BY THE ROADSIDE

 

(after Chuang-Tsu and Bunan)

 

One evening on my way back home,

I spied a human skull

Bleached ghostly white, retaining still

Its former shape, wherein the will

To live had swelled its bones.

 

I tapped it with my walking cane,

And asked it, “Did you, Sir,

In all your greed for life, bestir

The twisting fibers of your nerves

To come to this in vain?

 

“What brought you here? A civil war,

Perhaps? or just old age--

Your grand finale on this stage

Of losing battles, where the wage

Can never compensate the scars?”

 

This said, I took it in my hands,

And underneath my head

I made a pillow for my bed

Among the weeds and trash that hid

My sleep from beast and man.

 

At midnight when the town clocks tolled,

That skull became my dream,

And whispered, “What you said to me

More like an orator beseems

Than one who sifts for gold!

 

“Your words described the way of life

Of men who drew their breaths

While in pursuit of happiness

And liberty, in spite of death

Preventing all their strife.

 

“But in the grave those baits and lures

Can never satisfy the Saints

Whose deaths take place without a taint;

Who wipe away the foolish paint

That masks a hollow core.

 

“Perhaps you’d like to hear me speak

About the end of woe.”

“Oh, tell me everything you know!”

The skull resumed, “In Death are no

Distinctions that men seek.

 

“No seasons waste each other there

With changes soon undone;

No phase of moon or fire of sun

Surpasses Wisdom’s light for ones

Who move beyond your sphere.”

 

I heard his words with skeptic doubts,

And said, “If magic arts

Could somehow cause you to depart

From your abyss, and take your part

Once more in your own house,

 

“With mother, father, wife and child,

And all your wealth and friends,

Would you refuse the chance to blend

With what you loved, to live again,

If only for a while?”

 

The skull stared fixedly at me,

And said, knitting its brows,

(This was a dream, remember now!)

“No one who casts away life’s shroud

Regains that misery.

 

“While living, be a dead man, then;

Be dead so through and through

That anything you think or do

Will be as though there were no you--

And dwell here as my friend.”

 

      MOTHER’S DAY

  

Old age has come upon him. There he leans

Against the rail that separates with Death

The meek who mourn from those who mourn no more.

A bright bouquet of flowers in his hands

Seems to await the moment when the tide

Is once more at the rising, where her fall

And his bereavement unclasp hands and part,

Immersed in darkness deep within the world

That circles round him like some bird of prey--

As we who came but for the pounding surf

And rolling thunder of this gaping hole

Steal glances at the sorrow on his face,

And turn our eyes away, far out to sea,

Where Life and Death are merged, like ebb and flow.

 

GONE TO JAIL

  

There’s no alcohol

in the Detention Center.

Just sweat, bars and rage.

 

And no music blares

from your house into my yard,

pounding my windows.

 

Someone took your dog.

She had a good home with you,

though she got lonely.

 

No one cuts your grass

or plants corn in your garden.

Your bills are unpaid.

 

The bedroom window

of the house right behind mine

gapes with a bullet hole.

 

The neighborhood’s Fear

is not unlike your Anger.

Your absence remains.

 

 FAMILY SNAPSHOT

 

 A forty-eight-year old man

and a one-year-old boy stand

on a sweltering backyard deck

in the good ol’ Summertime.

 

One looks up with silent awe

at the other, who is demonstrating

forty-eight years of expertise

hip-swinging the pink Hula Hoop!

 

I stand before the snapshot,

and wonder how this scene will seem

when forty-eight more hoops of years

turn round, and stand him here like me.

 

                 WORLD WAR II

  

The names of states were carved in stone around

   The wall of the Memorial, where posed

Beneath each wreath old men in veteran’s caps

   Embroidered with the companies they served.

One struggled from a wheelchair parked beside

   The state of Maine and stood expectantly

Beneath that word, and someone who passed by

   Said blithely, “Well now, you must be from Maine!”

But one who might have been the soldier’s son

   Replied, “Not really; he’s from Illinois.

He don’t know what it says,” and guided him 

   With tenderness and patience to the state

Where he should pose. The crowd flowed slowly by,

   Like water from the bright Reflecting Pool.

 

OUR LAST COMMUNION

  

The last time that I saw him

     He lay upon a hospital bed,

Strapped down and thrashing to and fro.

     But when he heard my voice, he slowed

And paused to listen as the words

     Within his brain were registered.

Relaxing in relief, he smiled

For that one moment, when he knew his child.

 

He chuckled then with pleasure--

     A greeting I would one day treasure.

The white cells in his bloodstream gnawed

     Each other, and the virus spawned

Where there was no immunity:

     It sapped his store of memories,

Until my image blurred and flowed

     Away, and he relapsed into his throes.

 

But over forty years loom

     From then till now, and we still commune--

At least I do. What if the dead

     Were not so smitten with their friends

And family as we might be

     With them? We, who need memory

To make it all cohere; while they

     Must clear their minds to live beyond the grave.

 

SWEPT AWAY

  

Porch floor by window

Dusting of snow

Paw prints that linger

The broom says no

 

Arachnid filaments

White crystal strung

Asleep in her tunnel?

The broom still comes

 

Notebooks scribble

Obituaries fade

Skull box mementos

The broom sweeps away