Belonging - Three Poems

The Space Between


In the space between
here
and
here
ring a thousand thousand
temple bells...

If you listen
very
closely,
you might remember them
from long, lazy summer days,
reclining beside the swimming hole,
the cicadas offering their song
to the wind,
and laughter echoing off the
rough
stone
walls
of the cave not too far away,
the cave where you liked to hide
during thunderstorms,
but you always told Mom that you were
playing at Maggie’s house.
She just couldn’t understand
the magic
of the earth’s rumbling
from the inside,
rivulets of muddy earth slithering all around
like shimmering serpents
from another world.
The earth’s own lullaby
would always lull you to sleep
or into some kind of trance
or meditation
but you didn’t know what that meant back then...
you were only nine years old, after all.
And just before you would wake up...
back to reality...
there in Mother’s womb,
you’d hear them,
the distant chiming of
bells...
But the moment you’d open your eyes to seek the source of the
mysterious melody,
you’d find yourself face to face with
a cricket
or grasshopper,
or once, a couple of small field mice,
glistening, beady eyes chiming
like the toll of the distant chapel?
No, it couldn’t be...
that makes no sense.

Soon enough,
doubt overtook magic.
There never were any bells.
It was only a dream.
Will those damn crickets
SHUT UP?!
You don’t have time to go to
the cave,
You haven’t been to the swimming hole
since at least a year before
you learned to drive.
And the shopping mall was really much more interesting,
who wants to go swimming in a muddy pit
so far away
from civilization?!

The last vestige of imagination is
sold on the
black
blue
white
red
yellow
GREEN
market.

Bells are only for
Christmas,
for the volunteer
working for the Salvation Army.
And we all get really tired of that
awful noise and harassment
really quickly.
Enough with the DAMN BELLS!
You need a scotch on the rocks,
and when will the kid quit crying.
God,
when will it all end?!

All you really need is
the space between
here
and
here.

Can you remember?





___________________________________

Shabby Blanket

The warmth of this moment
is a blessing.
the cold winter’s gale is blowing
ferociously,
and I have no scarf or mittens,
my coat is merely a child’s
baby blanket,
bundled tightly around my shoulders and neck.
It’s threadbare in a couple spots,
that’s probably why it was in the trash.
The family at 143 Elm Street
threw it away last Thursday
after they returned from Macy’s with
a new, soft red one.
But it was my luck in wandering
through town at the right moment.
This old blanket will serve me just fine,
and I said a prayer for those folks for
blessing me before Christmas with
this old blanket.

Now I’m home,
the rusty old yellow train car
to the side of the tracks,
you know the one on the way
out of town?
The one with most of the windows
still intact.
I think the lettering on the side
used to advertise
shaving lotion,
or was it Coca-Cola?
It’s been too many years.
Not that it matters,
this old tin can is of no use to anyone,
save me,
and I’m sure that the folks in town are
glad
that the railway graveyard
is pretty far out of town.
It would spoil their
perfectly manicured lawns
and bright white fences
to have me too close to their suburban dream.
It reminds them that their American Dream
is filled with rainbows
and garbage,
with wealth
and
unspeakable poverty.
But that doesn’t bother me too much,
not really.
I’m grateful, actually.

Would you like to step into my humble abode?
Pull up an apple crate, and I’ll make some
apple leaf tea.
I know, that sounds strange,
but I picked the leaves myself
after dark
two nights ago
at the orchard
half a mile away from here.
It’s really quite refreshing once you’re used to it.
And bless you for joining me this evening.
It’s not often that young people visit
a crazy old bum like me
out here in the train graveyard.

They don’t remember,
or don’t want to remember
that once I had everything
they had.
I wanted everything they wanted.
I was the head of the University’s
English Department,
with a PhD from
Stanford.
I painted my fence white every Memorial Day.
No, they don’t want to remember.
It scares them too much.
They think their world
is so solid.
Secure.
And to sit across from me in this old car,
to look me in the eye,
to see the
remarkable contrast that is possible
in one man’s life.
Unimaginable.
They don’t want to think about it.
They are content to
get all worked up over the evening news.
To worry about the rising cost of gasoline
and how the kids need new sneakers and video games,
and the cruise to the Caribbean they simply
MUST
take this summer.

No, I wouldn’t go back to that life.
I live this way
by choice.
I know it’s hard to fathom,
and please don’t misunderstand me,
that’s not bitterness
you detected in my voice.

Ah, regardless,
there are things I’ve seen
in this way of life that
I would never have seen
otherwise.
Things I’ve felt
and known
that can’t be experienced
in the comfort
of society.
It’s my choice, yes,
and tonight
I’m grateful for this
shabby
blue
blanket.



________________________

Grapes

A small bowl of grapes
sits on the table beside my bed
withering.
I have not thrown them away,
for I have not been there for
a long time.
You see,
the little old lady
from the apartment downstairs-
Mrs. Mason-
brought them up to me
one day last September.
She had grown them in her
tiny second floor apartment.
How she can grow grapevines
indoors
is beyond me!
So, she brought me her harvest,
and told me
that this bowl of grapes
represents all the blessings
she hopes will come into
my life
in the coming year.

An incredibly generous gift, really.
Mrs. Mason turned
ninety-one
last January,
and traversing the rickety old
wooden staircase
isn’t easy for her these days.

We sat and shared tea that afternoon
in my tiny
apartment,
and she told me
about her marriage
of sixty-eight years,
and her fourteen children-
all boys!
And how she always wanted
a daughter.
Even though she has
great-grandchildren older than me,
she’s taken me
as her daughter now.

After she left,
I spent an hour
picking the grapes from their
woody vine.
Thirty-two.
And somewhere in my
rapt contemplation,
between my bed and the
coffee table
it hit me
like a bolt of lightning.
I’m living in a bowl
of grapes.
This path that I’ve been
walking
is so limited.
I’ve been stuck in the
shallow end
of the pool for about
ten years too long-
and I don’t have to
anymore.

Suddenly
it felt like the top of my head
blew off!
It was one of those days
when everything
converges,
and
I felt like I could
cure the common cold,
read hieroglyphics,
finally crack the code of
James Joyce’s
bizarre Finnegan’s Wake,
and single-handedly
halt the
global warming crisis,
all by the workday’s five o’clock
end.

Out the door I went.