Posts filed under ‘poem’
9/11 POEM
My consistent readers,
I first published this poem on my blog last year on 9/11.
I wanted to revisit the memory burned in my mind that fateful day ten years ago.
JUMPERS
They were like birds flying,
Leaping from flaming windows,
No wings to purchase air,
No hope of flying home.
They were like birds flying,
Tumbling in twos, alone,
Flashing by in a smoke-filled sky
While crowds watched in horror.
They were like birds flying
Flights, imprinting the nation’s memory.
They were like birds flying,
Carrying us into a world of fear.
UNPUBLISHED POEM
My readers,
It’s been many years since this image etched itself into my brain.
I finally wrote it out.
I’ve got to give you something to occupy your time since my accomplishments have not been numerous lately.
DRIVING TO THE EDGE ON INTERSTATE FIVE
As the tires hum I grip the wheel
Through miles of barren landscape,
My wife, daughters make the sound of sleep
As the emptiness rushes by,
I am alone in this desolate land
With only my thoughts for company,
The San Joaquin Valley stretches along
This ribbon of road,
On the CD player, Jonatha Brooke
Sings her sad, soulful songs,
I am so far away from home
As the sun lowers behind the distant mountains,
Wherever I travel, or choose to exist
I long for the home
I fear I may never find,
There is something inside
That I do not understand
That will not permit peace,
A happy family is mine
But conflict and emptiness still possess me,
Forever alone.
PUBLISHED POEM
My poetry readers,
In my last PUBLISHED POEM article I indicated that that was going to be it. But I found another old poem, and there is a more recently published poem which I shall share at a later date.
The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.
I distinctly remember the birth of this poem. I once had a job in The Bronx while living in Newark. I would drive the New Jersey Turnpike every day, through the meadowlands and onward to New York. The meadowlands are not a particularly beautiful area. However, during my journey, I would pass a small dock with a moored sailboat. I began to realize that if I focused on only that gentle area, surrounded by saw grass, I could block out the rest of the world surrounding the scene. I could pick out points of beauty from a world of corruption. This is the poem that resulted.
CAMERA’S EYE
Camera’s eye catches delicate flowers,
Views the graceful of bee in pollination flight,
Spies the brushing of pollen – laden stamens,
Holds in time a scene most tranquil;
Yet does not discover the roadside trash,
The flower’s home amid mud and mire;
Does not smell the exhaust raining acid
On delicate flowers.
Camera’s eye gazes upon a child framed in a window,
Beholds the easy lean of chin in palm, elbow on windowsill,
Wide eyes looking out at the world in wonder,
Knows the innocent child – wisdom;
Yet ignores the window’s building,
Screens out the ghetto of rotted houses and dreams;
Undetected is the garbage – urine hallway
As the child sits framed in a window.
Camera’s eye seeks the tall dignified pine,
Witnesses early – morning dew set needles sparkling,
Inspects wildlife in arbor home,
Beholds sunlight filtering to needle – soft ground;
Yet neglects the smell and diesel smoke machines
Sumping and gouging the earth of its riches;
Does not display the bulldozer’s approach,
Turns away as the stately pine topples.
I am the camera’s eye
Seeing what pains me not,
Grasping flowers from mud and mire,
Rescuing the child from a rotted tenement,
Preserving the pine in dignified splendor;
All safe and secure in a scrapbook world
As the real world lays waste.
I was so tempted to change this poem, but all these published poems are presented exactly as they were published.
Once a work is published, the writer must step back and hope his work is appreciated for what it is, not what it might have been.
PUBLISHED POEM
My poetry friends,
This is the last of my oldies but, you decide what comes next.
Although I now live in a small town, I have lived in many large cities. I have witnessed the subject of this poem time and time again. I’m sure you have too.
This poem was published in Quality American Poetry, 1975-1976, Book III.
The anthology was published by Valley Publications and edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
SUNDAY PARK BENCH
Alone,
Rumpled newspaper in hand
Sits the old man,
Cold morning air sends a chill
Through a heavy overcoat,
Sunday morning light filtering
Through burnished leaves of autumn
Kindling thoughts of Sundays long gone,
Waking next to his wife,
The sound of children filling the house;
Now children grown – wife gone,
Sunday mornings bring only rumpled papers
On a park bench,
Alone.
PUBLISHED POEM
For some reason I have always had a fascination with Easter Island.
I’ve read about the island and became caught up with the struggles of two distinct populations and their undying need to build monuments. They decimated their forests to transport these magnificent structures.
I find it haunting that all this effort was going on while they had no idea that anyone else, outside their society, would see or appreciate this magnificent effort. Did they have the concept that there was more of the world?
I wrote a poem about these feeling which was published in 1975. The poem was published in the anthology, Best Poets of the 20th Century (another magnificent title and an awesome stretch), by Winston – Paramount Books, edited by B. Winston – Paramount.
EASTER ISLAND
Constructing sightless eyes no
one will see
They toil;
Probing rock with human fingers
They grope;
One – minded their effort approaches
uniqueness,
Years past witness human fingers to
dust,
Monuments remain to visit their labor;
Solemn stone faces looking out,
Pumice minds knowing an age of men
Possessing greatness long gone –
Deaf ears formed with stone axes,
Blood and sweat transformed
To monumental greatness;
Waiting on Easter Island.
PUBLISHED POEM
Here is another poem from my distant past. It was published in 1974. The title of the anthology was, Quality American Poetry Book II, again quit a stretch. The publisher was Valley Publications edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
CLOUDS
I reach for clouds
High, ever so high do I soar,
Clutching – grasping – then tumbling back.
Clouds are but wisps of vapor,
Phantoms in the sky,
Who can touch a cloud?
I try – fail – then try again;
At times mind joins clouds – soaring,
While I stay behind exposed to the cold – stumbling.
One day mind and soul shall soar skyward
And beyond;
Leaving behind a shell – falling,
Never again to rise,
And reach for a cloud.
PUBLISHED POEM
I offer to you another old poem published in 1974. It was published by New Dawn Publications in their anthology, At Heaven’s Gate, edited by Noel Alvin Gardner.
WHAT IS DEATH?
One journeys through life stumbling – blind,
Never knowing what he may find;
He seeks for himself a place in the sun,
But much to his sorrow often finds none.
He asks himself what life is about,
What will happen when his flame flickers out?
Will he have the courage to face the day – –
The day he knows he must go his way,
And leave the world behind?
What will he find?
Will he miss the life he had here on earth?
For then he will know what his life was worth,
Is death really the end of living,
Or for some, is it just the beginning?
As a writer gaining age, I sometimes cringe at my poems and want to change them before I present them to you, but I resist. What you see is what was published.
I’ll have a few more poetic entries to make, and then I’ll have to produce new stuff to keep your attention.
PUBLISHED POEM
In 1974 I published a few poems in different anthologies. This is a very early poem, which I think, shows. Some of the titles of the anthologies were quite a stretch.
This poem was published in the anthology, Notable American Poets, edited by Linda Nash.
SUNSET
I stand here looking into the west,
At the time of day I can stop and
rest,
When the day slows down its hectic
pace,
When peace and tranquility the
world does embrace,
I face the sunset.
The sky is aflame with orange and
red,
It makes one pause and lift up his
head,
Stare up into the golden sky,
Gaze with awe, and say with a sigh,
Thank You for the sunset.
But soon night will blacken the sky,
And sunset’s beauty bids the earth
good-bye,
So now I wait until tomorrow,
When once again I can lose my sorrow
And look to the sunset.
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