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Thursday, March 8, 2007



I know it's cosmic!
It's like, heavy man!

Mystery inscrutable to regular
Analytical tool. Logic beyond scope
Of regular academic exercise.

Even with reference to twenty ancient
Texts I could not begin to fathom
How in that parking garage
Jareck, who always had kept counsel
His own, -- this, the one instance only! --
The days' normal business routine,
And gathered up patience enough so
To explain to me, more than half-dozen,
Separate times, a truth that had eluded
Ken, until the very early morn when
During a heavy rainstorm I drove
Through Brooklyn and brought you flowers.

You, sister, Oeland, Baltic island woman;
Me sprung from the land-locked plains of Illinois.

Consider it, the millions-to-one odds
Stacked against our favor. I... I, I mean, duh!

I trust you may come to believe
That matter rests outside human command.
Whatever the divine designates together
No mortal may draw asunder.

This is it! I do! I do love you!

Tonight the pilot naps in the back seat.
I fly the aircraft. The bright,
Rollover arrows signal the glide path.
And over the wire direct to my ear,
Ten thousand watts propel the voice.
It says, 'You do! You do love her!'

Tuesday, March 6, 2007



I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,

And Mother, ever attentive to the moral
order of the home,
Will have censored some details of delight,
until the child
Attains the age to possess the missives
in her own right.

And our son will study the photographs, taken when
His parents' passion was young;
he will marvel at his Mother's beauty
And from her beauty learn standards necessary
when choosing a wife of his own.

And our children will cherish the memory of how
we read to them
Night after night over the years until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
in tales of heroic adventure,

And how stories of fantasy and magic create
memories of wonderful delight.

Their rooms teem with books, which later comprise
a library that remains the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children remember
the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode on our shoulders
their arms around our necks
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint imparting
a calm warm within
And the happy soul evident
from childhood in a good home.

Monday, March 5, 2007


for H.E.

The first time I truly saw you.
It was in a remote world.
It was years ago.
You, yourself, were manifest in a niche
In a Hindu temple, a marble figure,
With your eyes carved wide-open.
You were adorned in regal, pageant gown,
Dyed violet to match the color of your eyes.

Brass bowls of red-hot coals burned
Perfumed incense sticks at your feet

Your supplicants cued from portal to portal arch,
And eagerly sought their chance
good fortune to implore.

Each carried on polished metal trays
Oblations of flowers and fruit,
strings of marigolds,
Presents of large lotus,
bananas, coconuts,
and pomegranates.

All was splashed with bright vermilion powder,
As if to remind the procession, that once
blood had sanctified the sacrifice.

And me, I await, patient. Like the other mortals,
I pray for your favor, and hope to tease meaning
Out from the stare of your carved and painted face.

I go deep within my pocket to pull wrapped hard candy,
Add it to my tray of gifts, and excitedly, aloud, tell
The temple priests that I now wear appropriate rainments,
That my nostrils detect a whiff of your mango fragrance!

And in the clamor, over and against the
background noise of the street.
I believe I hear your coded parlance,
'I miss you'.

Goddess, Love, grant me the serenity
To accept the long absence before you are
flesh in my arms again,
The courage to change those things about me
so better to be proper devotee,
And the wisdom to remain faithfully yours
today, tomorrow, and fervently always.

Saturday, March 3, 2007



I have an astounding dream to report.
It has me running in the semi-darkness
With a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key,
And has a single, protruding notch at its end,
The kind of key used to wind an antique clock.

Next to the wall at the end of my run stands
a giant, cartoon heart,
Painted, yet color so natural, it rivals
the red of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart
A gold metal strike plate sets up over against
an aperture, the channel,
Which leads to the lock that might open your heart.

Have I the key? Or do I dream only to wake
To nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?
Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does deep desire
Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease,
And promise of new, peaceful kingdom be
fulfilled, here, in this query today?

Now I stand before you, You, my Higher Power,
And the congregates sense the blasphemy; they
Whisper calumnies. They say
that I am my father’s son,
He is the boy from the hardware store!
Who bestows on him authority
to tell midnight imaginings?

And me, their belligerence does not concern me,
Not a whit, though they rise up
and ready to condemn me.
I pray ... I might have definite answer,
That I am prophet in this house,
That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive,
Carry hope for life anew,
And have news extraordinary for all to hear.

Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness, I run
I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical,
A single, protruding notch at its end,
The kind used to wind an antique clock.

Darling, please, your answer!
Have I the key to open your heart,
Or do I dream the impossible dream?

Thursday, March 1, 2007



Da Dit Da Dit Da Da dit dah,
Dah dit Dah Dit dah dahh dit dahh,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
da dit da dit da da dit daa,
daa dit daa dit daa daa dit daa,
da dit da dit dah dah dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit Da Dah dit Dah.

Da Dit Da Dit Da Da dit dah,
Dah dit Dah Dit dah dahh dit dahh,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
da dit da dit da da dit daa,
daa dit daa dit daa daa dit daa,
da dit da dit dah dah dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit Da Dah dit Dah.



I sit here at a desk right off the kitchen. It is late night, or rather early morning; I am tired and my mind draws blank. As has had happened at other times before I am ready to write about not being able to write. But now I call upon a force greater than my mortal self. I trust it to accomplish those things that I am utterly unable to accomplish on my own. I say 'God help me to do what I am incapable of doing by myself.' I ask that God make me a channel of the Word, to be as a pen in the hand of an Author omniscient, Who knows the text entirely at once, the beginning and the end simultaneously. I bid to be endowed with a flow of right language so unencumbered that it strikes even the skeptical reader as inspired. I trust a providence Who rules the workings of a universe vast, folded unto itself, warped and strung, within a matter black, which, so far at least, proves mysterious, impenetrable to human ken.

But this self-same Sovereign also reigns over the little things. He reckons the countless phenomena that mark the progress of each and every creatures' individual life. Today we may easily forget that our forebears believed in a God who knows the number of hair upon our heads. Because of great progress in the science of astronomy our attention has become increasingly diverted. Modern telescopes reveal the sheer immensity of space-time, the monstrous architecture cradling the lights of heaven. We may fail to remember that the God of our fathers not only authored Genesis but also knew the precise moment a sparrow's fall.

It is to this God both grand and particular to whom I pray. In fulfillment of His will -- that His will be done, that I convert the blank page before me to chronicle American life and thought during this last half century. And tonight, though both mind and body be tired and worn, I am vehicle to the good story, reveling in triumph, happiness and energy, now sufficient to recognize and carry out a will beyond selfish aim. Volition has new power, taking it immeasurably pass purely human aspiration and design to wildly abundant, unexpected narrative whose insight and denouement bespeaks the divine. The dark, empty late night now gives way to bright light and fertility. All weakness turns to strength. The despair gnawing at the wheel of our diurnal rounds vanishes. Freely and utterly without discernible merit a fantastic, spiritual grace allows glory, a brand new sense of mission out of those things and events which remain behind.
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