Vision

I dreamed I saw a field of men
Moving as one, all focused, athletic.
They rose and fell, always coordinated.
Sound and light marked their performance.
Millions saw but did not understand.

Walls, high above the field,
Portrayed the beauty and possibility of earth.
Pregnant with magic, the walls
Erupted with sky piercing light displays,
In celebration of the wonders below
And the achievements they could usher.

I saw recognition of the Bigger and Brighter.
Could we appreciate the wedding of thought and expression
And carry the dream from the field to the future?

Conviction

I’ve been here.
Rationalizing moves I might make,
Yet lacking the required conviction
That makes boldness possible.

My internal dialogues are repetitive.
I am uncertain that my poses are
Not merely studied.

As time passes my sense of righteousness grows,
Becomes a banner I wear
To proclaim my virtue. There is no wisdom
In the face of contemptuous indifference.

I suspect that near the surface,
Infancy, obdurate and insistent,
Rules my field of vision,
As though I might be holding my breath
Forcing others to seek my forgiveness.
Ah! But I would be sublimely, nay divinely kind,
And so charitable that both God and man
Might deem me worthy of immortality.

I cannot love those I do not like.
Still the possibility remains
That tomorrow will be resplendent
And an adult will remark upon it.

Distraught

Distraught.
Racing home to cover, and recover my identity.
Wallet gone, probably stolen,
I need contact only half of the world’s population,
Alerting them to my virtual demise.

How could this happen to me?
I could be philosophical if it happened to you,
Manifest just the right amount of sympathy,
Offer unspecified assistance,
And bewail modern man’s nightmare
In a post-Thoreau world. All records on a thumb nail indeed!

God, the trickster, has struck again.
I’d walked one block, since last using my wallet.
How could the fu----g thing be gone?
Retracing my steps 3 times and finding nada,
I head for home.

At my front door stands a large orange traffic cone.
Who the hell put that damn thing here?
Something very strange is happening,
And I am not amused.
Furious, I kick the cone a good 10 feet.

In the space just vacated sits my wallet.

My Room

May my room be safe from tigers.
Inmates run the institution, but leave me in peace.
Central Park on a wet fall day
Hangs above my left shoulder
The walk deserted but expectant.

A baby gorilla nuzzling its mothers brow,
Sits among leafy green vines in a calendar
Below the black and white photo of the Poet’s Walk.

A whale-like creature dives deep,
The water darkens as it descends.
A suggestion of light appears toward the apex of the canvas.
On the adjoining wall a painting
Bursting with energetic reds and oranges.

On another wall
Sketches of my Dad and my Dalmatian, Homer.
Both long gone
My memories of both are warm.

Shelves filled with binders, manuals, and family photos
Sit above my desk, just beyond the requisite computer.

Does all this attest to my life?
Or are all the trappings merely fictionalized cinema of self congratulatory impulses,
Or are both one?