Letting Go

When I first stepped into the river

I knew I couldn't swim

and the river was swollen

and running fast

a dark and muddy brown

but I took the step anyway.

There was the shock of the cold

the shock of the turbulence

the shock of the swirling current

and vision narrowed

and my breath become heavy

and thick with the river.

Then I woke

to realize it was all a dream

but when I sighed in relief

the river's water filled my mouth

and then I awoke again

to know it was not a dream.

Yet I did not struggle

against the currents

I did not seek to escape

I let them carry me where they would

I let them punish me as they wanted

and closed my eyes helpless.

In the darkness I turned, wallowed and slid

to open my eyes mention defeat

to panic and claw and grasp

to struggle and heave and gasp

to fear the fear that held me.

clench

clench

when i learned that my son was dead 

something clenched deep inside 

though my face made no change 

except maybe a twitch under my left eye 

i saw my wife collapse on the kitchen floor 

all the bones of her body gone 

but i could not move to help her 

not until the twitch under my eye let me 

in the days that followed my eye grew calm 

and unreality moved about me 

i swam inside it like the sea 

neither warm nor cool  nor shallow nor deep 

my wife formed bones again strangely stiff 

i could almost feel them pushing my hands away 

a hard ghost stood between us now 

his touch too much to bear 

a closed coffin built by another’s hands 

mocked the tools skills and material 

i knew well what my son knew 

the better craftsman than his father

 

when the builder builds he asks not why 

his imagination too narrow to see 

that the building will eventually fall 

and another builder build again

 

the creator creates us finite and weak 

our struggle so great we need no help 

in discovering new ways to die 

so rages my mind

 

my son one of many in the foreign place 

one of many fallen  into whose hands 

of the many families who grieve 

who can never unclench again

easter sunday

on an easter morning in the 50s

my sister and i received 

a large easter basket each

the crowning glory

was a huge chocolate bunny

hollow and waiting to be eaten

but i could not eat mine

first was the dreary inevitable

of an easter sunday high mass

with the chanting and the incense

the pageantry and the raiments

the liturgy and the sermon

my heart and soul grew faint

at the thought of being wedged

between my mother and her friends

on the pew in their easter finery

with their latest hairsprayed hairstyles

and reeking of pungent perfume

i carried the chocolate bunny

and hid it in the backseat of the car

under tissues and it cowered

all through mass as my father 

sat and smoked and read the paper

as the warm spring day heated up

after mass we were greeted

with an unwholesome mess

of melted bunny and tissue

fearful of my parents’ anger

i managed to spread the mess

and covered my hands and shirt

it could not be hidden

once we returned home but

i cannot recall what punishment

was meted out to the devilish boy

i suppose my father tried to clean

the seat but the stain remained

often during road trips long and short

my sister and i avoided the spot

as if it were lava on the seat

we’d sit on our separate sides

me on the left and she on the right

pressed against the door panels

a year later my father sold the car

the stain a shadow of itself 

the place where still we would not sit

perhaps another child again avoided

the melted chocolate bunny stain

that spread beneath mercury’s gaze

jeg.

4/21/19

the tomb of words

I dreamt that all poems were written

and that we’d write poems no more

a silence of words fell across the land

every language and every tongue

And when I tried to write the words

into a new and different form

to be original and and to be alive

the words would form no more

And all the words settled into an order

and all the thoughts followed in turn

and all the minds went rigid within

and all the voices sounded along

Neither good nor evil nor hot nor cold

the words fell as an invisible rain

upon the soundless empty souls

and new thought was frozen solid

I woke to find that all the words

had congealed upon my tongue

my mouth too full to spit them out

my throat too narrow to swallow

I woke to find that all the poems 

had been reduced to dust

what was important is not now

and the words interred into tombs

These tiny tombs did not hold

the dreaming words were unquiet

the ghosts of thoughts rose to haunt

my hopes of waking poems once more.

jeg.

10/16

inside

i am frail

and i fear the moments 

of weakness inside

tools

the tools are clumsy in my hands these days

i used to be so quick and sure

dropping the hammer dropping the nails

fumbling with my fingers

measuring and remeasuring 

and missing the cut

why do my hands seem to get in the way

they once were delicate and nimble

this is the second time i dropped that

stiff and unwieldy fingers

grip loosening and tightening

a hair more a hair less

my body has betrayed me in the aging days

eyes unclear reflexes unsure

memories dropped careless and wasteful

the fingers slow to open or close

numbing and cold

the jagged cut too short

jeg.

12/17

over

in this life

i have done everything wrong

i want to start over

death inside creeps

hovering at the closed door

until beckoned

death, silent, inside creeps

the cold breath

across the warm face 

lips part and slacken

the tongue lolls

the eyes turn

and motion settles

and time keeps on

jeg.

2/18

heart

you know I loved you with all my heart

it was just that I didn’t have enough heart for you

jeg.

2/18

petty

I do not understand your petty god

he does not sound like a god

he sounds like an old man

weak and trembling in the night

afraid of losing the power he holds

i do not understand your petty god

why does he fear other gods

and forbids us their worship

weak and vain and not all powerful

careful to conceal a lack of power at all

jeg.

2/18

the man in the mirror

i see the man in the mirror

but i do not know what others see

an aging balding softening man

or some kind of evil to avoid

i used to not hate the mirror

but these day the less seen the better

i brush my hair in a reflection

my teeth in furtive glimpses

i am surrounded by framed photographs

but in only one of them is me

hidden in a corner of the bookshelf

a young man unaware of what is to come

jeg.

5/18

fire-fight

one minute i was the all-American

john wayne fighting machine

and the next i was lying helpless

on the ground crying for help

watching the blood run out of me

the darkness pulling closer

the light fading

a sacrifice on the altar of greed

jeg.

11/18

the hate savage

the hate savage lies within

its blind eyes hating all it cannot see

clouded white, unblinking and cold

waiting for the light to dim

in darkness the sighted and unsighted

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its deaf ears hating all it cannot hear

cauliflower cartilage, twisted and numb

waiting for the sound to dim

in silence the heard and unheard

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its mute tongue hating all it cannot say

tar blackened, bitten and bloodied

waiting for the words to dim

in gasps the spoken and unspoken

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its anosmic nose hating all it cannot smell

flattened, congested and running

waiting for the smells to dim

in miasma the scented and unscented

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its numb fingers hating all it cannot touch

calloused, gnarled and broken

waiting for the touch to dim

insensate the feeling and unfeeling

exist equally.

11/16

jeg

Thanksgiving

The Thanksgivings continue to add up

and my heart is no longer quite broken.

It is oddly lumpy and scarred and battered

and has lost the ability to mourn and wail

but it is definitely of one piece.

Every year a bit is gained a bit is lost

and I ignore the consequences of this.

It is a part of aging a part of life and of dying

that goes on until it doesn’t

until I am no longer aware of the sequence.

A memory here a recollection there

like relics to be prayed over and mulled.

I have collected all I can collect

that collection is now part of the background

and collects dust in place of tears.

Except every now and then a solitary spark

ignites the fire to flames once again.

These fires threaten to engulf and overwhelm

they crackle and spread from the center

to my mind to my heart to my soul.

Yet each time they start to burn and encroach 

upon some unscarred ground they dampen down.

A lack of fuel a lack of oxygen a lack of heat

saves me once again from the memories

banked and dulled amongst the ashes.

Thanksgiving is a wind barely stirring the embers

though there are other days I dread and avoid.

I seek to pour water on the smoldering

I need to quench the center of the fire

that welds my lump of a heart together.

11/24/16

jeg

My American Mirror

As I open up the page

and look into my American mirror

I never know what I’ll see

waves of joy winds of hope

clouds of fear rains of hate

all pierce my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and stare into my American mirror

am I aghast at what I see

rivers of wealth mountains of goods

deserts of hunger canyons of waste

all enter my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and glance into my American mirror

do I know what I see

schools of love cities of peace

houses of despair temples of self

all touch my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and delve into my American mirror

should I love what I see

armies of help masses of kindness

souls of solitude hearts of loneliness

all pass my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and step into my American mirror

must I accept what I see

wonders of freedom glories of triumph

despairs of slavery depths of imprisonment

all blind my American eye

and settle in my mind

11/27/16

jeg.

terse words

written words are shadows of thought

etched upon the page in ash

their meanings vary

self-serving to insightful 

they are ghosts until read

spoken words are echoes of thought

caste upon the atmosphere

their meanings vary

lies to truth

they are ghosts until heard

shouted words are bullets of thought

shot into the mind

their meanings vary

encouragement to destruction

they are ghosts until fired 

whispered words are vestiges of thought

shimmering on the surface

their meanings vary

seduction to malice

they are ghosts until shared

remembered words are dreams of thought

lost in the mind

their meanings vary

delight to horror

they are ghosts until recalled

forgotten words are essences of thought

distilled its most basic

their meanings vary

tongue tips to nagging

they are ghosts until failed

guilty words are crimes of thought

twisted into innocence

their meanings vary

shame to pride

they are ghosts until arisen

whimpered words are sorrows of thought

clad in the moments of weakness

their meanings vary

remorse to helpless

they are ghosts until sounded

terse words are the ends of thought

best left unspoken

their meanings vary

unwritten and unthought

they are ghosts until understood

11/29/16

jeg.

prayer

the price of prayer

the price of life

life is taken away

and life is given back

yet somehow it does not balance

in the heart

i cannot trade one life for another

they all seem to tear away pieces of my heart

when one arrives it demands its share of the love

and when it leaves it takes that share away

how much love

is left in the heart

perhaps that is why it flutters and fumbles at night

when sleepless

the restless unbidden thoughts mingle

that which is present and that which is absent

until the early light brings sleepless to wakeless

and begins a new cycle of pauses and regrets

the bits of love

that have been given away

do they stay in others’ lives forever

or are castaway

a bloody shadow here a dried wisp there

littering the paths that were taken

discarded wantonly disposed of carelessly

and left to mark the trails that could never be

i scatter my life

as i scatter my love

in the knowledge of imbalance

left are memories and tears

furrowing the age of the face until all is barren

twitching vacant loveless heartless and drying

awaiting the savage moment that lies between

the sad slow movement of time to life to death

jeg.

4/8/17

clock

the seconds and minutes drag

while the days weeks and months flash by

my inner clock is out of touch

confused by the real time that never ceases

jeg. 

4/17

The Call Button

I was flying across the Pacific

and, inadvertently, I pressed the call button

and when the flight attendant appeared

I roused myself out of a mid-flight

half sleep half wake

and apologized and went back to my half state

Another call button arose in my thoughts

it was the early sixties and I was awaiting

a minor operation on a Sunday afternoon

bored in the hospital fascinated by the TV remote

warned to never press 

the call button lying snakelike next to my pillow

I must have clicked the television through

its three or four channels a thousand times

sparing a glance every other minute

to the forbidden call button by my head

all night as I half slept

it winked and beckoned in the room's half light

And yet another call button came to my mind

into a cool hospital room as I watched my mother

wrapped in ice to cool the fever

and wrapped in morphine to cool the pain

as breathing stopped

and I reached for the call button by her head

5/13/17

jeg.