Selections from "The Immortal Present"

IF 16TH STREET EXISTED

My youth comes to mind like a dream
Or more rather a movie playing in a crowded theatre.
“Still more, still more,” replied the red bird.
“A long forgotten book
A tale spun by a long since passed grandfather,
Who liked to drink gin and smoke a half- smoked cigar.”
If you were me and I were you
Would you remember it the way I do?,
Relate each childhood tale with the same smile
With the same tears of regret?
Nevertheless, I am I and you are you.
And the story is mine
And the story your ears will hear is mine.
“O captive, captive, captive,” the cardinal,
Our recent partner, called out with crystal voice.
“He the mariner, you the bride’s guest.
And I the living metaphor tracing its roots back to a famous albatross.”
My past lives in the present.
My present relives the past
At sudden, unexpected moments
And you with me, their captivated guest.
The snowfall, six inches deep,
Waits unabashed for the morning
Waits for the reluctant sun
For the still more reluctant palms around the shovel
To take back the land, or rather driveway
The man has worked so hard to call his own.


3

The flakes of snow fall
In quiet battalions of paratroopers,
Invading the cold, frustrated soil.
You only see the downside of these messengers
These white sheets of inconvenience
These frozen layers of lost sleep.
You anticipate the strain on your back
Before the first slicing of the shovel.
You fear the fire in your lower back muscles
Before the quiet of the pre- dawn land
Can dazzle you with its simple beauty.
Lie awake at night, sleep all day
The mind will take its pleasure in rebellion
Against the flesh. My young face,
My wrinkled hands, my wandering thoughts.
A mind that dwells only on noun after noun,
Forgetting the verb, is doomed to inaction.



DOWN MISSISSIPPI STREET

A coming of age occurs
Not with the aging of heart and hands
Or with the ability to conquer or control
But with the first pangs of desire
For the council and comfort of both beauty and wisdom.
Thunderstorms give way to spring showers
On the most pleasant of mornings, and I
Find myself suddenly transported from winter to spring.
You, who not so much as follow as travel
Down the path I walk this unexpected day,
Look at the rain drenched ground as intently
As I the blue sky intruding white clouds.
In principio erat Verbum
In the beginning,
The Word walked with you, eternal I AM,
Through the fresh, wet garden of Eden
Untainted by the coming of the Lie and Pride.
That past lives in my present thoughts
As I recall the many walks down Mississippi Street from class
With joy and anticipation my constant companions
Encouraging me to throw off the past
In favor of the absent- minded call of the immortal present.
I enjoy many things that annoy almost everyone else.
I will stop to watch a thunderstorm
When most will only complain about the rain ruining
Their day or their hair (or both).
A good thunderstorm will take its time
As it makes its way unhurried and loud
From the edge of the western horizon for the best effect.
A pace I like in that it performs a kind of magic:
The merging of the joy of anticipation
With the joy of the actual moment to come.



14

One of his names is messenger. One of his
Names is herald. One of his names
Is the Storm- King. One of
His names is to come. One
Wind, with many paths, enfolds and enrages
The touch sense, the yearning sense, the last dance,
The now dance, the next dance
Between anticipated and reflected joy.

THE CIRCLE CALLED 65

I
To go back again
Toward a destiny or a dream unfulfilled
Could drive the past into the present.
If you stand with feet planted firmly
At the latest crossroad, looking left,
Looking right, looking up, down, and all around,
The owl alit on the telephone line will smile.
On the right, an opportunity left on the floor,
Up in the sky a dream not followed,
Looking left, a line of school girls I adored
But still walked away from, fearing
I’d never make it out of the Midwestern corridor.
I did head down the road toward
The only choice that seemed right at the time.
The owl, who had since moved from line
To tree to the empty car parked next to me,
Stared with the wide-eyed
Look of one who had something important to say.
But if he did, he was in no hurry to share.
“Come closer,” he began finally. “A bottle of wine
Split between friends under the moonlight approaches the divine.”
I couldn’t argue the bird’s logic
So we went to the corner store
Where he picked out a bottle, which I bought
With an old twenty dollar bill
Since, apparently, owls do not carry wallets.
OK, owl, I said as I poured his half of the contents
Into an empty bowl we found. Tell me something profound.

AVENUE NORTH
I
My dog, Milton, hesitates before crossing any portal.
He still won’t enter my bedroom or kitchen
No matter how hard I coax or encourage
Not even for a slice of pizza.
There is an unknown he fears:
The unknown itself. The unfamiliar
The thought that what lies
Beyond the portal is a mirage
Hiding some thing too dreadful to confront.
I faced the oncoming forties
With the same insecurity my dog
The gate to my backyard.
It looked good, green, and promising
But would I escape it with my life?
The gate opened and we found the courage
To enter and experience the new world
For what it was and for what it could be
And we’re not dead yet.
Past Labor Day into Octoberfest
Past All Hallow’s Eve into All Saint’s Day
The frivolity of harvest gives way
To the coming hibernation of Mother Earth.
It is the time of my late year
New Year’s Resolution: that is to put on the brakes
Long enough to watch the annual
Parade of Colors processional
The fanfare celebrating a time of Jubilee
About to come to a land worn from growing,
Feeding, and sustaining the life of its inhabitants.
The Spirit walks along the park, too,
Singing a quiet lullaby
Rest now my little ones and close your eyes
I will guard you while you sleep
Though you die now for a time
I’ll wake you in the spring with the tears my angels weep.

35

Peace comes, my friend, when we breathe
In the air made holy by the song
Nature hears and our spirit’s feel.
After all, is anything more annoying
Than realizing that once again
We’ve failed to slow down long enough
To take in each shade of fall?--
That we’ve missed the one time
The past enhanced the present
By forging the beautiful ashes from the altar of the past
With the sacrificial offerings of the present feast?

It was the magic of my imagination
That had kept them alive all these months.