The Pearls of Dawn, The Winter of Old Age and Night of My Last Drunk
The Pearls of Dawn (2002, memories of Easter Island) Standing on the dock looking out to sea From Easter Island, westward, one can see The girdle of twilight- The pearls of dawn, sliding toward Asia! And the hider edge of night, Crying to be born...
Time is relaxing: the gulls, and the crows, The condors, lizards and toads, the wolves And the scorpions, and poisonous frogs: Turn their faces, as daylight turns dark And brood in their trees, crevices, caves: Tomorrow they will devour each other- Tomorrow men will cover the island once More! All wide-ranging With cold carnivorous desires...
All forgetting for one long moment-now: The bleeding, the maimed, the caged The blindness of death, The unborn crying to be born (the world over, and war after war).
The quiet of the sun, resting, Burned and soared, hidden behind the moon: Soon to scratch out once again With those great unreal talons: like multiform Crayons that have stopped the day for night; Now will scratch out night for day: To bring forth its hot fountain of rays, Called dawn (it has swung around Asia it is on its way back again) In its pearl-white colorful array, All smoothed out, for the day...
Written: 9-21-2014/ No: 4555 The Winter of Old Age When the chill comes into the bones And frost covers Minnesota's windows.
When the icicles form their glassy shapes And one sits in by the kitchen stove, Cuddled under a blanket, or quilt- Arms folded, checks rosy-cold, one knows The winter of old age has arrived.
Old age weighs heavily the need for money As never youth needs it; you realize Old age has come, and will never go, -hence, eventful things happen in the Course of the winter, of one's old age: Even shaving with a safety racer, is bold: Fear of the unknown, the unexpected! Fiscal fear is reflected aloud...
You Roll your own cigarettes, you remain On the water-wagon: fragility has set-in! God has set this interval of time aside For meditation; realization, reflection.
To Make things right, before the long night! Written: 9-21-2014/No: 4554 Portrait by the author/poet's Grandfather 1969 (drawn freehand From a photography, in 1984).
Night of My Last Drunk (Or, 'A Reckless Drunk!'') July 25, 1984 At thirty-six, I looked closely at him, if he'd only come to realize his second awareness, what it was telling him- His complaint! His eyes appeared to burn with an insane recklessness, I noticed- The white face, leaner, the skin drawn tightly from check to jaw, to check- Crisscrossing the whole cheekbone, and then some! I looked a long time in the bathroom mirror in the Chalet Bar, That last night! I confronted the drunk inside of me! A slight twist had come to my mouth I noticed: I think it was bitterness, Frozen anger, for being me, a drunk.
"Tomorrow you'll be back here," that second mind, that other awareness told me, "and all those other tomorrows thereafter...
" The very carriage of my body, the way my clothes hung on me, my hygiene, all an advertisement to my intense recklessness with booze...
I thought about those far-off days, when I was not vexed with the compulsion to drink- There was such a period, but I was so damn young then, I had nearly forgotten that once I was not a drunk.
I suppose you could call those days, self-sufficing, in lack of a better term- (thus, life in itself was enough) Why was it that people had to live this way? Why was it necessary? That was the night of my last drunk! No: 4557 (11:59 p.
m.
) 9-21-2014
Time is relaxing: the gulls, and the crows, The condors, lizards and toads, the wolves And the scorpions, and poisonous frogs: Turn their faces, as daylight turns dark And brood in their trees, crevices, caves: Tomorrow they will devour each other- Tomorrow men will cover the island once More! All wide-ranging With cold carnivorous desires...
All forgetting for one long moment-now: The bleeding, the maimed, the caged The blindness of death, The unborn crying to be born (the world over, and war after war).
The quiet of the sun, resting, Burned and soared, hidden behind the moon: Soon to scratch out once again With those great unreal talons: like multiform Crayons that have stopped the day for night; Now will scratch out night for day: To bring forth its hot fountain of rays, Called dawn (it has swung around Asia it is on its way back again) In its pearl-white colorful array, All smoothed out, for the day...
Written: 9-21-2014/ No: 4555 The Winter of Old Age When the chill comes into the bones And frost covers Minnesota's windows.
When the icicles form their glassy shapes And one sits in by the kitchen stove, Cuddled under a blanket, or quilt- Arms folded, checks rosy-cold, one knows The winter of old age has arrived.
Old age weighs heavily the need for money As never youth needs it; you realize Old age has come, and will never go, -hence, eventful things happen in the Course of the winter, of one's old age: Even shaving with a safety racer, is bold: Fear of the unknown, the unexpected! Fiscal fear is reflected aloud...
You Roll your own cigarettes, you remain On the water-wagon: fragility has set-in! God has set this interval of time aside For meditation; realization, reflection.
To Make things right, before the long night! Written: 9-21-2014/No: 4554 Portrait by the author/poet's Grandfather 1969 (drawn freehand From a photography, in 1984).
Night of My Last Drunk (Or, 'A Reckless Drunk!'') July 25, 1984 At thirty-six, I looked closely at him, if he'd only come to realize his second awareness, what it was telling him- His complaint! His eyes appeared to burn with an insane recklessness, I noticed- The white face, leaner, the skin drawn tightly from check to jaw, to check- Crisscrossing the whole cheekbone, and then some! I looked a long time in the bathroom mirror in the Chalet Bar, That last night! I confronted the drunk inside of me! A slight twist had come to my mouth I noticed: I think it was bitterness, Frozen anger, for being me, a drunk.
"Tomorrow you'll be back here," that second mind, that other awareness told me, "and all those other tomorrows thereafter...
" The very carriage of my body, the way my clothes hung on me, my hygiene, all an advertisement to my intense recklessness with booze...
I thought about those far-off days, when I was not vexed with the compulsion to drink- There was such a period, but I was so damn young then, I had nearly forgotten that once I was not a drunk.
I suppose you could call those days, self-sufficing, in lack of a better term- (thus, life in itself was enough) Why was it that people had to live this way? Why was it necessary? That was the night of my last drunk! No: 4557 (11:59 p.
m.
) 9-21-2014
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