenty yearsago, or more--a generation--then there she was again--vivid as her facestaring out a bus window--a winternight's dream tossed memories like oldsea shells on cold sands, bright, beneath a full moon.

Random, random, random in tandemA coke can rolled down the road.

The circus train crept past the parkHeavy, like a tanker sitting lowIn the water, inching up riverExhausted, on the last leg of its long journey.

The phone rang. I woke. Lost. Where am I? What time is it? Dream merged with waking:I was in Cincinnati when the phoneRang and I ran to answer and wokeFrom my dream more real than The ringing phone.

“Tending bar is not respectable.He should not tend bar.”She spoke with disgust on her face.Disgust easily found its way to her face. A smile struggled with her ready-made Lines of disgust. She could not distort Those lines to make a smile, so deeply carvedInto her face were the aged lines of constant disgust.

The paperboy walked stiffly, his back to the wind,His cap pulled down to cover his face. The wind cut through his blue jeans and icedThe front of his legs till they were numb and stung. The wind sliced sharply across lawns buried beneath Snow that obliterated boundaries and hid concrete Walkways and curbs and streets. Snow drifts roundedWhite by the wind peaked and sloped as if they covered A long, plush meadow that rolled uphill from the brookBut the heavy snow could not disguise the small, Uniform houses that shot up suddenly like patches Of corn that divided the field into barren lots Where greedy men planted cinder blocks.

Christmas came like a winter stormOf wrapping and bows and boxesAnd it went in light black plastic bags

With empty wine bottles clinking to get

MORNING

"Introibo ad Altare Dei . . ." Father Wily would say, too fast, all too early in the day for me to call upmy memorized Latin. "Ad Deum quilaetificat juventutem meam,"I would answer, nervous, not quite awakeso early in the morning before school.

Not much of a crowd those dark March mornings. The church was cold and every sound echoed:a stifled sneeze; a late comer tiptoedup the aisle; a cough. Someone turned a thin,stiff missal's page, trying to keep pacewith Father Wily's quick, breathless Latin.

I smothered a yawn and my eyes wateredwhile I sat through the Epistle: Saint Paulcomplained about rough seas, ship wreck. Dawn's firstglowing light colored the stained glass windows:Saint John, in dark blue, emerged with a book;Mary, in blue and white, stood on a gold lined cloud and rose toward the sky; a young manwith long hair and a halo, his hands tied above his head, slumped down beside a tree and looked upward while he bled from arrow wounds: seven arrows. The rising sun's shafts of light trapped brilliant specks of fast movingdust and rose to light up bits of gold high in the cathedral's dark mosaic dome.

A steady, cold draft blew round my ankleswhile I knelt, watching closely for my cue

to ring the gold bells when Father Wilyraised up the host and his bright gold chalice:the church became still for that long moment;a huge silence would gather to embrace the music of bells ringing their finest tones, and like a great organ sustaining

a note, the empty church echoed and sangthe bells' cheerful song, then let it fade outslowly, gently, till it was the faintest hint of music gone from perfect silence.

The taste of the host was still in my mouthwhen I took off my surplice and cassock:it made me hungry. The cold sacristychilled my coat and made me anxious to leave:I took my books, my lunch bag and I hurrieddown the aisle. The church was dark, oddly still,vacant; the sun now sent shafts of coloredlight down through dark stained glass windows. Each dim beam lit an empty space in the dark pews. My quick steps echoed through the hollow churchtill I pushed open its heavy, arched doors.

The skies were blue and not a cloud behind bright sun that warmed my face and eased the chill from morning air. I was awake and gladfor a donut I found in my lunch bag.The last church-goer drove his car aroundthe corner and the grey stone parking lot became our school playground: I wanderedalone, curious to find beer bottlecaps, cigarette butts, broken glass, bobbypins, the telling signs of a playground'slife after school and before morning Mass.

The school was shut, silent, asleep; its sandcolored brick sparkled in the bright sunlike the brief, faint smile of a pleasant dream.Not a soul about and the place so still--it seemed impossible that soon noisybus after yellow bus would come to pour streams of boys and girls in blue uniformsscrambling onto the playground to awaitthe shrill, piercing bell that signaled the start of another day. Such a fine morning!

I wished I were free to go home and play.

Conversation with the Wall

In mocking hesitation,old Whiskers bowed his head:"It's mostly of this erato live in fear and dread

the push along the subway,the stranger with a gun,the organized militia

armed and having fun,

the nuclear reactors,the IRS, and more,the nagging threat of livingthrough the very last world war.

No telling what they're thinking,down there in Washington's Mall,but everyone who goes theresits on Humpty's wall.

So fare you well this fun house,wisely choose your way: we'll know you by those things you do.Not by those you say."

Whiskers and The Victorian

She was a shallow stream,a wader's dream,and he liked fishingup minnows.

Hers was a fetching gleam:the moon's full beamconjuring a steadyunder-tow.

He splashed on self-esteem,

to an extreme,and thought to give hera good row,

but, t'was her secret schemeto reign supremewhilst he was bathinghis ego.

Their puddle sure teemedand raged, till it seemedlike oceans aboutto overflow.

Good Friday

Lily's eyes stared wide and roundas if stuck open with startled dismay."Come on," she said, "what's all theseclothes doing here? I didn't finishyesterday's wash yet . . . ."

Pink Floyd's Wall filled the hall,too loud--"We don't need no . . ."The washing machine clanged;

the vacuum cleaner roared its angry scream and the dog barked and jumped as if he would attack its every move.

An ill-conceived Spring with sudden snow burying limp crocuses too quick to live.

Easter eggs boiling for dyeing--at three the stress of Lent is gone.

Lazy, graceful, languid snow dancing,drifting down, floating slowly downthis Friday in April.

Melancholy lilies hang their headsin mournful shame in Shepherd'schilly hot-house. "They've been forced,"Shepherd said, "along with the mums and azaleas. Lilies don't take it well. They're no fun," he chuckled.

Tomato soup and tuna fish--dinner for a damn snowy Friday in April.

Vietnam is a memory now: remote as Korea, World War II.

Once Nam was everything:once, for a long, long painful time.

"A brief war, as wars go," will say the books. Hard to face then, Harder now: men, grown from boys, eighteen, haunt

street corners like lost souls, they beg in frayed uniforms: spare change can not change a life spared in war, doomed

to haunt lost souls, victims themselvesof private wars, wounded, scarred, numbed,their own horror haunting them,

they cannot hear the anguished voice: "Spare some change for a vet, friend?

WHAT I DONE FOR SUMMER VACATION

my old man got sick and he got operated on in a hospital in new york and got better after a month and come home but he couldn't do nothing for a long time after that. When he was home he told me what to do for the summer--paint the picket fence white. Cut the grass. Pull weeds. Trim the edges. Plant the garden. Weed the garden but don't touch the cucumbers--kills 'em. Wash the car. Clean out the garage. Catch worms at night for fishing. He fished in a lake and never caught nothing. Then he heard about the bay. Didn't need worms for that. We needed other fish to catch little fish. Small blue fish that were only sort of blue on top and white mostly. Then we caught fish. Lots of little fish. I learned to clean them. You cut off their head at the gills and cut them down the middle of their belly and get the little skeleton out and scrape the scale knife over them and get rid of the scales and when you're done there's not much of a fish left. But we had a lot of them and he liked them. Or he liked that he caught them after all the time on the lake with nothing coming up after the worms and the bobbins still on the water and the lines got tangled and we had nothing to eat or drink out there in that boat and there were mosquito bites. He liked seeing the red and white bobbins dive down into the water and stay there while something ran with the line. And the reel sung out. Then a priest that taught him something in school came and told me about girls and nice girls don't like it. They let you do it if they like you but they don't feel nothing and its a sin but I knew about girls and was scared because I wasn't supposed to, and when he asked me if I did, I said no. So I made faces like I was surprised and my face hurt after a while. He liked talking about it, and wanted to make sure I was going to be good. So he finished up and we went downstairs and ate, but I was tired. After a while he came back and I had to make believe I liked him and was happy to see him again. They talked and left me out of it, and I was glad, but then they came

and said I was going with him to Canada on a bus with some people from his church. I wasn't sure I liked that much, but they wanted me to pretty bad and I made faces like I was happy. I stayed at his house and didn't like getting up early for mass the day we left. It rained. I met two girls I liked, one in a white pleated skirt that hung nice over her and made it look like she was nice and her friend was shorter and had nice long fingers and nice hair and eyes and she was pretty, and the priest kept trying to make me sit up in the front seat of the bus with him but I kept going to the back seat where the girls were. He didn't like me leaving him up there alone but I couldn't think up nothing to say to him. Couldn't think up nothing to say to the girls either. But I liked them and I liked sitting by them. We went to these shrines up there. They gave us little candles at night and we lit them up and walked around holding them and said the rosary in french. I didn't know french and it took too long but it sounded nice and they had crutches hanging up in church and wheel chairs from people they said got cured out of something without getting operated on. And when I got up the last morning, I met the girls and had coffee and I never had that before and it wasn't good, but I kept the jar they brought it in. When I left the restaurant the girls made believe they were shocked but they put it in a pocketbook and walked out like nothing. Outside the restaurant I saw newspapers in english standing up in a rack and one said ernest hemingway killed himself last night. Biggest print I ever saw.

Ordinary TimeWeek Six

Have you seen that homelessman shuffle off to bed:cardboard on a subway gratehis hands around his head?

Have you seen that tunnellady advertise her breast:she winks a blackened, swolleneye that says she needs some rest.

Have you seen that drunkenman talking to the wall?Have the windshield raggersscared you with their drawl:

"May the good Lord bless you, Mister.Merry Christmas one and all.

Poetry Night

I rode the elite elevator and stood among the elitein elevator silence as we sped to a vertiginous height.

A man in full, greying sideburns with a smooth,shining head perched atop a blue turtleneck sweater,his three button tweed jacket buttoned up tight, stoodsilent and glossy as his polished mahogany umbrella handle.

A woman, separate and large in shining black fur lookedsoft as a panda; her black boots rose well into her longfur, and her dark eyes glowed as she stood apart; her acridsilence hummed through tight clenched, dark red lips,like the sealed elevator that hummed its way upward.

I stood in a metal corner and watched blinking lightsflash numbers from left to right where it stopped at twelve.

Dull metal doors parted slowly and disappeared.Black fur exercised female prerogative and pushedher way through the crowd and the opened doorway.She turned right turned right and lumbered away,making haste with short, heavy, slow strides. The shining head looked round with the quick movements of a small bird,

and marched off.

I stepped from the emptied elevator to a brass picket rail that overlooked the floor twelve stories below: the distance tugged and drained blood from my groin and my legs felt weak; the fall was steep; the distant floor of black and white rose in three dimensions, jagged like hewn rocks sadistically set in perfect diagonal rows--an Escher etching, over-enlarged, magnified, compelling, dangerous.

****************************************An elder sentry in thin lapels, his hands folded overhis zipper in watering hole pose, barred entry to the hall:a slight woman of some years sat, officiously stiff, behinda bare table and exchanged entry for cash, tickets,or passes. She checked off names with practiced, and absorbed concentration.

Three tiers were expected: those who would pay, those above paying, and those beneath paying: the coerced, students of the venerable Whisp, the uninitiated.

I produced my summons; the elder lady found my nameand with a stiff back, a serious look, and her short pencil,she carefully drew a check mark and waved me on with a nod. Her quiet sentry, politely chagrined, winningly mustered a bland smile, and asked, near embarrassment, if I would be kind enough to point out to him the young lady, Laura Blume.

Ms. Blume had risen lately, beyond elite, straightup from coerced. She'd ascended, some said, indecently,like helium balloons let loose.

"No," I smiled. "Can't say as I've ever seen her."Who has not heard her name? From behind mecame a feeble voice that said, "Yes, I can." I lookedround to find a fellow student who overheardthe gentleman's hushed question and could notresist the urge to raise his hand with a right answer.He leaned toward the tall, thin grey sentry, surveyedthe room with a shrewd eye, and careful not to point,stood still as a dog trained for the hunt, aimed hisdeliberate stare toward the very center of the gathered

crowd, and said, "She is the one in the white blouse."

The distinguished old gentleman followed the lineof the young man's nose and blinked in recognition:"Ah," he said as he slowly, politely licked his lipand wrinkled his forehead in some slight confusion.

Laura Blume, her hands folded and buriedin her ample lap, sat straight up with the plumpcalm of a queen planted like the center-pieceof a small, unruly garden.

Professor Whisp, the main event, had not arrived.

******************************************

The crowd, fully swollen, was lost in the hall

whose rarefied air breathed with détente,disappointed in this small gathering,whose loudest din echoed like the buzzof an insect circling high ceiling lights.

I chose a seat near a side exit and surveyedthe door; a heavy dark grained wood hungsnugly on elaborate brass hinges. I steppedto the door and turned a smooth handful of brassknob to test the route of my early escape. A shrillbell sounded a shocking alarm that echoed aloudin the hall's spacious quiet.

The crowd's buzz died of a sudden: a startled hushfell on the floor. Stunned eyes searched roundand found me standing below the lit exit sign:I was caught as if with my finger in the pie.Disinterest returned and the silent pause gaveway to a slowly rising hum that reascended to buzz.

At length and later than she liked, a lady, whose pure

antique charm shone like a mirror veneer poisedwith a stiff neck, stood. Her head tilted slightly upwardand to one side to display, to some advantage and withoutostentation, her short string of yellowed pearls:"May I have your attention!" she insisted, leaning towardthe microphone, "May I have your kind attention!!"She waited with watchful persistence.

A deferential hush fell over the hall and amplifiedthe echo of metal folding chairs banging: a moment'sclamorous clanging shuffle and all were seated.Laura Blume rose up in mid-declaration and trottedheavily from her central seat, her head slightly bent,she picked her way modestly, slowly hurrying till shesat at the long bare folding table beside the podium,next Whisp's right arm: for Whisp had arrived.

******************************************"It is our enormous good fortune," the stiff neckedpearls insisted into the microphone clampedprecariously to the podium, "an honor and what

a distinction, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, and extreme,talk, talk, talk, among above, talk, talk, talk," she smiled.Up popped Whisp, though not far enough. He reachedup for the microphone, pulled it down, then down again.He fumbled his thick black-framed glasses, caught themin mid-air and struck them against the microphone,nearly tossed his papers, grabbed them, slid his glassesover his ears, propped them on his nose and openeda book of his own doing . . .

As from a cupboard, like a politician cock roach,with a bow and a blink, Whisp nodded and began:"The purpose and aim of the poetry talk talk talk talk.

I'll show you what I mean by reading a poem talk talk.A blurred title and on sung Whisp:something a mermaid off on her own in the sea.The microphone lisped and hummed,Talk, talk talk talk," and Whisp had done.

******************************************

Laura Blume rose up, bumped into Whispas they danced round one another in a tightcircle. Whisp sat, smiling broadly, while Laurastood, discretely raising up the microphone.With intense calm in her tight, quiet voice,Laura lamented that her light was dimmedby forever trailing Whisp's golden glow,though her tone told the silent she was everybit of it equal to the task: "It is the bane of mylife, the curse of my career to have alwaysto follow Professor, dear Professor Whisp. Talk,talk, talk, talk. Talk, talk talk talk . . .

******************************************

I leaned back in my folding chair and thoughtof the river as it was when I drove beside it onmy way to this chair: the water was still, frozen,jagged; it gleamed like glass debris, stuck, caughtas if in a ragged mood while the sun settleddistant and cool behind the factory silhouetteskyline on the Jersey side.

******************************************

talk, talk talk, talk, talk, talk . . ."

Laura was suddenly reading a poem of her own:an Irish coffee, a misty field and shadowy exchangesbetween vague figures in the dew cook rain talk, talktalk, talk talk talk, talktalktalktalk!"

"Are there any questions," she paused.Whisp blinked hopefully, dangerouslydrawing his glasses from his nose . . .

An elderly gentleman stood, and as he strokedhis beard, he said he thought Talk was goodso far as Talk went, but it made too little senseto him and did not at all account for talk, talk, talk,and talk!

Whisp restored his glasses to his head and lookedthough his papers, leaving Laura to lurch for herself:"Talk means talk, and talk, talk, taalk," her voicepitched higher, "talk, talk, talk," and squeaked, "Talk!"

Whisp drew his glasses from his nose and shonebrightly: he did not rise, and from his chair, whileLaura stood turning toward him, he said, "Talk. Talk.Talk, talk; talk--talk? Talk: TALK! ! !" and he conciliated,"I should have grown a beard for having said that,it was so wise."

The silence tittered and the gentleman sat, shaking his head.

Whisp beamed for more when up popped declining eleganceto say the hour had come for this distinct honor to end.

"Some of us must go and others can stay, but all are welcome and we must express our deepest gratitude, talk, talk, talk . . ." She'd not finished before chairs began to bang and raise a metal clang that echoed in the grateful hall which breathed more easily knowing that this buzzing insect would soon cease to trouble its solitude.

I squeezed into the first elevator with the crushed elite,hopped across the jagged stone floor on my way to the door, ran to my car and raced to be gone.

Apocalypse

In the end it's over. Done.

If it starts up again as something new,

it's not over and done.

In the end it's done. Over.