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
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.
WHAT IS IT?
The more you try
To do anything about it,
The less you can
Do anything at all.
Although you can
Do nothing without it,
Without you
It will get along.
Do not interfere
With whatever it is—
Only let go of consciousness,
And miracles
Will not be extraordinary.
What is it?
When you know what it is,
You are not free
From perplexities.
When you know nothing,
It is no more
Your concern to know
What anything is.
AFTER BUDDHAGHOSA
You see, just as a marionette is void,
Soulless and without curiosity,
And while it walks and stands and sits and speaks
Through combinations of the strings employed
To make it seem as though it might enjoy,
Like us, the drama of life’s vain desires—
Seems to have hopes and dreams and to aspire—
One’s own frail ego stands in such a poise,
Seeming to be concerned and well aware.
And this is what the ancient masters tell:
Though mind-and-matter certainly are here,
No human being in them can be found;
For they are null and fashioned like a doll—
Just suffering, piled up like grassy mounds.
