Poetry Editors

We rock back and forth in our chairs,
Praying for anything at all
But the lingering submissions
That hover above our heads
And cover our small desks,
Begging each day to be read.

Here is one from a woman
Who lives on a farm in Ohio
And claims to adore turnips.
Her latest full-length manuscript
Is a series of "elegant" sonnets,
Commemorating the misbegotten root
In its magnificent glory.
Might we care to indulge
And publish at least a few gems,
With which she is willing to part.

A gentleman in the throes
Of a rather nasty divorce
Has sent us his poetry—
This long litany of complaints
Concerning his shrewish wife, Claire,
Who has stolen his car,
Quit her job at the Winn Dixie
And left town with the local pastor.
He informs us, matter-of-factly,
Should we choose to reject his work,
He may very well move to Peru.

Late at night, we picture
Sad faces and hear tearful pleas
Before we close our eyes to sleep.
In nets of recurring dreams
We lead the July 4th parade
Down Main Street in Anytown,
Pushing rust-colored wheelbarrows
Containing assorted pages,
Spilling out from their sides,
Fluttering so high in the wind
We cannot catch them all.

Party on and on and on
Until the clocks run down
And the sand spills over
The twelve hands of time.
They make no plans for futures,
Ripe with nothing but renown —
Ageless sages who know
Never to stop at any town
That closes before dawn.
One by one they drink
The tumescent nights away
And tell stories to quench
The thirst they attempt to slake
Throughout their restless lives.
And what of the girls —
Stuck in their leather boots —
Gazing longingly at rakish faces
In a circle around them.
Will they soon recover
From such secret lovers
And that first taste of spring …
The name of each rowdy boy
Forever engraved like a stamp
On their sweet young tongues.

In the tender hands
Of the gentle man,
Love grows like a rose
Whose petals open to show
The woman he knows.
And soft is his touch
That strokes her skin—
This slow, kind act
For which she wishes
To grant him forgiveness
The moment he asks it.
She wonders where he learned
The lost art of hesitation,
How kiss and caress differ
In every conceivable way
And why one of his glances
Makes her knees quiver.
Each night she prays
He will never go away,
Leaving her vacant and dry,
Unable to seize the desire
Which waits so patiently
In the tender hands
Of the gentle man.

Just one last request—
It's all I ask—
A small act of kindness
I wish to remember you by,
When winter slips into spring
And we stand no more,
Huddled against the stiff wind
This time of year brings.

Please don't let them know
How it was we came
To love each other—
Why yours were the arms
I chose to wrap around me—
A shawl of forgiveness
I wore to face the cold.

And don't tell woeful tales
That trap the truth in lies,
Where body and soul collide
Under the sad guise of reason.
Step gently away from temptation—
The profane urge to shed
What little remains of our skin.

He had cultivated
Love in a windowbox,
So high above the city
That he never saw the street.
Daily, his patient fingers
Nurtured the soil,
And watched seed
Slowly turn to stalk,
And stem become flower.
Here was goodness
He could hold
In the palm of his hand,
Bright sunlight which danced
Down a deserted hallway,
And crept across
The drab little room,
Where, page by page,
He pressed each precious petal
Into the book of life.

The crow came soon
To rest among feathers—
Cool to the claw,
Warm on the wing.

The crow did not know
How long it had been,
Since this downy bed
Tucked another bird
In the soft grasp of spring.

For all the crow cared,
It may well have taken
Nine beaks to build the nest,
But it was of no consequence.

When a lonely crow
Measures the black stars
Against a glass sky,
Nothing can safely pass
Between night and sleep.

Under Damaris' dress
I crept that cold night
To watch the crackling firelight
Burn between her legs.
White winter snow dropped flakes
Against the windowpane
And inside I remained
To cross the orange lake.
My trembling hands she covered,
My wild eyes she closed,
With only words that she would know
She taught me how to love her.
We lay so near, the fear so far,
I felt my life unfold,
On silken sheets, in tents of gold,
I caught a falling star.
Her gentle touch, her soft caress,
From these I must confess,
I learned the art of tenderness
Under Damaris' dress.

200 Kisses

200 kisses—
We numbered every one,
No two the same,
I am thinking of them now
And the sweet fragrance
That lingers from your skin,
The summer dress
Clinging to the antique chair,
And your bonnet at rest
By the foot of the bed;
You have gone for the night
But this desire remains.

At work,
Beneath the cool antiseptic glow
And the polished floors,
I can hear them
Asking about the day
And where you go,
What shall you say?
How many clever ways are there
To disguise our love?

I will not stir
From where we lay—
My hands vacant,
My lips dry;
I see your face,
The curl of your smile,
And know why
I still believe in angels,
Beating back the wind,
Their delicate wings on fire.

I listen closely
For the sound of key in lock,
This world spinning like a gyre,
And live to count
Each moment with you,
Kiss by kiss by kiss.

On Fairfax, near Farmer's Market,
I'm told I should marry.
To grow old is no bargain
They mutter in their long black coats
And nod beneath their yarmulkes,
Noticing how my hair thins:
This is a sure sign of worry.
A wife will calm my nerves,
A full head of hair will be mine
One year to the day
I stand under the chupah.
The holiday just tomorrow:
What am I doing with my life?
How can I pray alone on the Sabbath?
From whom shall I receive nachas?
If not now—when?
They offer to make inquiries for me.

Late evening,
I lie alone
Searching the darkened universe
For tiny Stars of David
Glittering in the sky
I dream of endless Seder Plates,
Stacks of Haggadahs surround me,
I cannot reach the charoseth,
The cup I've filled for Elijah
Empties before my eyes,
The Four Questions become Five
And I behold the Ten Plagues
Spread upon the unleavened bread at my side.
I scream
Loud enough
To disturb a Pharoah's nap.

I wake the next day rested
And recite the morning sh'ma.
Dressed in a cobalt suit
I walk to synagogue,
Tallith and phylacteries clutched in hand.
Today's prayer is one of redemption,
God knows my affliction—
Reciting Kaddish,
I ask to be led
Out of bondage from Egypt
Into the land of Israel.

To pattern a life—
A deed worth dying for.
In the mother tongue of a father's heart,
A word forever spoken,
A blessing more noble
Than the only son at dawn,
Dangling on a cross.

With wood and wire and glue—
This is how it is done:
Piece by piece,
A temple on a strand of porous sand,
A church in the midnight sun.
Strike your hammer on every golden nail,
Singing hymn after hymn.

And it is never complete:
Reeds bend in a wind,
Dancers dispense with the dance,
A steady strain drops beyond the vale,
One lone voice echoes…an emerald glen.
Still, the architect stretches silver strings
Across the shores where once Cuchulain walked.

for Dennis Doyle