The Bartender

The bartender, whose beauty I’ve beheld but little

And yet which has stuck with me like the bright light

Of the morning sun, I have sought all over—in the park,

In the bar—but nowhere is she to be found.

Whether if by some fated chance, which I have come to doubt,

Where we meet and feel the spark of love,

Or whether she remains to me a floating will-o’-the-wisp

Upon the sea I drift upon, I do not know. 

But I will not soon forget the golden curls of her hair, 

And her stately presence like a goddess of old, beautiful and fair.

I will search the streets, the parks, the bars

In hope that I may find her and see her smile

And walk with her beneath our benevolent stars. 

Frozen Morning

After a sleepless winter night

warmed only by the fire of my pen,

I arrived at the lake at Burnet Woods

to witness the first frozen breath of morning.

The burgeoning sunlight began to play upon the trees, 

and, faintly, one could hear 

the ice on the branches crackling.

Then, as if the back of Silence had been broken,

a branch on a maple tree snapped  

and a load of snow poured like sugar onto the frozen lake.

Startled by the sound, a flock of geese that had been sleeping

flew off squawking, and I watched as they soared Westward,

away from the rising sun. 

Soon, I thought, except for the very faint sound of my breath,

Silence will once again take dominion over this place

to which I had come in search of nothing, not even silence,

but, perhaps, just myself.

Lust and Love

I look deep into the eyes of my beloved,

And because I can see that her soul 

Is naked and unashamed, my love

Wants to rise and kiss the flame

On her breast. In this flood

Of lust, love is the buoy. 

At the ceaseless portent of ticking time,

One can laugh. In rapture,

I watch her as, with a mischievous smile,

She moves the first hand of the clock

Back by five hours

And says, “See? The night is just beginning.”

We move in and out of lust and love
Till the sun rises,

Till her marble-white body

Glows with the faint orange glow of dawn.

Secrets in love, pleasure in lust.

Day and night—the balance
To which we keep adding

Bits of our souls and our dreams.

The Opening of the Rose

The rose chooses to blossom

Because in its heart it wants

To show its color.

But first, it asks the blessing

Of the sun, and drinks the rain

That gives it courage to grow.

When a baby is born, its body

And soul blossom like a rose

And the mother and father,

However they have wilted,

Through the gift of their child

Are given new life.

Look around.

Even the decaying trees

Are transforming into something

New and fresh.

Even dust becomes new life.

Do you want to live in the shadow?

Learn to love it, then.

Serve the Master well.

When you are ready, he will

Illuminate you and grant you

Peace. When this happens,

Your heart will open like the rose

And you yourself will become

Light.

Forgiveness

It was just after lunch time on Ward B at the Belleview Psychiatric Hospital in southwest Ohio, and people were moving about in the common area, putting away their lunch trays and conversing with the nurses and mental health specialists. Others were talking with their case workers or waiting to meet with the psychiatrist. Seated on an elevated, blue acrylic chair, was a striking looking young man. His long hair, which was unwashed, was light brown and curly, and seemed to spiral up like a flame above his head. His face was pale and somewhat thin, with angular features that gave him an appearance of intrepid intelligence. This was only heightened by his very large and chaotic eyes, which moved very rapidly as if he were piecing together a puzzle in the air in front of him. Everything about him displayed calm, even sedation, except his eyes. He sat with his arms on the arm rests, and his hands were very small and very white. No one seemed to take note of the young man, despite the fact that his eyes projected intense anxiety.

A male nurse—brawny and completely bald—was talking with a patient nearby. He was advising the patient—a sallow, gaunt, dark-haired woman who seemed to be vibrating with anxiety—to take a PRN. “I know you have concerns about side-effects,” the brawny nurse told her. “But your doctor has assured me that your PRNs are safe for you to take. You may have some constipation at the very worst…”

The young man, overhearing this conversation, suddenly leaned forward in his chair and stared at the side of the nurse’s face with wide, condemning eyes. The nurse noticed him, and seemed perturbed, but he returned to his conversation. The young man kept staring, and when the nurse looked at him again, he looked at him with even more concern. The nurse excused himself from the woman and approached. 

“Are you OK, Jeffery?” the nurse asked. Jeffery stared up at him, now sitting up very straight, in a posture that suggested fear. “What’s wrong?” the nurse persisted. He spoke in a very calm, affable tone. Jeffery didn’t respond. He seemed frozen in fear. The nurse looked at him quizzically. “Do you want someone to talk to?” he asked. Jeffery shook his head. “OK,” said the nurse. “I’ll just leave you be for now.” The nurse turned around and went back to the woman he had been speaking with. After they had reconvened their conversation, a loud, deep, ferocious cry was heard. Everyone in the room turned to see what it was. Jeffery was seated in his chair, looking horrified.

“Demons!” he suddenly cried. “They’re all demons!”

The nurse went over to him. “What’s going on?” he asked in a tone that suggested less affability and more aggression than before. Jeffery stood up, suddenly and violently, and began pointing his finger in the nurse’s face.

“You’re a demon!” he yelled, even more violently than before. “I can see your horns!” He began to look around, ferociously. He was practically foaming at the mouth. “We’re being ruled by demons! The angels are being ruled by demons! What kind of world is this? Were we really brought here to be slaves to the devil? To take the devil’s pills?” Again, he turned to the nurse. “You bring us here so that you might enslave us, so that you might be free to live your devilish lives! Without us here, what are you? You’re demons. They’re demons, and they have made a mockery of God’s great Earth!” 

The nurse looked over at a tall, stout man with a gray beard. He nodded at him, and the bearded man nodded back. Suddenly, the two men moved in on Jeffery, and grabbed him. As Jeffery was pulled away by the two men, he shouted: “This is how they do it! Once you see the truth, they take you away and inject you! Don’t forget what’s happening here! These demons will make slaves of us all!”

Jeffery was brought into a seclusion room, where the two nurses held him down on a bed with restraints. As Jeffery fought to break free, he caught the eye of the bald nurse. Suddenly, his body relaxed. “I’m sorry,” Jeffery said, and began to weep. “Forgive me.”

The expression on the nurse’s face softened. “There is nothing to forgive,” he said, just as a separate nurse injected him with a sedative. As he went under, those words—“There is nothing to forgive”—resonated in the darkest corner of his mind.

Prayer for the Dead

My soul in exile, I walk the streets
Slowly crafting a prayer to call it back.
The giant oaks steal my breath,
As do the graves and the iron fence.
The people, their eyes like vacuums,
Are enigmas, fleeing from their holiness.
I move about with all the aimlessness of dust.
Now dusk, the church bells resound.
I gaze up just in time to see a flock of birds
Fly over my head.
This prayer is no longer for my own soul,
But for the souls of the dead.

The Depths of Love

There are things that cannot be explained,

Because though we can see them,

They cannot be touched,

As they are constantly moving away from us

At a faster rate than we can go.

Love is one of those.

We can merge with body,

We can merge our souls.

But love, that thing 

That unites us, runs so deep

We cannot fathom the depths

And so, we keep merging bodies, 

We keep merging souls,

Even as the depths of love

Grow ever deeper.