Old Men Feed The Birds

color photo

 

In all the parks in all the world

The old men sit

And feed the birds.

The old men sit

At noon and dawn

For they well know

They will be gone.

But all the birds

In all the world

Will still sing out

To raise the sun,

Will still loud sing

To set the moon.

To welcome leaves

When comes the Spring.

They bid farewell

When winters blow,

They range the sky.

To poles they go

To know the Earth

In part and whole

Across the continents they fly.

And so, with grain,

With crumbs of bread,

Men fight the force

That makes things dead.

So life may soar

Nor all things fall

Men give their bread

As gifts to all.

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Volcanic

Illustration

 

Poetry from me

Is not written,

It erupts.

From fears and tears

And female rears

And out of the morass

Of memories entangled

With the hopes that, perhaps,

This troubled planet

Will not collapse.

Life is a persistent habit

I do not surrender complacently.

My time here seems somehow short.

I know, I know. I should exhort

That everyone here should be loved.

But Christ!

Who could be fond

Of the SOBs now in charge?

They murder millions carelessly

And complain

That others are insane.

Still, still, I’d prefer

To hang around and see

What might occur

And scribble, now and then,

Poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transition

Illustration

 

One must integrate

With dirt, with dust,

With flaking paint,

With rust, with bits

And pieces scrapped.

For this is where we end.

No sense to pretend

There is a final purity,

Some evanescent security.

When flesh and bone

Solidify to stone

Or wander off to recreation

At some chance invitation

To become bug, or plant,

Another open gate

To participate.

This is a rare delight

Not to be denied.

 

 

John Sand, Born Drelich, 1890 – 1973

John Sand photo

 

My father took a while to die.

I spent six months with him to see

If I could help him through his misery.

But, the effort’s hard to satisfy.

The work is difficult, to die.

 

He spent his last years walking Brooklyn streets to paint

His watercolors. Spots of green and brown and blue

To catch the dance of leaf and branch and wind and light.

For friend, he had an old grey cat as thoughtful, gentle, fragile as himself.

His paintings sing the glories of the living world. He’d really got it right.

 

He tottered when he walked.

He was, finally, eighty -three,

But surrendered most reluctantly.

He wandered when he talked.

He savored life. At death, he balked.

 

High cheekboned, Lincolnesque, with black hair shock and world eating eyes,

His anger knew that many things men do are thoughtless, vicious, wrong.

With color, light, and patterned harmonies he laundered off his wrath

To construct a universe apart, outside the world of man.

He fathomed nature’s tapestries and made his own enlightened path.

 

I tried to cook him meals.

He could eat but little.

So – to the hospital

For medical appeals.

Fate would make no easy deals.

 

I remember morning on a dark and lonely beach in Florida.

My mother and my father perched on folding canvas stools

Before their easels. Dawn rolled in across a blue-black sea

On broken neon tubes. They tangled with its sorcery

With paper squares and lines of paint and craft and artistry.

 

 

With members of the staff, some small joke.

He grinned and smiled a lot when he spoke.

In surgery they cut out several bits

And slightly jumbled up his wits.

The world had fractured after he awoke.

 

Back in the early twenties, flush with windfall cash,

He and my mother had gaily looped through Europe;

Holland, Paris, Italy, and stayed a while in Tunis where they’d portray

In the white, hot, heat red legged Arabs in white burnoose

Strolling though sun barred souks of white domed cities in elegant ballet.

 

It helped some, but then they said

The cancer had begun to spread.

One more time to cut. They might

Be able to get things right.

He faced this with a silent, hopeful dread.

 

Times were hard in thirty-two and no one knew when the money would come in.

Some mornings, Brooklyn winter winds would howl up through Narrows Avenue.

My mother, father, I, my brother, stayed in bed with blankets on,

Keeping warm ’til we’d get the cash to order coal.

But I’d never thought us poor. Not until the times were long gone.

 

The second stay in intensive care

Left him with a flat and puzzled stare.

Like a great iceberg sailing in an alien sea,

Great chunks kept falling from his mind and ceased to be.

He’d lost alignment. Who and how and when and why and where.

 

He came to visit me in nineteen forty-five in Madison Wisconsin and in Florida.

Two places, army bases more than a thousand miles from home.

Many things come back from these two times, but remembrance bids

The strongest lesson that he taught me then. He passed to me

His deep skill with which I learned to love my kids.

 

In the ward he fought the painful bite

Of IV tubes. He tore them off at night.

To secure those silver fangs they tied his wrists,

Which foiled his outrage and its consequent resists.

He was conscious, but recovery was slight.

 

In nineteen fifty-two they discovered cancer in Irene, his wife, my mother.

She took a half a year to fall into the chasm formed from fright and pain.

It sucked her flesh, revealed her architecture made of bone,

And cast her into black-eyed madness, numbed with dope, before she died.

Somehow, he fabricated will and strength to carry on alone.

 

Pneumonia came to squat inside his chest.

They holed his throat to give him oxygen and rest

And thereby stilled his voice, his line to me.

His life was sinking down to perigee.

We sat, held hands, and simply, felt depressed.

 

While I waited out his time I lived in his place, not mine.

The days, I spent with him. The nights, I let TV put me to sleep.

His old gray cat would hop up on the bed and curl behind my knee.

Her eyes held doubt, unease, and worry. Mine did too.

We tried to make the best of a time mostly bad. On this we could agree.

 

One morning, 2 am, they made the call.

They said, “He just died.” That’s all.

I somehow thought he’d last a little longer.

Towards the end he seemed slightly stronger.

He’s gone now, behind that damned impenetrable wall.

 

Strangely, that same week, the cat died too.

And Picasso. So came the thought concurrently,

“What good companions they’d all be.”

I have him still, inside, most preciously.

As I lived in him, so he lives in me.

 

The Numbers Game

 

Number Illustration

The numbers

One and two and three,

Small steps towards infinity,

Where imagination crashes

And the universe falls to ashes.

They have disturbing connections

To reality,

 

This one one sees,

The one of Sun,

The other one of Moon,

Relates in intricacies

To all the many many mes.

 

There are pathways in my thoughts

Disobedient to musts and oughts,

Unruly to necessities of ones and twos and threes,

Searching hidden locks with keys

To wildnesses of what might bes.

 

The me of wakening to day

Fresh from dreams

Fabricated not, of what seems,

But rife with life with its own way,

Furious with things to say.

 

Evening, of course, has other means.

Computations come in streams

Demanding this, commanding that,

Squeezing universes flat

And plagued with parasitic memes.

 

Numbers can, with proper training,

Dance with chance – quite entertaining!

But elegance requires care

Fractious fractions can despair,

And land you damned near anywhere.

Numbers can bite, render and swear.

 

So watch it when the digits swirl.

Court them like a pretty girl.

Their handle on reality

May be difficult to see

And, at times it’s not there.

Numbers don’t always play fair.

 

The things we touch, the things we see

Are frequently elusive, strange.

Composed of thoughts out of range.

Numbers can be set to bark

When mysteries are in the dark.

Realities are fabrications

Festooned with vague approximations.

But numbers, sometimes, hit the mark.

 

So computations perambulate

Where pedestrians, equestrians

Have no gait, stumble and hesitate.

Numerical abstractions can supply

What’s missing from the blinking eye

And often rigors with the figures

Catch the fish worth the fry.