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Fragments
What can we do
But pity a tarnished life
Of Immoral conquests
And
failed dreams
Empty of merriment
Of a yearning for hearth and fireplace
Wife and love
Everything now in fragments
October
6, 1989
Nature Call
I heard that call again, I did
Deep within my soul,
amid
Cries of loons
And woodcock tunes.
Moors and swamps
Dressed in cattail browns,
Foxtail ornaments
With
foxfire crowns.
Dark at night the only sound,
A hissing of nature sprites
In
the ground.
And hidden dandelion kings
Whisper at being clothed
Yellow, red, brown.
A humming bird with a sing-song tune
Croons, croons, croons
While
shrouds of evergreen jeweled shrubs
Dance under a cloudless moon.
October
11, 1989
Corn Stalk
The corn stalk
Stands tall not rigid,
Swayed by a tender
breeze.
One thin stem it stands on,
Leaning north or south with ease.
But man is most unyielding,
And won't bend on his two stems.
Yet
they both will wither
And wilt down to the ground.
The man he fades to ashes,
The corn just fades to brown.
October 17, 1989
I Remember Grandpa
Note: This poem is dedicated to David's beloved grandfather, Harry Schwimmer.
"Grandpa Harry" lived in a tenement in the South Bronx at 940 Kelly Street, where he died in his sleep in 1959.
David was about five years old at the time. David has fond and priceless memories of sitting on his grandfather's
lap in a tiny kitchen. Whenever David visitied his grandparents, Harry and Helen, his
grandpa would hand him five brand new pennies, which he would take home and put inside his red plastic piggy bank.
Sadly, "Grandpa Harry" died suddenly and
unexpectedly, leaving a big hole in David's heart.
So long ago
Just a blur
You held me
Made me laugh
Always
a smile
A happy time
I won't forget
Your five pennies
Your wet kisses
Your prickly wiskers
Before death
came
To take you
To the graveyard.
June 22, 1989
Grand Canyon
A canyon so vast-
It doesn't seem to have
A beginning or
ending.
How can one grasp
What it's like to stand
Looking north, east,
South, west into eternity
Attuned to
nature,
Aware that I'm just a speck,
Like a sand particle
Empty of mind and powerless-
This canyon humbled me.
Showed me that its
Brown baked walls will
Outlast me. Millions
Of years before I was born,
Millions
of years after I'm gone,
These dry sandstone cliffs
Will live on.
December
11, 1990
In Forever
WE SHUT
the doors
of hope.
WE LOCKED
ourselves in,
and now
we can't
get out.
September 14, 1993
We're Prisoners
WE ARE
As babies crying
For mothers
Long dead.
WE ARE
As children crying
For fathers gone to graves.
WE ARE
The ghosts
Of dreams
That died.
WE ARE
The prisoners
Of our
Own hands.
WE ARE
The killers
Of ourselves.
September 13, 1993
The Angry Young Lions
The lions sit meekly in their cages
Held now in captivity
after a
Lifetime spent hunting their prey
In the jungles of concrete and glass
Wasting away the remainder of
Their
days
Staring at the flourescent lightbulbs
in the ceiling.
Lion tamers, dozens of them,
struting about with clubs,
Seeking
to tame these wild beasts,
Fearful of being mauled
By their own charges.
Angry young lions,
Most in the prime of life,
Full of power
and strength
Locked in a cage.
Angry
Hungry
Full of murderous rage,
Having to walk in single
file
When once
They roamed free,
But without purpose.
Roaming the open roads
Preying upon others,
Others preying
upon them,
In jungles full of concrete and glass,
Taking their freedom for granted.
But then capture!
Arrest and incarceration!
Now the lions sit in cages
One by one
under the watchful eyes
Of
their tamers,
Whose job it is
To re-orient
And re-educate
The beasts.
With force if necessary,
To teach them how to live
in the jungles
Without
stalking and killing.
To live honestly
In a dishonest world.
To teach them principles
in a world where
Principles
are non-existant.
And politicians steal,
And those with money
Can kill their prey
Without having to be stained
With
it's blood.
Angry young lions
Bewildered and confused,
In a violent world.
All their lives surviving by wit
And courage
And instinct,
Now held captive
By those who fear them.
Yet waiting for the day
When the tamers must meet
And decide
And
determine
That these lions
Are no longer dangerous.
That they no longer
Will seek live game,
But will gladly settle
For a bowl of lettuce.
And will willingly revert
To a passive existance
That is as alien to them
As the lives
of their keepers.
Morning Song
In the early morning hours
Before the dew leaves the flowers
As
mountain mists lift from the earth,
Before the dawn sun leaps from her berth-
A Path is now open for meditation,
Concentration,
reflection, contemplation.
Before the birds rise from their nests,
It's the perfect time
if one invests
In praising, prayer, and leaving
Behind all care and grieving.
From the pain of the world,
A world filled with dark despair,
Embroiled
in hatred,
Bitterness and strife----
It will quickly end your life.
The early morn is best for me,
The fading stars and pale moon
Blend
with the coming soon,
Of sun and birds and flowers-
The heat of long daylight hours.
You see, the dawn is really a time of rest
And one who understands
this is truly blest.
In the quiet center of one's mind
The voice of Jesus you will find.
An invitation from the Son
To walk with Him before the day's begun.
For
what my Savior has in store
Is to help me, heal me, and so much more!
January 3, 1991
Goodnight, My Son
A prisoner's thoughts about his little son
______________________________________
Goodnight, my son,
Goodnight, my son,
Have sweet and pleasant
Dreams.
A watchful eye I'll keep for thee,
Tho I'm far away, it
seems
Goodnight, my son,
Goodnight, my son,
May serenity
Come
to thee.
Many miles away,
I linger, thinking
Of you and me
Oh, if
this could be...
I'd like to be free
One day, as free
As a bird in flight,
To
hold you, hug you,
Kiss your cheek,
And wish you a pleasant
Goodnight!
October 22, 1989
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