As a city, my heart recalls the cataclysm
That shook and shattered it to its deepest foundation
Even so, it may someday again find its rhythm
Yet a new normal, not the old, in its station.
The city knows where it’s dangerous to rebuild
The street that was here but now is moved over there
The places of old dreams that cannot be fulfilled
Where new growth replaces old ruins, it’s only fair!
The city hopes what is raised up anew will be
Better, yet cannot be sure in its quiet moments
As it is all for the young, and can barely see
My epitaph among the temblor’s monuments.
I can never expect the young to want to seek
The things that out of my heart I now want to pour
Yet old-timers most softly and wistfully may speak
Of their world before the Great ‘Quake of ‘Twenty-Four!
In my Father’s house are many mansions, Jesus said
But why many, if all who follow Jesus are one?
Should there not be only a single mansion instead
Where we can at last see our unity fully won?
Can it be even in Heaven we’ll not see
Fully the unity he bought and longs to bestow
Because in separate mansions we’ll protected be
From those of his children who we despised here below?
Rejecting friend, is it in God’s justice possible
That I will miss the joy of reconciliation
In Heaven, that God will not be held responsible
For your pain from our eternal association?
Jesus is my friend, my eternity is secure
And I am confident you will find the same reward.
But by offending you so greatly, ought I now fear
Living in Heaven’s solitary confinement ward?
O summer night of dreary dreams
Spineless creatures do sneaky things.
O but upon a midnight prairie
I looked upon the stars a many
O I felt the arms of someone merry
I really hoped but on the contrary
O Wonderful world of spiteful treats
Smiles a god of devil’s deceits
O But how a wonderful why
To dream the touch of a lover by
O But creeping slowly ready to go
Were feelings of desire about to overthrow
O It felt so wrong It felt so right
Forget it all there was something more here tonight.
From the first hello to the most recent goodbye,
I can’t hide my smile when you look in my eyes.
A sweet whisper-like melody,
Every word sings quixotically.
Sideways glances from across the hall,
And all the times I can recall
Of anxiously hoping to run into you,
And wondering if you ever had a clue…
You had me from the first day.
These words were once so hard to say.
I just hoped you’d find it a surprise
That I can convey a lot with my eyes.
There is something about the way you are
That makes it difficult for me to stay far.
And even though I always poke fun at you,
Know it’s a unique way to show my love is true.
So take my hand and twirl me around,
And we’ll lose ourselves in the stars that surround.
And even though you hate to dance,
Always know you’re worth the chance
I.
In Oropos, a lone warrior rode
On horseback in search of a place to rest.
He had been on a long and weary quest,
So, he pulled on the reins and his horse slowed.
Up in the trees, the afternoon sun showed
Two doves huddled together in their nest.
He stopped his horse, and thought it would be best
To reach into his pouches to unload.
He walked to the center of the woodland,
And kept watching the doves in their repose.
He found some shade and stopped, just as he planned—
As the doves took flight, he picked up a rose.
He ate berries from a bush with his hand,
And then prepared a spot where he might doze.
II.
Through the thick leaves, Cupid’s arrow did fly,
Dropping the strong warrior on his back.
And with no warning sign of the attack,
The wounded warrior let out a cry.
The very source of every lover’s sigh
Had now made his vision a world of black.
The arrow in his armor left a crack
Over his heart from the archer so sly.
The doves that were circling overhead
Softly landed near his fallen torso.
In the warrior’s current state of dread,
He yelled for help with his physical woe.
As more of his blood continued to shed,
He heard the distant screeching of a crow.
III.
Through the boughs, crept the goddess of healing,
Circling around the branches with ease.
She saw the warrior beyond the trees,
Then stopped in her place—carefully kneeling.
She watched him with a merciful feeling,
And slowly rose to her feet from her knees.
Hoping to cure him from pain and disease,
At the loose tree bark, she began peeling.
She walked with her golden hair a-flowing,
As her white tunic radiantly gleamed
And reflected into her eyes of green.
She looked down at the warrior, knowing
That his wounds were worse than what they first seemed—
Then, she sought out ways of washing him clean.
IV.
She pulled on the arrow with gentle care
To make sure that his pain was not increased.
It appeared to be more than man or beast
Could ever have endured—or even dare.
There was a wide crack in his armor where,
From his heart, the arrow was now released.
The warrior had been nearly deceased
When it was removed from him unaware.
The poisoned arrowed turned into a snake,
And slowly began crawling up her arm.
From forest plants, a poultice she did make
To free the warrior from deadly harm.
As he continued writhing from his ache,
A splash of water completed her charm.
V.
She assembled the best cure that she knew,
And its level of success was profound.
Now that all its components had been found,
The muddy poultice took on a dark hue.
Softly into the wooden bowl she blew,
And the serpent then fell upon the ground.
As the snake in the grass slithered around,
The two doves simultaneously flew.
Walking over to where his body laid,
She worked away to heal his wounds and scars.
As there was no sort of debt to be paid,
She left his side, along with her nectars.
As he rose to his feet, he hoped and prayed
That she would take her place amongst the stars.
It was in a small town in the Midwest,
Where the following story once took place,
Between a woman and a man.
Each night, she held a cross close to her chest—
Praying just as hard as one can.
Every day, he kissed the sides of her face—
To be married soon was their plan.
One morning, he went away on a quest,
A family member was very ill—
It had now been several days.
In the living room, she now tried to rest,
As the sky became a gray haze.
From inside the house, the thunderstorm still
Made her worry in many ways.
She walked through the dark house to go outside,
As small insects swirled around her oil lamp—
The floor felt warm beneath her feet.
She opened up the front door, and then sighed—
The summer air was dense and sweet.
The humidity made her skin feel damp,
While she stood in the summer heat.
The rain began with a heavy downpour,
And over the garden she spread a sheet—
Her budding roses were covered.
She wished he was home like never before—
Her heart would then feel recovered.
Without her, his life never felt complete—
A true love he had discovered.
As he rode through the woods upon his horse,
He stopped off for a moment for a drink,
And saw the creek had overflown.
On his journey back, he still felt remorse
For having left her all alone.
While riding down a path, he tried to think
Of any ways he could atone.
Now, her long wait had finally ended,
As she saw him emerging from the trees—
Keeping his promise to be wed.
From the saddle, he quickly descended,
Repeating all he had once said.
He leaned down and brushed the dirt off his knees,
Then removed the hat from his head.
Upon his return from another town,
They embraced—no longer broken-hearted—
As crickets chirped a nighttime tune.
The heavy rainfall had helped to cool down
That warm summer evening in June,
And the cloud cover in the sky parted
To reveal the strawberry moon.
I.
She was a difficult person, too smart for academia perhaps
and reluctant to self-promote
and angry that she was unsung unlike her acclaimed grad school chums.
As Little Edie said she was a “staunch woman”
and the world—or her particular subfield of art history—
just didn’t like that.
She told me about the numerous friends and infrequent lovers
who had wronged her,
so I knew our friendship had a time stamp on it.
But O how we would kiki and make fun of our straight colleagues
(and how some of them deserved our bitchy ridicule
after all the phobic behavior they smugly presented to us queer folk!).
She was so witty and so lonely too.
Her lovely apartment on East End Avenue was covered in dust.
Sometimes she wanted an audience more than a friend,
other times I was her trusted ally, seeking and giving out advice, providing camaraderie.
And then I never saw her again.
Years later I found out she died from cancer.
II.
We had a stormy, silly romance.
I needed something time-consuming
to avoid focusing on my dissertation
and he certainly gave me drama with his erratic, if ardent, behavior.
He wasn’t working
and I noticed letters from the management company
for back rent piled on the kitchen table—
He lived in a doorman building, and I lived in a tenement.
But I paid my rent. And had money to take us out to dinner at the diner.
He had been a model for Valentino and was trained as a classical singer.
He was funny and loved to laugh.
He loved to call everyone Miss Thing,
including me.
He planned to become a Heldentenor
but he wasn’t quite ready he said to be on stage to sing heroic Wagnerian roles.
So he continued his voice lessons.
One day I noticed his back had mysterious spots on it.
He tested positive for HIV and I tested negative.
I pledged that I would stand by him
no matter what.
But then I never saw him again.
Years later I did a search on the Internet
And saw that he was married
and teaching voice at a college in the state where his mother was from.
III.
My mommy was a regal German-Irish feminist from the Bronx,
A strong swimmer afflicted with polio when young.
She was also a cry-baby like me and when we watched Old Yeller together, we sobbed,
and then laughed at each other.
She cried too when Bewitched was interrupted to announce that MLK was assassinated.
I tried to comfort her but couldn’t. No laughter then.
Later when I thought I was grown up, I started calling her by her first name.
She smiled each time I did this, as if to say,
call me what you want—
I know you are still my baby boy
and no matter what name you use
inside you are calling me Mommy and you always will.
Mommy was your first word and it will be your last.
O Jean. O Mommy. I have so much to tell you. I have a husband and a dog and I’m happy.
Well, most of the time.
I am taking care of your house, and its land, which is mine now, but it is still yours too.
And it turns out, I’m not crazy after all, but the world is.
In her last days she was in hospice care in her rented apartment in Brookline.
Though she was ready to be released from her shrinking body,
she took a turn for the better
and I jumped on the Amtrak train at Back Bay to resume my NYC life, if only for a few days.
But before the train pulled up to the Route 128 stop, my father called sobbing.
And then I never saw her again.
IV.
Sorry, but I refuse to sum up.
Yet I must confess
I have attempted the disappearing act too
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