trilogy: they want a poem

they want a poem, the village paper feels the need

for another poem or lacks a page to fill, completed

with some resident's writing's conservative views,

but my pen is dry, my mind is blank, now there is

the need for poetry but poems have gone for now

they want a poem

[and so do I]

the village paper

[read by whom]

feels the need

[needy beings]

for another poem

[but conservative]

or lacks a page

[of memories]

to fill with some

[partially enhance]

resident's writing

[no outsider view]

but my pen is dry

[or computer folder]

my mind is blank

[but filled anew...

the need for poetry

[with other things]

has gone for now

[replaced with...

ideas, concerns]

they want a poem and so do I, but read by whom

these needy conservative beings lacking memories,

can I, not an outsider, partially enhance the paper

when my computer folder is dry but my mind

is filled anew with other things replaced with ideas

and concerns not here but in the real world of me

two sides to my faith...

incense wafting over the cremains
'panis angelicus' sung in baritone
morning light filtered through stained glass
a kneeler folded up into its brace
the crucifixion silhouetted above

sweet perfume of corsage flowers
'praise and worship' music sounds
a softly lit dome and a chandelier's glow
communion cup holders empty today
a barren cross above the baptistry

a funeral, then a recognition service
roman catholic, then baptist
the story of my life; two baptisms within
two doctrines, two lives in prayer
passive and active, questioning

the smell of incense floods my mind
with memories of daily mass, ritual,
confession, holy communion and learned
catechism, memorization and rote
learning of doctrine and prayer

so where am I now in this journey,
this continuum of belief in a higher
power, god, redeemer, eternal light; so how
do I continue to believe or do I revoke
it all, start anew, combine my creeds

my mission is a mission but for whom
and why, the question remains, do I
feel the need to share, for what does sharing
mean when there is no common ground
in my belief, only wonder and grief

my childhood memories remain, adult
acceptances retain my faith and do
carry me along but to what avail, why am I so
driven to serve the lord when I cannot
even begin to understand my faith

bloginfo: I was baptized and raised Roman Catholic and rebaptized a Baptist twenty years later
blognote: This poem was written after attending a Roman Catholic funeral of a neighbor and then acting as Master of Ceremonies at a Membership Recognition Luncheon at my Baptist church.

Cubano Soy...

Havana becomes Habana on my return from Trinidad de Cuba
A shift from room 412 to 516; two nights space in between
I left a tourist and returned a friend, a Cubano, hermano -
This is my city now........................................................
Cultural bonding or schizophrenia; how many alteregos can I have? or do I want? or need?
I know I can't remain but this is my city now.......................

trinidad de cuba...

stone steps in a cathedral square
a young crowd in trinidad de cuba
waits for the music to start while
another crowd attends mass on
this feast day of caridad del cobre,
patron saint of cuba, ending with
the virgin being carried through
the town square in the shadow
of an oncoming salsa attack

TRINIDAD DE CUBA
- YOUTH
WOMEN FILL A CHURCH
- STAIRS
WOODEN PEWS
- COBBLESTONES
PROCESSION
- SALSA BEAT
MASS IN SPANISH
-PROPOSITOS
A SINNER’S SERMON
- CONVERSATION
KISS OF PEACE
-BODY CONTACT
SWEAT AND INCENSE
- SWEAT
CARRYING THE VIRGIN
- SALSA SPINS
COMMUNION HOST
- RUM
WHITE/NEGRO/PRIETO
- RAINBOW
GENUFLECT AND PRAY
- DANCE
THE SIGN OF THE CROSS
- CUBA

bloginfo: September 8th is the feast day of the Virgen de Caridad del Cobre, Patron Saint of Cuba. The first part of the evening I attended mass and followed the procession through the streets. The second part consisted of listening to a live salsa band and watching the dancers of the city steps next to the Cathedral. A night of cultural juxtapositions!
blognote: an open door behind the band reveals the seventh station of the cross

mykonos [revisited]

a memory of a time alone
walking through the village
under wreathes and vines of bougainvillea
a greek salad, a cold beer
music pulsating overhead

accompanied but alone
strolling through shops
thinking that you would have liked it here
jewelry, fabric and crafts
languages swirling about

a deserted sandy beach
stony grey outcroppings
whitewashed houses circling the shore
white birds in a blue sky
retinal fatigue setting in

a memory of a time alone
still and now the same
travel lightly now storing new tales to tell
to someone, somewhere
who might just care or not

LeWitt Lines...

lines drawn to fit. sol le witt.
colors. black and white.
circles circling circles. red
lines blending out to blue.
diagrammatic. freeform. so
scribbling becomes an art
form. the norm was broken.
black becomes art again
where matte cut gloss and
wavy lines ruled the wall.
where down the hall a snap
of blue chalk highlighted a
window. an exit sign. but
the best for me. so free. so
confined. the white on white
where white becomes not
a color. a mirror. a shadow.
greek key. mystery. shining
dull. where he spoke to me
and let me know that design
is line. line births a design.

bloginfo: written after a visit to MassMOCA

waiting...

waiting for the time to pass. wondering
if it is worth the wait, the pain, the ache
of loneliness. to improvise, invent little
things to do, places to go hiding the fact
that life is empty, vacant, spare and dry.
these intervals between heights of joy
lows of despair. where do I fit in and to
where do I belong in the plan of things

is this the map, the final route, the trek
of elder life where goals do not mean so
much anymore because no one cares
if you finish or diminish or succeed. for
what is success. how is it measured now
and why would you even try to know if
you have reached that goal for you know
the final goal is finality. trite as it seems

my computer is my mirror now. not even
judgmental as my mirror. my image has
been lost. at least the one I remember.
you remember that one don’t you. youth
and vigor. strength and love. companied
with a woman once. mistaken identities
sought love. and found it. and lost it too.
where does one find love anew. or care.

a trip, a talk, a plan, a program suffice
for intimacy. my personage is now but
a mask. costumed in black and white so
that others cannot see beneath veneers
of sophistication. droll talk. foreign words.
preening about aware of an image that
bespeaks a soul cocooned in artifice. go
away. come near. what do I really want.