A DREAM OF YOU, Parts I & II, Desert Vision, A Poem in Three Parts

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A DREAM OF YOU,
Desert Vision, Parts I & II, A Poem in Three Parts




Sweetheart, I know you love me.
I know you appreciate the poetry.

For two years now I have struggled,
Wanting to write history,
A great, big, love poem about us,


The way this thing of ours went
Right from the start, all banners unfurled,
How time marshals forces
Though we go about our daily business,
And children are born and then grow up, think,
Believe fervently they are meant for one thing
To discover later, underneath it all,
A new world order sweeps away the old,
And the fulfillment of prophecy remains unknown,
Until the actual event transpires,
The Word has meaning after the fact,
Books herald events other than those,
Which meet the eye, proof there be script,
Beyond the narrow wish of human endeavor
That we may do one thing, but discover,
Unwittingly we do another.

Today I write, record the moment
Yes, I say that is the way,
The way, it had actually happened.

Now you may follow, dear, should you desire,
How I dedicate verse,
That I compose a story about events
Yet even before I had known you,
Or have had inkling of your name,
I include you in geography,
You had not experienced, an earth, whereupon
Your feet had never trod.



II


You very well inquire,
How do I acquire such nerve?
-- The actual gall of me, hey! --
To affirm this verse, our story,
Penned, so I claim, solely with you in mind?
How might I affirm to have written events,
That include your presence,
Decades before we even had made acquaintance?

In truth, the matter propels me, no choice,
I do what destiny would have me do.

I found these words,
I had inked them once,
On lined, yellow, perforated sheet,
‘I sit at the desk, night after night,
And sometimes, it's even day and night,
Often I write on topics, quotidian and small,
On matters of no special interest,
Issues, which critics declare,
Want propriety and moment,
And do not belong to sphere of poetic ambition.

Now years have passed,
And choice less still, I write.’

Earlier today, I had packed up your mail,
Readied the address to Coral Gables,
And when you later called and asked
How I was doing, me, under compulsion’s light,
Lonely, slave to love and ardent desire,
I answered 'pathetic.'

No one else will have me.

It as though I have some terrible pox;
Other women see it and shun me.

My mirror image, you,
I cram my schedule, insufficient time,
The day wants the hours,
I have endless list ‘To Do’.

I isolate terribly, talk to no one for the week,
And when friends telephone, I rush them off!
Honest! No time for idle talk, or chat.
.
No choice! I return to my desk.

I dread any date for lunch.
Sorry! I want only you.

Yet I have that other side,
More than everyday business;
A confidence I wish to share with you and world,
About how I always knew,
Though I came to comprehend only after the fact;
I believe I might say it right,
Watch me now, and let’s see if I say it right!