Free verse

Haiku sampler

One Hundred Haiku

Haiga

Haibun

Pantoums

Ghazals

Manuscript: Dividing Jerusalem and other poems

FREE VERSE

FOR WALT AND THE LION TAMERS

First ran into you
hiding out around Bushwick Public Library
I was in love puppy love with a young blonde librarian
stamping long litanies of date dues
she loved my first after-shave lotion
touched me touched your book
made me blush and come back
for more date dues

Public library had small concrete lions out front
what a rush of lines and lions!
verse after verse you devoured me!
I was raw and you ate me raw
you got to my bones and sucked them clean
turned them into panpipes in a tenement
where the only pipes I knew
were cold radiators and faulty plumbing
man, you had me

Later someone tarred the lions
still later someone smashed the lions
later still they up and disappeared
it’s tough to be a lion in Bushwick Brooklyn
library lions don’t stand a chance
in the man eating streets
they went just like this
the neighborhood went just like that
gone with the lions to some landfill

Sometimes, Walt, I still see you around
working in a shelter for the homeless
I still keep in touch with your Leaves
first touched in a leafless slum
where grass was out of bounds
where I was ashamed to bring a friend or a date
but I wasn’t ashamed to bring you keep you renew you
pay your date due fines bail you out
always tempted to steal you
                                          
I knew that you knew me inside out
I touched you  touched a man
I would’ve loved to touch the librarian
but what’s a blonde compared to a book, Walt
I knew you’d outlast the damn lions

*edited by Julia Spicher Kasdorf & Michael Tyrell (NYU Press, 2007)

Blackbeard teaches
his wife karate
kills her in the process
it’s OK
the police lose the evidence
what are friends for
his girlfriend
is pregnant
so the score is even
one down and one up
he doesn’t want her
to lose the evidence
claims his baby
will bust bricks
with a single chop
minute he comes out
he has a few bets going
the police will keep
the evidence
if his baby is born
with a beard on

*******

She was pregnant
when she flew in
and she’s leaving
with empty arms
and a tan

She’s tasted clocks
and coconuts
and done her time
and drunk her milk
laced with sand

It’s strange how
the grains get
into everything
you drink

Papayas tenderized
her stew
mangoes puckered
her lips

You’re not allowed
to carry soft fruit
off island

She drops her fruit
and flies.

*********

POET: Well, Mr. E,
you don’t mind if I shorten your name--
it’s the fashion in a fast age.

ELIJAH: No, I don’t mind. I’m used to speed.
My chariot really moves.

POET: You have a chariot?

ELIJAH: Fire’s the color.

POET: That’s right, I caught you once in a famous painting.
can’t remember the artist.

ELIJAH: You were the artist. You were a kid.
You liked flaming wheels--fire engines....

POET: How do you know?

ELIJAH: Same as I know everything.

POET: What I want to ask is
are you still real?

ELIJAH: Are you?

POET: I’m a fictional character who suffers.

ELIJAH: So am I.

POET: But you’ve been around for thousands of years.

ELIJAH: And you’re one of my agents.
You've been around for thousands of years, too.
Time’s up. I’ve got other appointments.

POET: O.K. Where will you be next Passover?

ELIJAH: Open the door and find out.

POET: But I’ve opened the door for years,
for centuries, for eternity.

ELIJAH: Open it again.
It’s the opening that counts.
Everything else is child’s play.


*******

 

COATLICUE

My skinny arms
no match
for your fanged armaments
you skin me raw 
my hands are your gloves
my skull hangs from your belt
my heart adorns your neck

O mother of gods
mother of men
snake woman
mother monster
mouth filled to overflowing
with your chewed up children
where are you now?

Ripped from your place of darkness
abandoned among the bones of shining houses
O heart of the earth
O flowering euphemism
O destroyer, creator, life giver, devourer
what are you now?
 
Nothing but a museum piece
one more Aztec deity biting the dust
calling it nourishing calling it home

**********

LULLABY FOR BARE LIGHT BULBS

Early and late broken lullabies
rattle laments for bare light bulbs
mocking homicidal maracas
I bury the dead moon twice
over smoking mica mirrors
and melancholy echoes
nursing infants in Aztlán
where umbilical cords burn
to the tune of peyote baby formula
in forgotten war zones
 
If no hallucinations
no Mexico no mirrors
no other face for inventing faces
for scorpions spiders rattlesnakes 
for dogs with perfect vision and no insight
not even for the old lady
of the childbirth market 
walking the riverside at night
crying crumbs and baby bottles
crying diapers and pulque
searching always searching
for the infant drowned in her breasts

No one helps her look for her sons
ripped out of ancient narcotic calendars
old men now
missing men now
men missing brains now
Alzheimer’s men with no
sequence or consequence
men with bald heads silver teeth
decayed voice boxes

No excuses no alibis no crimes
except matricide fratricide infanticide
I listen with them now
for the bedtime song in the street
confessions of self torture
raising bells in the bones
cradling the ultimate blueprint


*******

TEOTIHUACAN

I’ve come back to find out
who ran up the steps
and disappeared
I’ve come back to excavate my head
at the base of the pyramid
I’ve come back to serenade
the redemption of mescal worms
ignite Aztec confessions of compassion
tabulate the barking birthrate of edible dogs
suckled at the breasts of peasant clay

I circle like a black buzzard
like a desecrator
like a feathered volador
thrown out into the air
spinning upside down
until I find my hands and feet
and lost contact lenses
delivering visions through the glass door
of reconstructive surgery
where broken gods recuperate
iced in apiaries of clones

I’ve come back to hear my head sing
running up against the logistics of lungs
panting up the Pyramid of the Sun
I’ve come back to excavate my heart
to touch reborn stones
to dig into my own voice

to find the ultimate archaeologist
the head that talked to Indians at the top
the heart that talked to Indians at the bottom 

**********

EDNA, WE MUST STOP MEETING LIKE THIS

There’s Edna St. Vincent Millay
my mother’s favorite
scandalously romantic poet
her verse confronts me
among the advertisements
on the Manhattan bound F train
(Hey! Poetry-in-Motion
it’s good for you--eat it)
it seems I can’t escape the Spanish refrain
recuerdo recuerdo
I’m willing to bet Edna said it
with an American accent
recuerdo recuerdo
and I see a candle burning at both ends
for my holy mother Mary
who tried to burn her own way out
and got burned
using the wrong burner
recuerdo recuerdo
and I go back and forth
on the Staten Island Ferry in my mind
seeing Edna and my mother so merry
why do I feel like jumping off
as Lady Liberty hits the high notes
a yenta on speed recuerdorecuerdorecuerdo
I wish Edna would get off this subway
with her Greenwich Village Spanish
why does she have to bug me every morning with
recuerdo recuerdo I recuerdo too well
and it kills me before breakfast
recuerdo recuerdo
when they opened my mother up
they found a short candle
burning at both ends
hardly any time left
recuerdo recuerdo
when they open me up
what will they find
a crematorium for candles
or some knives that were twisted by
Edna St. Vincent Millay
mugging me on the F train into Manhattan


*******

STRANGERS WAVING

People wave I wave back do I know them
do they know me who cares
I just like to wave back
it’s good exercise
if I ever run for president
I just like to wave
though I don’t recognize a soul
I wave to children truck drivers sailboats
anything that waves
or makes waves
I’m a born waver and wave maker
for anything close to my wavelength
cars roll by drivers wave 
they seem to know who I am
when I hardly know myself

it’s disconcerting not to know
when others in the driver’s seat
zip by seeming to know
and with a wave of their hand
acknowledging this knowledge
leaving me mystified
on the sidewalk--what a gesture!

was it the wave of true recognition
or the wave of mistaken identity
was I taken for someone else
and if so who is that person
who passes for my person
am I impersonating someone
or is someone impersonating me   
I can only wave them off
as I wave hello
to a stranger in a passing vehicle
headed for gridlock


*******

II

POSTWAR MISSION

After the war
you were possessed
you crisscrossed Poland
on a personal mission
gathering up Jewish children
foundlings orphans
prying them loose
from their adopters, foster parents
risk takers, simple folk
peasants or city people
saviors or bounty seekers
you used persuasion
pleas and bribes
to save the children
from Poland
and send the remnant
the saving remnant to Palestine
(you a one time Bundist
who had no use for Palestine)
you knocked on so many doors
your only regret
the doors that didn't open
the children too young
to know their own name
the children baptized
in the waters of amnesia
the children born to oblivion
the children lost and found in Poland
the children of Poland
lost to Poland
lost to the mercy of Poland

III

AN ORPHAN’S TALE

It was around Easter
you appeared at the doorway
of my Polish parents' house

Winter is over
soon there will be wild strawberries

You speak of an exodus to the Holy Land
and what my parents would have wished

I listen to your words at the door
you seem to be an emissary
from another world
the world of some other people...
my people?

You want to take me away
My Polish parents
want to take me to church

You promise me an unknown land
as if you were Moses

I'm torn
I want to go I want to stay
you can't promise me
my parents back again
why do you want me to follow you
you're not my relative
you're not my father

Where do you want me to go
why should I miss the holiday
I hear the bells of St. Stefans...
how can I belong to you

And yet...I answered the door
and you took my hand and led the way
so here I am your follower
speaking now in the tongue of Moses:
Hinéni*

IV

A CHILD ASKS THE SHOEMAKER,
WHO AM I?

Who am I
I can hardly imagine
let alone remember my parents
maybe some Hanukkah candles
some Sabbath lights
I didn't know who I was
and even now sometimes
I don't know who I am

How can I abandon
those who saved me
from Passover slaughter
from the German Angel of Death
from Christmas to Christmas
from Easter to Easter

They say the angels of death were Polish
but the angels of mercy were Polish too!
I spoke Polish not Yiddish not Hebrew

Did I make the right choice
What would Solomon say?

Can anyone fill Solomon’s shoes?
A cobbler from Vilna?

You came too late for me to choose

HAIKU

the rock gardener
making sure
nothing grows

***

For the New Year:

in a busy year’s diary
one blank page
after another

***

From New Jersey:

power outage
picking out stars
with a flashlight

***

stiff with autumn
the hop gone out
of the grasshopper

***

hiking
only a Monarch
breaks the silence

***

tired of hitching
pointing my thumb
in the wrong direction

***

forest preserve--
a woodpecker chooses
the utility pole

***

SPRING CITY

spring--
running up the escalator
I miss the wrong bus 

my bus pulling out
your bus pulling in--
what could’ve been

goodbye, New York
Oh for that first whiff
of skunk
 
bus stop
back to New York
every dandelion plucked

***

PANTOUMS

BABY NIGHTMARES

My baby’s got nightmares
Only three years old, precocious child
She’s got the late night panics
She puts my sleep on hold

My child’s only three years old
Not old enough to know the world
She puts my sleep on hold
I’ve got to lullaby and goodnight her

Not old enough to know the world
What can she be afraid of?
I’ve got to lullaby and goodnight her
She’ll know the world of nightmares soon enough

What can she be afraid of?
I know my fears from A to Z
She’ll know the nightmare world soon enough
Her night terrors make me jump

I know my fears from A to Z
Fires, tsunamis, terrorist attacks
Her night terrors make me jump
I’m a professional nightmare jumper

Fires, tsunamis, terror attacks
She puts my nightmares on hold
She’s got the late night panics
Precocious child, my baby’s only three years old


*******


GOOD! YOU WAKE UP

Good! You wake up ready to take on the absurd
Now you look both ways at the traffic of birds
And before you know it you won’t know what hit you
It’s that simple––you can die laughing

You stop to look both ways at the traffic of birds
No need for seers when the leaves prophesy
It’s that simple––you can die laughing
There are strangers who will know what to do with you

No need for seers when the leaves prophesy
I add my fears to the confusion of too many candles
There are strangers who will know what to do with you
They will bring you home in a jar meant for fireflies

I add my fears to the confusion of too many candles
Soft echoes and one more light to burn
They will bring you home in a jar meant for ashes
They will pour you like breadcrumbs on the water

Soft echoes and one more light to burn
The holidays come at you like exploding candy
They will pour you like breadcrumbs on the water
Your sex will embrace a new shape of rain

The holidays come at you like exploding candy
And before you know it you won’t know what hit you
Your sex will embrace a new shape of rain
Good! You wake up ready to take on the absurd

*******

WE TWO SEEKING ONE

Our faces light up after long separation
We split the pomegranate
It’s a red letter day
Why hold anything back?

We split the pomegranate
Two halves make one whole
Why hold anything back?
It’s Plato’s fable in the Symposium

Two halves make one whole
That’s the kind of math I love
It’s Plato’s fable in the Symposium
Alone together and together alone

That’s the kind of math I love
It’s amazing how seeds fall in fall out
Alone together and together alone
Recalling whispers, your bite or mine

It’s amazing how seeds fall in fall out
Fruits we shared, apples in Eden
Asking in whispers, your bite or mine
We have a language and a private garden

Fruits we shared, apples in Eden
It’s a red letter day
We have a language and a private garden
Our faces light up after long separation

*******

POETRY LOVES RAIN
         homage to Paul Verlaine

Poetry loves rain
An evening with Verlaine
Pouring words into poetry
Turning words into rain

An evening with Verlaine
A refrain over the Seine
Turning words into rain
It becomes hypnotic!

A refrain over the Seine
Turning rain into words
It becomes hypnotic
Words turn into wine

In the rain on the run
I thought I’d be back
Turning words into wine
But where is that map?

I never went back
I was on the run
It took a different map
to know the way

I was on the run
Turning wine into rain
No idea of the way
Poetry loves pain


                  *******

GHAZALS

GHAZAL OF AMBER BEADS

The wine disappears in the mouth of a drunken sage
A blind translator hands me an empty page

I worry the beads in hand, a shepherd of stones
The ruins of Babylon litter a babbling age

Are you married to your calculating heart of hearts?
I fall into a midnight collapse, the opposite of rage

There’s no refund for clay gods or sky gods here
We pay to release white doves from an iron cage

Come inside in the name of a loving ambush
Come alive to where our bones may click and engage

Searching for an address you come to my door
every address except yours swept off the stage

Understanding that there’s no understanding––
the understanding that lets us disengage

*******

GHAZAL OF THE UNATTAINABLE

Give your bones the choice of winter or May
I long for the unattainable and sleep on what you say

Ah, woman, I wake up to the silent treatment
Sleeping policemen shake up the dying day

Partners in crime suffer the same horoscope
A lottery of losses is the game in play

My fortune for today: get another fortune
My fortune for tomorrow: same as yesterday

You wrote in code on the calendar
Your words hid in the open: winter words I salted away

You fell off the planet--I’ve come down to earth
You were a woman, not a metaphor for clay

*******

STORKS

The ram’s horn no longer blasts your bones into roses
The candelabrum no longer ignites fierce tribes of thorns

What leaps out of sleep like the dawn gazelle?
What voice shakes the dew off the mountains?

Old prophecies come and go like beaten echoes
driven into a wall of misunderstandings

You lost the war on mirrors and return time and again
to pick up the bits and pieces from the bottom of the harbor

Only an ancient migration of storks
can lift your eyes to voices out of the blue

A group of poets published by Stanley Barkan's Cross Cultural Communications press
attending a Poets House function in NYC, 2015.