Dark Side of the Moon Part One

THE

DARK

SIDE

OF

THE

MOON

Introduction

          The poetry in this book is sometimes sad and/or on the dark side.  That usually represents writing that was created while in a melancholy mood.  Depression has been my constant nemesis since I was a young adult.

          But other poems are genuinely full of love and happiness, especially when they concern my wife, Sandy; my daughter, Mara, and my grand-children, Lily and Slone.  They have all been, perhaps unknowingly, psychological ladders that have aided me in climbing out of the dark pits of depression into which I have fallen.

          If any of these poems seems unfairly harsh and/or sad, and some undoubtedly will, it is only because depression is a harsh, often hidden condition which is blind to fairness, objective truth, happiness and love that very few people understand. It’s not a matter of not enough will-power; it’s a matter of feeling no power, a sense of absolute and painful hopelessness that the uninitiated can never understand. However, there is, and should be, no doubt that I truly love Sandy, Mara, Lily, and Slone.

UPON THE GRASS

7-18-1969

When first we met upon the grass,

Few words spoken, glances did pass,

Her brown eyes warm, so full of joy,

I felt as does a little boy,

Who discovers beauty one fine day,

And blushes for lack of words to say.

I left her side and knew just then,

That I wanted her to be my friend.

Again and again this woman I met,

The days I cherish and will never forget,

We walked and talked; the days flew by,

The nights were lonely, I’d almost cry.

My friendship did slowly disappear,

In exchange for something more sincere.

My feelings were strong as the wings of a dove,

Now I knew that I was in love.

Our faces drawn together tight,

In expressions of pure delight,

Lips met for a tender kiss,

Thoughts rose in romantic bliss.

The joy received from her embrace,

Surpassed only by her beautiful face,

Hands that hold me in a special way,

Confirm my love will never stray.

Soon will be time for her to leave,

A time at which I shall certainly grieve,

But I shall see this woman again,

Because she is truly much more than a friend.

Look close, my love, and you will see,

A happiness in me called ecstasy.

These words of mine are honest and true,

I love you darling. I love you.

WHAT IS LOVE?

9-10-1969

Love is many things to me,

Words, emotions and memory,

Love is you and I together,

In calm or in stormy weather.

Love is understanding one another,

Love is being a father and a mother.

Love is children of our own,

Love is a place we can call home.

Love is marriage and intimacies,

Love is solving our difficulties,

Love is to loyalty and sexual heat,

Love is when two bodies meet.

Love is when I think of you,

And laugh at the silly things you do.

Love can be a simple smile,

Or memories that span a mile.

Love is your tender hand in mine.

This kind of love is seen by the blind.

Love is loneliness when we are apart,

And knowing our new life is soon to start.

Love is you standing at my side,

To bring me happiness and give me pride.

Love is a feeling between two people,

Love is a feeling that has no equal.

Love is something difficult to see,

Yet fills my body with ecstasy.

Love is everything that lovers do,

Love is the ecstatic feelings I have for you.

Love is still much more to me,

More words, more emotions, more memories.

WINDOWS ON MY FACE

9-28-1969

I wonder how dreary life would be

Without the splendid gift to see

Through the windows on my face

The colors and movements of life’s grace.

To wake in the morning,

To remain in mourning

For the death of sight,

For darkness in light.

Never to visually read a story,

And never know the glory

Of seeing children cheerfully romping,

Or even the joy of window shopping.

To feel my brow wet with rain,

But never see from where it came,

And never witness the arced glow

Of the multi-colored rainbow.

To eat a piece of blueberry pie, or two,

And taste the berries but not see the blue,

To smell the fragrance of Christmas pine,

But not see the lights of that joyful time.

What a great relief I find in my mind,

Knowing the joys of not being blind,

Seeing the colors and movement of life’s grace

Through unbroken window on my face.

PRECIOUS THINGS

10-4-1969

The heart grows fonder of precious things,

When they have gone away.

The mind remembers, through its dreams,

And desires them to stay.

Precious things come and go,

And most go by too fast.

If they must go, why not slow?

And make the moments last.

Precious things were meant to stray,

Never to remain permanently.

Some will last for a second or a day,

but none last for eternity.

Precious things, when they appear,

Should be enjoyed without haste,

For precious things soon disappear,

And idle time is waste.

Waste not your precious time,

For time is not your friend.

Time often gives no sign,

When your precious life will end.

FACES…10-5-69

There are faces watching closely;

Faces from high above,

Faces wondering mostly,

Whatever happened to love?

Omnipresent eyes,

Observing from the skies,

See our earthly soil,

Full of hatred and turmoil.

The sky is black and ominous,

A tempest in my face.

Is Judgment Day upon us?

Termination of the human race?

As I waken from my slumber,

Filled with amazement and wonder,

Remaining in a supine position

Asking: Did I have a premonition?

ON THE WING

10-13-1969

Love can be a fleeting thing,

Which often goes on the wing.

Not as stable as Gibraltar,

Nor even leading to the altar.

RELIGIOUS SKEPTIC

11-5-69

“I have my Bible,” said Tom.

“I have Darwin,” said Bob.

“I have both,” said Bill.

“I have faith,” said Tom.

“I have faith,” said Bob.

“I have doubts and questions,” said Bill.

“I am right,” said Tom.

“I am right,” said Bob.

“One of you may be right,” said Bill.

“I pray for assistance,” said Tom.

“I assist myself,” said Bob.

“I’ve done both,” said Bill.

“I know where I stand,” said Tom.

“I know where I stand,” said Bob.

“I don’t know where I stand, yet,” said Bill.

“I’m a devout Christian,” said Tom.

“I’m a man of science,” said Bob.

“I’m empirically skeptical,” said Bill.

Note: Written at the beginning my journey from

skepticism to agnosticism, then to atheism.

THE GAP

11-20-69

Side by side stood he and I,

I looked up and he looked down,

Smiling portraits of look-alikes.

We would walk together.

Well, he would walk, and I would run.

His strides were those of Bunyan’s.

My hand in his,

Like a baseball in a catcher’s mitt.

Then one day, our shoulders even,

Face to face we stood,

Different from a mirror and its image.

Yes, he and I were once friends,

Now we are just . . . father and sad son.

CHRISTMAS PERSPECTIVE

12-20-1969

Christmas has so many joys,

For moms and dads; for girls and boys.

Sleigh rides and snowball fights,

And evergreens dressed with lights.

The odor of a Christmas tree,

Produces an intoxicating glee,

And love grows in the family,

Creating a closer unity.

The abundance of gifts and food,

Create, within us, a mirthful mood,

But through the thickness of emotions,

We should remember our devotions.

Christmas time, for Christians on earth,

Signifies an important birth,

So let not the thought slip past your mind,

That Christmas time is mass Christ time.

NOTE: Written before I became an agnostic,

then an atheist. Then Christmas became a

non-religious holiday for me.

THE NEW YEAR…1-7-1970

The old year has expired;

No sad loss for me,

Of the old year, I grew tired,

Of the old year ─ antipathy.

A year of frustration and disappointment.

A year of sickness and fear,

A year that made me diffident and different,

But most of all, a year devoid of cheer.

Unsteady stance; my mind pell-mell,

And near the portal of defeat,

My brain rang its liberty bell,

And defeat began its slow retreat.

Now on the threshold of a new year,

I must start my life anew,

Avoiding the pitfalls of the old year,

By remembering what they can do.

I see a vision for which I reach,

This vision is my goal,

I want to learn and I want to teach,

With my whole heart and soul.

As the new supersedes the old,

Toward my goals I shall aspire,

And carefully construct a mold

To attain the goals that I desire.

Note: Written while in the Oneonta, TB hospital,

five months before I started summer, college classes

at SUNY Geneseo.

A CHOICE OF BEAUTY…1-12-70

Between two women, I once made a choice,

My reasons, I shall now voice.

One had a sublime and comely face,

But of inner kindness and beauty, I found little trace.

The other also a comely appearance,

But of kindness and inner beauty, I found abundance.

Since external beauty is an ephemeral vision,

It received little thought in my decision.

Kindness and inner beauty are paramount to me,

So I married the comely woman with inner beauty.

Of our months in unity, I cannot complain,

For there has been but a paucity of strain.

Most important is our blissful happiness,

Which makes our partnership like a rewarding business.

In retrospect I will loudly voice

That I definitely made the right choice. (Sandra Grace)

MY FRIEND

1-18-70

I remember you, my friend,

With memories as bright and warm

As the brilliant summer sun,

Your face indelibly engraved

In the annals of my mind.

The unique combing of your hair,

Jutting from your forehead like a visor.

Black-framed glasses on a stately face.

The absence of beard in one particular place.

I remember you, my friend.

I remember trying times

On our Navy ship of despair.

We were recalcitrant young men

In a rancid, floating Alcatraz.

Slender in build,

With an agile and acute mind.

I watched you in battle

Defeat the cannibals of the brain.

I remember you well, my friend.

You were a credible man

Among the incredible mass.

You were a dissident

Who avoided the docile, conforming herd.

Continued

Candid, penetrating conversations

In a VW traveling homeward.

Your acumen was the magnet

That attracted my respect.

I have fond memories of you, my friend,

And though we have parted, I shall never

Forget that you were my best friend.

From New York to Colorado is a great distance,

But to me, you are only a memory away.

NOTE: About a Navy friend named

Larry Paul who was discharged, then

went to Colorado, divorced his wife,

and his life went over a cliff from there.

AMELIA…1-22-70

She walks the halls,

Roaming alone.

Her life has walls

Unlike her home.

She has walked the halls

For many years.

Pushed at those walls,

With hands wet with tears.

Her life fettered by walls

That stand unyielding,

Endless, lonely halls,

Devoid of human feeling.

Her life is a gallows walk

Down many lifeless halls,

Filled with apathetic medical talk,

And those invincible walls.

Soon comes the unknown tomorrow,

Marching to a tearful dirge,

Viewing her life of sorrow,

As life’s walls suddenly converge.

NOTE: About a friend I met at the Oneonta,

NY TB hospital. Her TB had progressed too

far, so she became a terminal case. She died

about a year later.

SOCIETY’S  POSSE…1-25-70

I turn, I look, I laugh,

Straying from a traditional path.

Society’s posse can’t follow me,

Without departing the path of conformity.

Through the wilderness I ride,

Enjoying nature by my side.

Riding onward, riding free,

Tree limbs reach out to greet me.

Romping rabbits, squirrels and deer,

Create a symphony for my ears.

Sunlight filtering through verdant trees,

The comfort of a gentle breeze,

Air so crisp and clear,

Nothing can feel more dear.

I strayed from tradition’s path,

Again I turn, I look, I laugh.

Society’s posse did not follow,

For them I feel a slight sorrow.

I made my own path and found beauty,

In the wilderness of nonconformity.

MARK, TONY, MIKE AND LORI

1-26-70

Mark, the athlete,

Quick, agile on his feet,

When he and I compete,

I often experience pleasant defeat.

A student of competition,

An honorable condition,

He plays a game to win

Without falling into sin.

Tony is bold,

If words could be controlled,

He would be an orator,

Or even an eloquent lawyer.

If he focuses his mind,

I am sure he will find,

That he can aspire,

To his chosen desire.

Continued

Mike is studious,

His potential is tremendous,

He seeks to do his best.

Many men have failed that test.

He is gentle and kind,

Demonstrates a business-like mind,

Education is his friend,

Success will come in the end.

Lori is a comely girl,

Soft, delicate like a curl,

A profusion of energy,

She often amazes me.

Soon she will cast away toys,

And smile at admiring boys,

As the years move quickly by,

I see a princess in my eye.

BAR NUMBER SIX

1-24-70

They walked down another street,

The man and his son,

Heading for another place,

Just like the five before.

The man moved with staggered steps,

And stared with glassy eyes.

He spoke with harsh remarks.

Giving the boy troubled thoughts.

Knowing this routine well,

But having no choice, he followed.

The boy’s feet were tired,

All he wanted was a bed.

He got another bar instead.

Bar number six,

Past midnight now,

The boy is tired and drowsy,

Head to a table top.

He is not likely to forget,

His father’s bar stops.

It is early morning now,

Both of them stagger home,

Each with a different reason.

The boy makes a vow never

To follow in those staggering footsteps,

Nor to emulate his drunken father.

GENTLEMAN...1-31-70

“Obey all rules without question, young man,

 And through my eyes you’ll be a gentleman.”

“If I obey all rules without question, madam,

 Through my eyes I will be less than a man.”

“Do not question what I say, young man,

 Or I can’t consider you a gentleman.”

“A question is not an affront, Madam,

Questions must be asked by every man.”

“Obey all traditions and customs, young man,

 It is more important to be a gentleman.”

“No title is as important, madam,

 As the importance of a questioning man

“What you think is unimportant, young man,

 Accept what I say and be a gentleman.”

“With disrespect intended, madam,

 I choose not to be your gentleman.”

NOTE: About an elderly, gray-haired, stern

nurse that I had the displeasure of meeting

during my year in the Oneonta TB hospital.

KING…1-31-70

When I was a young boy

I had a wonderful friend.

His name was King.

King was important to me,

Especially when I was lonely.

He filled my heart with joy

When there was a vacuum.

He followed at my side silently,

But I always knew he was near

When his tail brushed my leg,

Or enjoying leisure time,

Lying on the grass,

Feeling a tongue lick my cheek.

I wonder if King knew

Than humans called it a kiss.

One particular summer stands out,

Like a dart from a bull’s-eye.

I ignored my perennial companion

For steel, wheels and a motor.

It took me the first half of summer

To build that go-cart.

The latter half of summer

I traveled up and down the road.

Continued

King was never very far behind.

He was loyal to me,

Even when I was disloyal to him.

I let the roar of the motor

Obliterate the pounding of his feet,

And I seldom turned back

To see the object of my abuse.

During those last days of summer

I decided to travel on the main road,

Even though it was well traveled

By my go-cart’s much bigger brothers.

I saw the potential danger,

And I looked back for King,

He was safe but exhausted.

I recognized my idiocy,

And turned to go home.

The steel killer came from around the curve,

But the crimson-stained guilt was all mine.

I picked up King’s limp body

As my eyes flooded with tears.

I buried by loyal friend,

Then sold that damn go-cart.

THE DOOR

2-1-70

Light shined through the crack,

Of the slightly open door,

Brightening his room of black,

With color and nature’s sweet odor.

As he slowly rose,

With wildness in his eyes,

The door would always close,

Followed by his frantic cries.

Soon he just waited,

For the crack in the door,

Not knowing he was being baited,

Approaching the door no more.

If the door knob is ever turned,

It will be quite a shock,

To have finally learned,

That the door had no lock.

WINTER…2-3-70

Nature plays tricks with our senses.

In the winter, when nature is actually

in a moribund state, we are offered,

as a distraction, an illusion of beauty.

The illusion of beauty arrives in the

form of snow. This white sheet of snow

serves the same purpose as the white

sheet that covers a corpse; it mitigates

the ugliness of the truth by covering the

facts.

THE PATTERN MAKERS…2-8-70

Their buoyant splendor, like swans on ice,

Their movements so velvety, so precise,

With silver blades upon their feet,

Eyes in awe from such a feat.

My eyes lie helpless in my face,

While witnessing their swan-like grace.

The aesthetic rhythm of their flight,

Floods my senses with chilling delight.

They leave a skillful trail behind,

Of artistic patterns upon my mind.

Figurative lines of the whitest shades,

Drawn on the ice with silver blades.

They seldom ever slip or slide,

Having mastered the ice with pride.

The sun reflects off blades so cold,

And now they float on blades of gold.

If I could have a bird’s-eye view,

I would gladly exhaust every sinew

To observe the swan-like pattern makers,

Whom people say are simply ice-skaters.

TEACHER ANNE FRIEND

4-2-70

She entered my life one lonely spring,

As a teacher who was always helping.

She asked me to come to school,

And use learning as a tool

To break the lid off my depression,

Freeing me from self-repression.

Her face dressed in a gentle smile,

Making me grin for a short while.

Goodness was reaching out to me,

From her angelic hands I would not flee.

It was on that day, I started leaning.

My hopes and dreams began returning.

We talked of things we saw or read,

On subjects both living and dead.

She made my days worth living,

From her heart she was always giving.

She earned my unfaltering respect,

And admiration for her intellect.

Continued

A superlative friend is difficult to find.

Once found she is difficult to leave behind.

Once left behind it makes me ponder,

Why could it not have lasted longer?

But all good things inevitably end,

So, I’m thankful for my teacher Anne friend.

NOTE:  At the Oneonta TB hospital,

Anne Mohar (Leach) was my teacher. She

convinced me that college would be easy

for me. She believed in my abilities even when

I did not. She prepared me for the college

entrance exam (SAT) and helped me review

high school subject areas of particular

importance. She was a wonderful friend after

that and I kept in touch with her for the rest

of her life. She died in 2008, but will always

live in my fond memories.

VIETNAM SOLDIER  (poem, 4-3-70)

Must the young soldier die,

Without really knowing why?

Must his widow weep,

From thoughts of his mined jeep?

Must the soldier’s father shout,

That the general was a lout.

Must the soldier’s mother stare

At a boy who is not there?

Must the soldier’s brother wait,

For the Draft to call his fate?

Must the boy’s sister say,

“I’ll miss him every day.”

Must the soldier’s uncle wonder,

How America got into this blunder?

Must the soldier’s aunt surmise,

In the closed coffin, what shape lies?

Must the soldier’s cousins run

From what the war had done?

Tomorrow is a new day.

Will we find a new way?

Or continue to kill and maim,

While camouflaging our shame

Over the trade of a Purple Heart,

For one human life – blown apart.

HELLO  PRECEDES  GOODBYE

4-18-70

Woman standing near me,

Emitting pleasing puffs of fragrance,

My mind speaks out to you,

But limp limbs make no contact.

Woman standing near me no longer.

I regret I did not speak.

Those pleasing puffs of fragrance

Are now replaced by stale air.

It seems odd to say goodbye

Before I’ve said hello.

DAYDREAM  EROTICA

4-20-70

During my hours of quiet thought

Your face does appear.

I feel your warm breath,

As you whisper in my ear.

The softness of your hair

Gently brushing my cheek.

The sweet odor of showered flesh

Produce a blissful half-sleep.

Your body, like elegant ivory,

So firm, smooth and white.

My hand follows the hills and valleys,

As your body trembles with delight.

Your breasts, like mounds of dough,

With firm hardness at the tips.

Few sensations are more sensual,

Than caressing nipples with lips.

Your stomach is like a placid sea,

Without a ripple or wave,

And as I watch your nakedness,

I’m glad, your body, you gave.

Your thighs tremble beneath my touch,

As you pull me closer to you.

I gently move your thighs apart,

And we continue as lovers do.

ROBERT CONNERY

4-22-70

Robert Connery was the young man,

Walking calmly on dangerous land.

He often walked these mountain slopes,

When repairing his broken hopes.

He had been here many times before,

As attested by the path he wore.

His face was masked in a frown.

His eyes only looking at the ground.

Today there had been a tragedy.

Today the slopes offered just one remedy,

So Robert Connery from the path did stray,

Now at the cliff’s bottom his body lay.

NOTE:  Written after reading Edwin Arlington

Robinson’s Poem, Richard Cory.

MY CHAT WITH EMERSON

5-4-70

Emerson, Emerson rise from the ground,

Clear your eyes,

Look with surprise,

Listen to the restless sound.

No time for tears or sorrow,

Help us save our souls,

Help us attain our goals,

Or we shall perish tomorrow.

Society created all this trouble,

Help us in our time of need,

Help us with accelerated speed,

Before we turn the earth to rubble.

Arise from your death tomb;

Depart your Concord home.

About the earth do roam,

Before the dawn of doom.

As I stand before your grave,

The earth does not move.

I know you would disapprove

Of the way I did behave.

Your answer would be defiance

To a society so mentally weak

That it lacks the energy to seek

The benefits of self-reliance.

I’ve read your writings with interest.

Society should read them too,

For an insight on what to do,

And how to do it best.

All your writing, especially Self-Reliance,

Should be read by the masses.

This may prevent a world of ashes,

If read with intelligent compliance.

THE GAMBLER AND WISHING WELL

5-8-70

Come gather around the well.

I have a story to tell,

About a man who dropped a quarter

Into this black, deep water.

To the well he asked for ways

To end his gambling days.

He smiled like a royal joker

Then walked down the road to play poker.

The man returned next morn,

His eyes ablaze with scorn.

His luck was bad last night.

His wallet thin and light.

From his pocket he drew a quarter,

Dropped it into the black, deep water.

Again he asked for ways,

To end his gambling days.

A voice spoke out and said,

“Your gambling days are dead.”

He listened with disbelief,

Then sighed with great relief.

Continued

He looked into the well,

And shouted, “What the hell!”

Then with twitching cheek,

He added, “Wells don’t speak.”

The lucid voice replied,

“Your gambling ways just died.

Because you don’t believe me

I’ll prove to you my validity.”

The man walked past the poker game,

With a feeling of pride, not shame,

And ever since that fateful day,

The man has conquered his gambling way.

However, let me elucidate

About that voice of fate.

A well may be placid and deep,

But a well cannot speak.

Sure, the man was a fool.

That’s no reason to be cruel.

Above the well, in a tree,

That lucid voice came from me.

THE GREATEST SINNER

5-12-70

God - I address you

As a boy addresses his father

When he is confused, or frightened,

And knowing not the answer.

God, - is not the greatest sin

The one that hurts not a few,

But the one that hurts all?

Is not the greatest sin, yours?

God – is it not the greatest sin

To be the only infallible being,

To have powers beyond imagination,

And yet create a fallible world?

God – are not such actions cruel?

Is not cruelty a mark of evil?

Is not the greatest sinner,

He who fathers evil?

God? If you do exist, were you negligent with

Adam and Eve? If you are omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent and all-good, then? Why then did you

create Adam and Eve, knowing, without a doubt, that

they would sin? You would be the greatest sinner.

Continued

God – did you want a world of sinners?

Your creed warns us against the evils of sin,

Yet to be human is to be fallible,

And fallibility is a one-way street to sin.

God – Christianity is a minority religion,

Your son’s work still lies incomplete.

Surely you would not say that

You left this work to sinners to complete?

God – you created a fallible world,

Inhabited by all degrees of sinners.

So all humans lose; there is no winner, because God -

If you existed, you would be the greatest sinner.

Note: Talking about a super-sized myth.

THE YEARS AND ME

5-15-70

When I was young, maybe three,

I used to dream about the sea.

I used to think of things I’d do,

While sailing on waves of blue.

When I was young, maybe four,

I never thought of misery and war.

Life was like a fairytale,

Without stormy clouds or gale.

When I was young, maybe five,

My coloring book pictures came alive.

I colored a ship, which to my delight,

Sailed off the page and out of sight.

When I was young, maybe six,

After a rain I floated sticks,

And I imagined a virgin beach,

Other men had failed to reach.

When I was young, maybe seven,

I wondered if people sailed in heaven.

I figured, on clouds, angels float,

But I preferred water and a boat.

Continued

When I was young, maybe eight,

I wondered about my fate.

Would I ever get to see

A friendly wave, wave to me.

When I was young, maybe nine,

A sailor’s life sure looked fine.

Adventure awaited on the seas,

Or so it looked in all the movies.

When I was young, maybe ten,

I had my own small play den.

In there I had so many schemes.

In there I had so many dreams.

When I was young, about eleven,

I thought back to when I was seven.

Although those years had passed by,

My imagined world did not die.

When I was young, maybe twelve,

I had completed, on a shelf,

May types of navy ships,

And I imagined pleasure trips.

When I was young, maybe thirteen,

Life was not cruel or mean,

And since I felt little pain,

I lacked incentive to use my brain.

Continued

When I was young, maybe fourteen,

I had a problem, to me yet unseen.

I evaded responsibility,

A sign of my lack of maturity.

When I was young, maybe fifteen,

I still possessed that same old dream,

Of someday undulating on a wave,

Of having fun and being brave.

When I was young, maybe sixteen,

Mundane problems had little meaning.

I thought no more of war,

Than I did when I was four.

When I was young, maybe seventeen,

Sometimes I’d do things wild or mean.

Ideals and values I did lack.

That’s easily seen when I look back.

When I was young, maybe eighteen,

I was on the brink of my dream,

But I was in for a rude surprise,

Because my dreams were total lies.

When I was a young man of nineteen,

I finally realized that dream.

I joined the sea-going Navy,

And there started my maturity.

Continued

When I was a young man of twenty,

I was a man who learned plenty.

I could hardly believe,

That I’d been so naïve.

When I was a young man of twenty-one,

I found a sailor’s life was not fun.

I thought back to when I was three,

And those dreams of non-reality.

When I was a young man of twenty-two,

I had my answers about what to do.

The Navy and I must certainly part,

So I waited for that day to start.

When I was a young man of twenty-three,

From the Navy I was finally free.

I’d lived through four years of conflict,

No longer would I live like a convict.

Now as a young man of twenty-four,

I find that civilian life is not a bore.

As I walk anew through my future’s door,

I intend to accomplish so much more.

When I was young, I could not see,

Through the façade of fantasy.

But now let my voice be heard.

My vision is no longer blurred.

When I was young, I could not see,

But the years were my remedy.

They cast out all the hocus-pocus,

By placing my eyes and mind in focus.

WALKING IN A FIELD…5-19-70

When walking in a field,

Admiring the weedy ground,

My knees did yield,

To a daisy found.

Engulfed in my fingers,

As if growing there,

Its freshness lingers,

In the scented air.

Walking in a field,

Of bountiful, buzzing bees,

I watch them yield,

To the nectar in daisies.

Walking in a field,

I spot a field mouse,

I see the ground did yield,

So he could build a house.

Walking in a field,

A bird flies to a tree,

The branch did yield,

To his feathered body.

Walking in a field,

Weedy carpet of green,

Gladly did it yield,

So harmony could be seen.

Walking in a field,

Acts as a cure.

We all must yield,

And learn from nature.

Walking in a field,

An experience so pure,

I would gladly yield,

To the harmony of nature.

SELF-WRITTEN EPITAPH

6-7-70

A short time it is

From lying in the womb

To lying in the tomb.

On the marble monument

That lies above my grave,

These words do engrave:

He lived and questioned life.

He even questioned God and death,

With his life’s last breath.

TIME FLIES…6-26-70

Time, ever so deceiving.

Time is not for pleasing.

Through the front door of youth,

Out the back door of old age,

Often silent, often rage.

Always moving toward the truth.

No time to stop.

No tears to shed.

Truth lies ahead.

Time flashes by,

No time to sigh.

Time hears a babe cry

Given time the babe will die.

Time ticks but tells no tales.

Time is the sound of coffin nails.

Time greets the naïve youth,

Quickly moving toward the truth.

Time is born every second,

Sixty birthdays every minute.

Time deceives the naive youth,

But to the old it shows the truth.

Man, Oh mortal knave,

Given time fills his grave,

Man will as man must,

Like aged metal, turn to rust.

Time moves on its timely way,

No time to pause or stay,

For time will, as time must,

Turn us all into dust.

SELF-ANALYSIS

8-17-70

Adler was no addle brain,

He knew my complex and my pain,

Of being a daily demonstration

Of one who uses compensation.

I see me in gone-by years,

As I see me now in tears.

I have no laughter – no cheers.

I sit robed in painful tears.

I see my visage on the pane,

With metal frame to reflect my shame.

He and me, we are the same,

He and me, we are the blame.

I seem forever search-bound,

My search goes on till I am found.

No scream, no whimper, no sound.

How long before I’m in the ground?

THE DEVIL…10-29-70

The devil comes

In the moonless night.

In a flaming chariot

With silent wheels

And burning might.

Never staying long,

Seldom a forewarning,

But snatching lives

Before it’s morning.

His hand will raise,

And in one quick sweep

Your hopes and dreams he’ll reap.

And if some day

Your life is happily fed,

He’ll take it away

And leave you dead.

NON-VIOLENCE

1-26-71

If old man violence

Would take a rest,

To stop to suckle

Upon a breast,

The world might pass

The “Human Test,”

And those most crass

Might turn out best.

But old man violence

Was suckled on the venom

From a witch’s prune-dried tit,

So here we are,

And here we’ll sit.

It’s no illusion that we see

The Human Race split,

Because only babies drinks love.

NOTE: Written after looking at a picture

of a woman who was breast-feeding her baby.

The caption under the picture said: NON-

VIOLENCE.

LOVE SEASONED WITH SEASONS

(For Sandy)…2-25-71

Winter is the touching of our cool caress.

Spring is the splendid freshness of our joining lips.

Summer is our warm smiles for each other.

Fall is our love standing tall and proud.

And though it has not as yet

Been a full year since we met,

I see a message in both our eyes.

A message predicting, for us, clear skies.

LOVE POEM FOR SANDY

4-28-71

Like two converging streams

Forming a broader mainstream

Have our lives slowly mingled

To give forth just one identity.

Two lives converted to oneness,

With no boundaries left exposed

To the sundering chisel of separation,

But, rather, completely inseparable.

Continued

We will meander down

The gentle slopes of life,

Flowing around its obstacles,

Seeking our ocean of happiness.

Jagged rocks in our bed,

Together we will smooth.

Impurities in our stream, dream-house,

Together we will filter.

The gurgling sounds of our stream,

Will be our amorous words,

And fish will smile and say

We can ride upon their backs.

Our bodies constantly bathed,

Our lips constantly moist,

We can pick a shady spot,

And make-love on the riverbed.

To separate is to condemn

Our lives to stagnant pools,

But if we journey together

We shall avoid the drought.

On and on we will flow,

From youth, to maturity, to old age,

And the beauty we have shared,

Will make an amaranth fade.

LITTLE JIMMY

7-9-72

Little Jimmy was a boy,

Full of happiness, full of joy,

Until one day when nothing mattered,

Because his world had been shattered.

Jimmy used to go to school,

Where he practiced the golden-rule.

He was friendly with all the boys,

And shared with them all the toys.

Jimmy even liked the girls,

And complimented their disheveled curls.

He used to say their hair looked free,

Blown by winds he could not see.

But happiness is over, nothing mattered,

From that day, his life was shattered,

For some cruel person, maybe you or me,

Wrongly called him selfish, stupid and ugly.

I often wonder why we blunder,

And tear a happy life asunder.

Is it that we ignore the message

Of the importance of a child’s self-image?

THE FOG…8-24-72

The fog is rolling in,

An ethereal blanket of gloom,

Like a sheet pulled over a corpse,

To seal its final doom.

The fog keeps rolling in,

Not a sound does it make,

Like a buoyant, misty ocean,

Leaving life in its wake.

The fog is very near now,

Slowly blurring my vision.

Its moist walls are as mighty,

As any concrete prison.

The fog has now enveloped me,

Knowing all along it would win,

Like myriad others, it now has me,

Entombed in its eternal coffin.

RELIGIOUS SKEPTICISM

8-25-72

Now I lay me down to sleep,

With this belief worthy to keep.

In God’s image man was not made,

But in man’s image, God’s mold was laid.

Man created this mythical sage,

To serve as an outlet for the rage,

Resulting from frustrated uncertainty,

Of how and why man came to be.

Man imagined creatively and busily,

Producing more tales than Disney,

Creating a myth from heaven sent,

Making this God whatever man wasn’t.

Men wrote fairy-tales in a book,

So the naive could take a look,

At the grandeur and the fame,

Of the mythical hero in this biblical game.

A Christianity steeped in superstition,

Exaggeration, myth and blind tradition,

Can only be viewed with severe criticism,

Resulting in agnosticism or atheism.

The nonsense in Christianity is so hectic

How could one not be a supreme skeptic?

But childish minds have always been ripe

For the succulence of religious tripe.

WHAT AM I?...9-1-72

I am part of what you can see,

But that’s a superficial part of me.

If you look for me with eyes alone,

You might better gaze upon a stone.

You should gain from what you see,

So gaze deeply when looking at me.

Gaze beyond my flesh and bone,

Gaze into my cranial dome.

Collect and sort your data first,

Though you’ll never quench your thirst,

Like I will never quench mine.

I know part of me; the other parts I want to find.

COME LIE WITH ME…10-19-72

Come lie with me

This winter night.

Enjoy the warmth,

As I hold you tight.

When your eyes are closed,

When you breathe deep,

I’ll admire your body,

As it relaxes in sleep.

I’ll move close to you,

Delighted by your heat,

Then slumber and dream of you

And those dreams I’ll greet.

As I dream of you,

And about our joined life,

I’m overwhelmed with ecstasy,

Because you are my wife.

THE WISE MAN

10-20-72

I met a wise man in the wood,

One cloudless, sunny day.

He knew just where he stood,

And exactly what he wanted to say.

He said he saw me from afar,

As he pointed to yonder crest.

It was then I noticed the scar,

Big and bold upon his chest.

He smiled at my staring eyes,

And turned his back to me.

There, again, to my surprise,

Another scar for me to see.

He said Mans’ problems were nothing new,

Then proclaimed, in an advisory tone,

“Listen objectively to all points of view,

Before you become impaled upon your own.”

LEARNING…9-2571

When asking children to learn the skies,

Don’t stifle, restrict or limit their eyes.

You’ll create a greater problem by far,

If you fix their eyes on only one star.

SHE WHISPERS

11-20-72

She whispers softly into my ear.

Down my cheek there rolls a tear.

She holds me close to her at night,

Making going to bed a pure delight.

She sits by me and holds my hand,

Together we drift to paradise land.

She kisses me with lips so fine,

Soft, smooth, and sweet as wine.

She cares for me without a frown,

When life’s frustrations get me down.

She always tells me of her love,

She is my angel from above.

She is a jewel without measure,

She is my love, my priceless treasure.

She brings happiness to my life,

So I’m thankful she’s my wife.

ADVANCE  REQUEST…12-14-72

Dear Sandy, please, please bury me

Beneath a small, L-shaped tree,

Near a creek in our special wood,

Where you and I have often stood.

Please don’t think it rude

Of my request for solitude,

Nor should you linger in hesitation,

Concerning my request for cremation.

Place my ashes in two books,

And pay no heed to questioning looks.

In Thoreau and Emerson I have chosen

The books of great men for my coffin.

So place me inside the ground,

Then pile up stones to form a mound.

Here I’ll find peace in nature,

Complimented by the grand literature.

When you have placed me there,

Do not worry, do not despair,

For in death I’ll love you always,

As in life I loved you in all ways.

Dear Sandy, who has filled my request,

Giving me peace and eternal rest,

Rest assured, through our lives you’ll be,

My most thought of and cherished memory.

NOTE: But it’s not as important what’s done with my

dead body as it is what’s done with memories of me.

SAGACIOUS  SAM

12-20-72

Sam, the turtle, walked so slow,

His friends teased him and shouted, “Go!”

They wondered how he got anywhere,

And they joked about a race with a hare.

Sam’s enemies were even worse,

For they were always the very first

To block his path and boldly dare

While others, ahead, were setting a snare.

But Sam moved along his path with pride,

Forgiving his enemies for being snide,

And when he came upon that snare,

He walked around it without a care.

Sam had things to do and places to go,

He didn’t really mind being slow.

Making progress each wonderful day

Was more than his enemies could say.

Sam was young and smart for his age,

Using common sense like an old sage.

Looking at Sam you could tell in a glance

He knew what progress meant taking a chance.

Sam seldom pulled his neck in tight,

For turtles stop moving when they have no sight,

And Sam loved to venture wherever his eyes fell,

So he seldom drew his head inside of his shell.

Sam was so happy, so thrilled to be free,

Sticking his neck out so he could see

The beauties of summer, the sorrows of fall,

Knowing this was better than not seeing at all.

Upon reaching another goal, Sam would turn to find

Docile friends and enemies unaware they were blind,

And hoping to restore their sight, Sam would shout,

“Turtles only make progress when they stick their necks out.”

PIOUS VOYEUR

1-5-73

Rage! Shame! Two naked bodies

Embraced upon the grass;

Lustful! Sinful! Like coiled snakes.

The skin of shame they’ve shed.

Flesh upon flesh is mortal sin,

Do they accept the fate of sinners?

This I’ve never seen before,

These two are not beginners.

How dare they seek out pleasure

In a world that is so cruel.

How dare they dare to love,

The sensual pleasures of a fool.

Don’t they know the wrong they’re doing

And the wrath that it will bring?

Don’t they know their elders say

That sex is next to nothing?

Don’t they know the rules they break

When lovers try to please?

Don’t they know they shouldn’t go

Any farther than to tease?

Don’ t they know how long it took

For religion to become their jailers?

Making singles sad and marrieds mad

By replacing sex with prayers.

How dare they insult my eyes.

How dare they negate religions.

How dare they have the satisfied look

Of innocent, well-fed pigeons.

Damn this unknown force

That attracts my eyes so well.

I hate them for being happy

God damn them straight to hell!

THE OTHER SIDE…1-11-73

While working on his plot of ground

The man looked up to stare

At stones piled high to form a mound,

To keep him out of there.

He slowly turned and stopped his labors,

And walked up to that wall.

Now he envied his wealthy neighbors,

Their rich and green plush ground.

The man did search with eyes so cold.

Both homes he did survey.

His neighbor’s house seemed made of gold,

While his seemed made of clay.

His hopes and dreams appeared to call,

The other side looked better.

In one quick burst he crossed the wall,

Thinking he’d broken his fetter.

His neighbors land now looked brown.

His vision seemed much keener,

And now he looked with foolish frown.

His own land looked much greener.

Feet = iambic

Meter = alternating tetrameter and trimeter

PARAGON PARAMOUR

3-8-73

Softly, slowly she approaches me.

Her auburn hair dancing in the air.

Nature’s personification of a tall beauty,

Descending into my reaching limbs.

Yes, as if I were the grass,

And she a falling leaf.

Her hazel eyes and lashes long enough

To fan the fire of our love.

Eye to eye we stand, our bodies touch.

Our arms envelop each other’s warm flesh,

And our love blooms once again,

Now and for our time’s duration.

BIRTH AND DEATH OF A STORM

3-15-73

The sky grows black and ominous,

The bald trees bend with strain.

Rain, like bullets, scatter the dust,

While dried leaves obey the wind,

And romp like playful chipmunks.

A momentary calm passes by.

Trees snap back to attention,

While the dust settles and,

The leaves become less flighty,

But the sky grows blacker yet.

The winds flex their muscles.

All is chaos now.

The leaves are airborne, the dust swirls upward,

And now the trees must bow

As the rain-like bullets riddle the ground.

Raindrops splash upon the grass,

And soon miniature streams appear.

The trees and dust and leaves

Change from turmoil to ease,

And sunshine mirrors off the streams.

ADVICE…3-21-73

Voices advised me where to go,

While fingers pointed here and there.

My head spun from the echo.

I listened, looked, but went nowhere.

Cemented to the ground was I,

My will held in a vice.

Should I stand there till I die,

My body leaden with other’s advice?

Long I listened to elders speak,

Supposing they were all-wise.

Too much advice made me weak,

So my warrior spirit did rise.

To the unknowing, naïve soul,

Too much advice enslaves the mind.

It hinders seeking out his goal,

And chains him to what others find.

So having finally realized this,

A Thoreau-like change was needed;

For pleasing others won’t bring bliss,

When your own advice is cheated.

HONEY WATER…3-29-73

Dad and I went out to see,

If the sap was flowing free.

With his Allis-Chalmers started,

For the woods we soon departed.

All the forest was in a hush,

As we approached the sugar bush,

Except for one quick moving swirl,

From one excited gray-squirrel.

The oval path was clearly worn,

Where tires hand bit and torn.

The wind was a refreshing breeze,

Slowed down by tall, sturdy trees.

My face shone with many smiles,

Seeing the maple with its spiles.

Shiny buckets hung so bright,

Like stars in the sky at night.

Hemlock trees were cleared away,

So the sap would not stray.

Honey water dripped all day.

In my mouth some found its way.

Drip, drip, drip from the maple.

Honey water is its natural staple.

Drinking it fresh from the cup,

Or boiling it to make syrup.

With three large milk cans filled,

And only a few drops spilled,

We headed home with the yield,

Across the brown and rutted field.

The Allis-Chalmers seemed to roam,

As its wheels turned slowly home,

And in the breeze I heard a plea,

The sound of the forest beckoning me.

WHY?...4-12-73

Through the window shone the sun,

The day was warm and bright.

It seemed a day for hope and fun,

A joyful, verdant, summer sight.

He turned his ear to the radio,

The news drew his lips tight,

As he was forced to know,

Soon this day would turn to night.

Her sensuous voice from another room,

Enticed him to her side.

He cast away the thought of doom,

And approached his comely bride.

The sun’s rays were hot,

Though cool beside their love.

Their embrace was like a carnal knot,

Like threads their limbs interwove.

Their lips met in a tender kiss.

Their eyes sought only each other.

They softly severed their silent bliss.

They spoke of being father and mother.

Continued

They cuddled close upon the bed,

and talked of futures bright,

With plenty of joyful years ahead,

To do what they thought right.

They said there was nothing better,

Than the intense love they shared.

He was grateful he’d met her.

She was thankful they had paired.

He looked into her light green eyes,

And stroked her auburn hair.

He pondered their strong, loving ties,

While she was glad that he was there.

Both the room and their dreams grew dark.

A cloud had blanketed the sky.

The mushroom cloud was leaving its mark,

But he would not pause to ask, “Why?”

FOR SANDY…10-2-73

It’s impossible to count the ways I love thee,

Because it’s impossible to count to infinity,

But I know most moments we have are bliss,

And no more of love can I ask than this.

BIG, BLACK BEAR

11-4-73

Big, large, huge black bear,

Growling, howling in the air,

Bumping, thumping through the trees,

Sniffing at the chilly breeze.

Cold, frigid, the winter winds blow,

Soon, rapidly will come the pristine snow.

Chewing, chomping, quickly he ate,

Knowing it is time to hibernate.

Crunching, munching, eating this and that,

Stuffing his mouth till he is fat.

Walking, running in the forest deep,

Looking, peering for a place to sleep.

Hurry, faster for goodness sake,

Down, downward floats the first snowflake.

A cave, a shelter, so in he goes deep,

Now he is safe; now he can sleep.

NOTE: Written for students when I was

“student teaching.”