Theirs is truly an endless love; she always races to embrace him, never questioning his absences, only welcoming wildly his return—
He hurries to her, strewing ahead of him glistening jewels encased in shell and sand crystal—his offerings cover his love. She watches as he comes toward her—closer and closer, “He’s coming, he’s coming.” Boas of white froth frame her; she knows he is near.
They consummate their love, then locked in close embrace they roll about, flaunting their loving— making their own music, hearing only the songs of the seabirds above them. Sun can shine, rain can fall; it makes no difference to them.
Too soon the time comes for him to return whence he came, to renew himself again. He leaves, always roaring, “I’ll be back.”
One day I stood upon the beach, and as he went away, I thought I heard her say, “We have to stop meeting this way”—
This is the love story of the surf and the shore—
Nothing more—
(Shame on you.)
The Rejected Juror
Down, down ego!
Come now fallen pride!
The judge told you
There is nothing personal involved.
Ah, but yes, still way down
Deep, deep inside—
Why do you feel so dejected?
So pushed aside?
Is it because your peers are
Going to a party and
You are not invited?
Ode To A Cucumber
Little cucumber,
I’ve got your number.
So sweet and green
Scrubbed so clean,
I know you really like to drink a lot,
I can see you heading for that crock—
If only you hadn’t crawled along the ground
You never would have found
Yourself made into a pickle.
For one so sweet, you’ll end up sour
Soaking in brine for many an hour.
You will lie in a jar so smelly
Somewhere
In some deli,
Till you are sold across the counter.
That will be your end—
My little green friend—
(Your) City Property (Park)
Broken benches
Men, and fences
Littered pathways
Cluttered minds, winos
Nodding in the sun
Pigeon painted statues
No roller skating
No bike riding
No ball playing
This is your park—
Enjoy it—
The Relative Account
If you die and leave a will
Mourning relatives will fight until
It is broken, litigated unto death and still
they’ll mourn
Counting every nickel you had since you were born.
So spend my darlings while you may—
Enjoy bankbooks, C.D.’s or I.R.A.’s.
Let them say
You lived “December as though it were May.”
You spent every last cent—
Darn it.
They Are Not Sick, They Are Dying, A Most Natural Thing To Do.
Father Tom
Almost always catches their last act,
In fact
He is usually master of ceremonies at the event.
It’s just the old familiar change of
Life to death
To
Life eternal.
Village Streets Page 3