CHAPTER 1

    SPRINGTIDE

    There is something universal
    about a springtime smile,
    Speaking of love and newness
    springing all the while.

    The tide does turn when
    the universe turns bleak,
    When all that was meant to be
    Is no longer new and sleek.

    The deadening sounds of winter
    do still yearly abound.
    But without any springtime
    to make the world go 'round.

GAMES

In a game of chance,
One swings, one hits, one misses,
Fifty-fifty rules
Children play to win
A child's game is carefree
The winning is theirs.
Grown-ups play also,
Their games are of life and death,
Winners take nothing.


A MEMORY OF YOU

From outside the window, I know I heard it again,
that familiar thump;
most likely a bird flying close to the house.

It could have been that robin caring for her brood at thebeginning of spring, hurriedly feeding her hungry nestlings. Andat the very first dinner you caringly made for us as newlyweds,I remember the feeling I received upon seeing the smile on yourface and the happiness in your eyes as you came to meet me, evenbefore I had reached the top of the stairs.

Or, perhaps what I heard was the wood thrush I saw hastilybuilding a nest nearby with pieces of fallen bark from that oldsycamore tree, where we would sit for hours under its branches totalk of our dreams on lazy summer nights.

Together, we spied on birds.
But I felt they were really spying on us,
making special note that we never strayed from each other.

At times we'd see a lone bird perched in the tree oppositeour house, such as that red cardinal, the one we nicknamed"Cardo"—half cardinal, half dodo—for its aberrant habit of seeinghis reflection returned to him from the winter's glare on the windowglass, then heading straight for that target and striking hard.

The crash startled me. It broke the silence. As when sicknessstruck you hard. Then, all I heard was the distant cry of a mourningdove with its dirge-like cries of solitude.

Watching birds together is now in our past.
So that the sound I hear is only the thumping of my heart.
And I'd call you to see what just flew past,
but it was just another memory of you.

    OUT ON A "WHIM"

    I need to say something sudden,
    But what is left for us to say,
    To bring out all the passions,
    Which within me do still stay,
    I need to tell you I love you,
    Flying far from all the fray,
    Within the beating of my heart,
    To go out on a limb and sway,
    To tell whomever's listening,
    Ours is bound to be a great day.


    TWO CHAIRS

    A locked house won't save the anguished from pain,
    For when the stealth one enters, tears do remain.

    For the two chairs we lovingly placed side-by-side,
    Abide where I dwell, but now leave me teary-eyed,
    Their purpose never to be realized again:
    To provide a place to rest within our domain,
    A chance to be close to my dear one no longer near,
    To hold hands with each other, through all impending fear.

    For a new vision remains out of reach to touch and feel,
    Like grasping a picture that can never be real,
    Or seeing in a dream a bird on the wing,
    Flying through God's heaven, while below my hands wring.
    For my feet are now restless and are tired as well,
    But I don't know where to search for the love where I dwell.

    On those days and nights, love was stolen from me,
    If two chairs could talk, they would speak endlessly.

THE PROCESSION

Verdant grasses outline,
August bulrushes wait near,
A water lily,

Unmoving is the
Silent lily of my heart,
Black storm clouds gather.

Rain drizzles on us,
Your lips are warm to my touch,
Still flows our life.

Raging water floods,
No escaping the cloudburst.
Is God's will now done?

The wind billows a hymn,
The silent procession starts,
My stilled flower—gone

    GOLDEN VICTORY

    Greek goddess, Athena, leaned on her spear,
    Mourning the felled one she once held most dear,
    I visit, bearing my heart in my hand,
    The one who still shares in all I withstand,
    In grief and sorrow and lonely love, too;
    I hope you are glad I am here next to you,
    In triumph, this golden victorious day,
    Journeying together, once again to pray.

    I wish we'd meet King Midas on the way,
    With flowers touched into a golden array,
    He'll give them to you to wear in your hair,
    Glowing like light from the brightest suns' glare,
    Ringing the prayer we will both sound aloud,
    My voice reaching to heaven's highest cloud;
    Yours too, known in a gentle flowers' call,
    For victorious God has beheld death's fall.


    SILENT SNOW

    In truth,
    why can't they go away,
    those children,
    uncontrollably
    still shouting with glee
    at the sight of descending snow?
    For it's as if they know by name each
    soft and silent crystal,
    falling one moment and melting the next,
    striking the window and reflecting the midday sun.

    Blinded by the brightness,
    one is forced to look away,
    to stare upon the softness of a face clothed in repose,
    as if asleep in the silent beating of the heart,
    as silent as a Christmas rose
    soon to be mindlessly crushed underfoot,
    by children laughing in the pristine snow,
    by dreams descending from
    promised hope to melted slush;
    too late to relive the fanfare of young love
    and the knowing of a first embrace,
    too early to exist only within the window of a mind
    as a sound no longer to be heard,
    as year after year silently melted away,
    as silent as melting snow.

    In truth,
    where shall these two souls
    with closed eyes and
    minds go?
    For in brushing aside snow
    melting from a furrowed brow,
    zigzags the fear of life's closing window,
    with watchful eyes on the setting sun,
    and the loathing to believe that a life
    here in this moment could not be
    forever and forever and forever.
    Within the truth of a silent tear now
    uncontrollably descending,
    is the knowing of a final embrace,
    the deafening hush of falling snow
    doomed to forever crush the heart
    of the shouting child,
    when one soul, in silence,
    melted without fanfare;
    when the other, embittered,
    melted to despair.

EXPECTATION

Near a shut window,
Amid somber graying clouds,
A lonely one waits,

Once wide-eyed and glad,
Her tears fall like rain on glass,
Endlessly waiting.

To know of a return,
A word from the hospital;
Her smile restored.

A glass surface needs
A mirage of shining gold,
A ray of sunlight.

Unfettered by the
Disrupting rainstorm of life
On one unprepared.

Time will also wait,
The mirage of life will shine
In some way, some form.

    A MANAGEMENT DECISION

    A little girl came to the front door,
    Asking if I wished to buy Girl Scout cookies.
    However, I have a strong feeling that,
    Had you reached the door first,
    And seen the two satchels of cookies she carried,
    You would have asked her what kind she was selling.
    Then, after the passing of our initial moment of surprise,
    Our eyes would have smiled a silent answer of agreement.
    But I would have you decide which should we purchase.
    And during this management decision we'd be thinking;
    As we always did, that we would store them away,
    And not devour them all at once.
    And of course that would never happen,
    Something which we would both know,
    The little game with each other we loved to play.
    As my response, I told the little girl no.
    But after she left, I wished she had returned.
    Because then I would have thought of you and bought a box.
    To playfully store away with my other thoughts of you.


    APRIL FOOL

    Perhaps I can fool myself into believing
    I'm not hearing thunder in the distance.
    Because the sun is still shining where I am.
    For some time now, the days feel warmer
    and the birdcalls sound louder.
    Perhaps because I've taken to being outdoors more often,
    to revel in the passing of winter's cold.
    To perhaps catch a vestige of your spirit in the form of a
    shadow brushing past the treed landscape before me.
    But I will just patiently sit here and wait,
    pretending to be doing something else,
    concealing my desire to be as close to you as if the leaves
    opening on a tree.
    Perhaps I may even fool myself into thinking I have found a
    way to will your spirit to visit me.
    Because I am desperate and will try anything,
    just to be near you again.
    Even to fooling myself into believing I can play the role of
    God.


    HUNGER STRIKE

    I'm on a hunger strike; it's of my own choosing.
    You know how these things start—
    as a protest of some sort, or a reaction to something.
    But my mind is so weak now that I'm not sure if I remember
    any longer how or why mine began.
    I'm in this type of jail: Familiar but yet not so,
    filled with thoughts, but yet so empty since you left.
    I had gotten by with scraps of thoughts about you.
    But now, in the pervasive pangs of emptiness,
    even these have been taken from me.
    The jailer acts like God, telling you to leave,
    telling me it's for my own good,
    coming around yet again with scraps
    of food, thinking I'll finally eat.
    But he knows I'll just leave them to sit with all the others.
    Before I got to this place, you always gave me the food I
    loved.
    But you no longer come to sit with me.
    And so, that must be how my hunger strike began:
    It was born the last time I saw you.
    How long has it been? God, I can't think clearly any longer.
    Every now and then in your absence, I would reach that
    point of desolation causing me to cave-in and relent.
    But not this time: I, too, have reached my point of no return.
    Will you sit by my side and hold my hand?
    Because this time, I realize that my hunger is for you.


    ASUNDER

    A book unlike any other,
    You open it and sigh,
    Its pages worn.
    Its binding torn,
    Seeing something that strikes your eye.

    A picture, now torn from its place,
    As if seeking to be free,
    Its corners bent.
    Your vision spent,
    Still searching it lovingly,

    For now, though lived long ago,
    Is seen that familiar image:
    Your fanciful wife.
    You starting life,
    On the first day of your marriage.

    She is smilingly peering ahead,
    In her hands a bouquet fair,
    Looking at ease.
    Wanting to please,
    As you make one last touch to her hair.

    Her whispered cry reaches your ears:
    "Stop all your fussing today,"
    Taken aback.
    You offer her slack,
    Standing without disarray.

    But in your reverie today,
    You strain your eyes to stare,
    Yes, you were close.
    But never morose,
    Joyful only that she is there.

    Her little glint of a smile
    Banishes any strife,
    With quick glance to you.
    Her love shining through,
    Eyes pleading, "Please hold me through life."

    Where did all those years go,
    You shake your head and wonder?
    Now all alone.
    To only bemoan,
    The passing of life torn asunder.

A VIRTUAL VALENTINE'S DAY

Though no flowers are sent your way today,
Does not mean none will be given to you anyway,
For these very words wrap around each other,
Phrase by phrase, their petals are formed,
Line by line, their message reformed,
And their sweet fragrance rises high all the day.

Around the one I still love they wrap as a vest,
A bouquet given in the spirit of rest,
But far stronger than papier-mâch,
With more color than those made of clay,
I leave one for you whenever I come and pray,
The blossoms remain `till I will no longer go away.

Those without a heart on this day,
will give flowers that will fade away,
But flowers not subject to death form a pillar of love
Reaching clear up to the starry lights of heaven above
For commercially-bought posies live only one day,
Bringing no lasting peace to hearts at rest today.