Friday, December 23, 2011

Todays poem dedicated to Gerda - My Hometown

JAIMANITAS, CUBA

(My Hometown)

The story was going to be written in prose

But the words started coming out in

Patterns

With rhythm

And cadence

And not like prose at all

And pretty soon the story wasn’t

Important anymore

Just the words

And their patterns

Drizzling slowly

Across that damn sheet of paper

Yellow paper

And it’s hurting my eyes

And still the thoughts and feelings keep coming

If I try really hard and hold each to my heart

For I have all the time in the world

It ought to keep me busy for a while.

There is for each of us

A paradise that was

A time to which we steal away

When too much of the present

Starts filling our day

When nothing but pleasure seemed

To matter

And no one obstructed pursuit of the latter

A time when I lived in the land

That I loved:

The curling face of each wave

Gently stroking the crunching sand

Licking the turret I could not save

That stood near the sea wall half-claimed by decay.

While the water reflecting the sun on each swell

Echoed the laughter of children at play

Casting the sound to the wind in the palms.

So the scene unfolds before me

Memories that never will fade

Ever strong, ever bright-

The paradise that was.

Come, be close.

I need your warming eyes

To spur me with my story,

And if you smile, I’ll tell you

Of the views of the past

From the windows of my soul.

The first one goes back

To the long, long ago.

When unhampered by glass

My hand, outstretched, reached the sea.

All was green palms, quite near,

A pebble-strewn beach.

To the right and afar.

Curved a finger of land

With houses and churches, all facing towards me.

I could linger forever at this.

My first window

But the salt-spray is heavy

And time has no pause.

So come, be close.

Those aren’t tears in my eyes,

It’s the spray from the ocean

Of my long, long ago.

Next I’ll show you a window

That was one wall of glass,

And within, all mundane

Just an office to me;

And all that I needed

To be lifted, transported,

Was slowly to turn

With fixed gaze to the window.

Remember in fairytales,

How roads cut through forests?

To the left was a fairyland road

such as those.

The sun as it sparkled on the glass

of hotels

Jewel-scattered the landscape

Settling down on the wave swells.

Distracting, this window,

Especially when sailboats

Hove whitely and roundly into view.

Then at dusk, a still moment,

The city was captured, the bay and the islands,

All linked by my longing

It was perfect this window,

Joining man’s hand to God’s.

Even as darkening thunder-clouds billowed

And the fairyland, wetly, was hidden from view.

Yet stay,

I’m not done.

Only one more is left.

And this one the strangest, yet brightest to me.

For the orange and white of small planes fill the air

Breaking the pattern of blue and white sky

And this window has bars

Yet it opens quite wide,

To let in the roar of machines made by man,

While on the horizon, trees fringe the runways

And occasional birds fly companions to airplanes.

Idyllic? No baby,

Not this patch of color-

It’s the view from my prison

For I can’t hear the sea.

So come, reach close,

Let your hand wipe away

These teardrops that cling

Like the salt-spray to me.

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