Perfection

“The reality we can observe
is but an imperfect reflection of
a deeper, more beautiful reality”
- Dr. Steven Weinberg

Perfection
by denny


One of the most wondrous things
about human nature is
we seem to require
a poetic version of life,
attuned to natures ceaseless vibrancy.

We yearn for a perfect sense of self

a longing for beauty, pain
and paradox;
just as the vibrant colors of spring
conceal the muted rusts of autumn.

As if something as delicate as a poem,
ephemeral in its beguiling nature,
daring and whimsical,
somehow divine - could be
the bridge from dark to light.

Weeds In The Garden

"God is a comedian, playing to an audience
too afraid to laugh.”
- Voltaire

Weeds In The Garden
by denny

“You really shouldn’t make those faces,
someday it might just freeze that way”.
What if my Mother was right?
Abruptly, I ran to the bathroom mirror
to make sure I was still my loveable self

Years later, I am still plagued
by the vision of Linda Blair
possessed in the Exorcist,
face contorted by demonic forces,
recalling my Mother’s stern warning.

And the face I see in the mirror
no longer young, the relentless hand of time
having done its cruel, indelible work.
The once vibrant youth entombed
within this aged and wrinkled shell.

Does the sun no longer shine?
Have the vibrant butterflies of youth
somehow become faded and gray?
Must all the playful weeds in the garden,
be sacrificed for the thorns of the rose?

No Running In The Halls

"You don't have to suffer to be a poet;
adolescence is enough suffering for anyone"
- John Ciardi

No Running In The Halls
by denny

Now it seems so long ago
those first uncertain days
put away our childish play
new school and friends to make
to take the first tentative steps
into youthful adolescence.

Serious lessons to be learned
No more recess, now it’s Gym
Wow! – just look at him – you giggle
the first girlish infatuations
divert your glance, don’t let him see
did he look at me, does he even know
that I exist – Oh! I do hope so.

And then the words that break the spell
Children – get back to class
No running in the halls, no chewing gum
as if she doesn’t really understand at all,
how much older we’ve become ?

Lost Souls

Lost Souls
by denny

There's an old abandoned baseball field near my home
Where I go to hash out the problems in my life.
I sit amid the worn empty bleachers,
full of muted voices and watch
Games long over on lazy summer afternoons.

Baseball catches in my craw like a cat with a fishbone.
I played as a child, got my virginity ripped from my soul
By a baseball coach who long ago missed his chance
And took his vengeful retribution out on each of us.

I watch the ghost players upon the dusty field;
Well worn gloves a size too big on hands half grown.
All the young boys that played and are now long gone,
Dreams of the big leagues gone in wasted lives

At this empty stadium in miniature
A lone crane has taken up residence, a lonely sight.
I think his mother found herself far from the flight path
Had to deliver her overburdened womb prematurely.

Thus he reminds me of myself, born somewhere
Other than the place he was intended to be, a pariah.
At dusk he swoops in to land on the old batting cage,
The only contender on deck, waiting to eye the pitch.

His long slender neck makes an elegant curve.
He stretches upward, eyes left and right, and preens.
Now motionless, head turned into the wind, eyes stoic
He stares forward as if to ask some eternal question.

I do too, and I feel a keen solitary sense of empathy.
This refugee from the coastal climes is me with wings.
I would fly but never will, this land holds me fast,
Damned as I am to die in this God forsaken place.

So I will desiccate in this arid landscape.
And my winged friend will wonder senselessly
Why he was born in this ballpark.
The game long over, three outs and two left on base;
He on his batting cage, me on this bench.

A Freedom Song

denny is the descendent of a Slave
brought to Virginia in 1682 to work the tobacco fields,
whose grandson married a Tuscarora woman.

A Freedom Song

by denny

Listen my voice, I am an American
And I sing a Freedom Song
A song of hope and promise
But one filled with grief and despair

I sing of my Native Brothers
Their ancient wisdom and love for this land
I sing of their tears and sorrows
I sing of what once was.

I sing of my Black Brothers
Of slavery and oppression
Negro spirituals sung in the fields
Under the whip and chain.

I sing of my Hispanic Brothers
Fleeing poverty and hopelessness
I sing their songs of hope
Longing for a chance to be free.

I sing of the Irish, Asians, and Dutch
Working in the fields and factories
I sing of Appalachian coal miners
I sing of sweat, hard work and courage.

I sing of all my brothers
Those that came and made America great
Building a Nation on their backs
Giving their lives for the next generation.

Screeching of the Gulls

"Real politics are the possession
and distribution of power."
- Benjamin Disraeli

Screeching of the Gulls
by denny

New Orleans is miserable this time of year.
The heat rising off Lake Pontchartrain
hangs over the city like a wet blanket.
Unable to sleep on the sweat-drenched sheets
I walk outside along the empty streets, past
the drunk sleeping in the doorway,
on the sidewalk, an empty wine bottle.
Past the hungry eyes and empty hands
peering from the cluttered alleyways.

The city has never really recovered
from the devastation of the storm, so
I walk out to the harbors edge
to where the waves play along the shore and
sea birds strut, looking for a meal.
To the half moon curve of the sandy beach
the clean salty spray of the ocean breeze.

The politicians keep tell us that
the city is coming back, just wait
give us more time, more money.
But here, along the shore all I hear
is the screeching of the gulls.

Saturdays In The Park

Saturdays In The Park
by denny



It’s Wednesday, the week half gone
as I sit at my desk, doing the meaningless things
that have become the boring routine of my life.
It pays the bills, I guess, it’s a “living” they say
as my secretary brings in the mail and
I check my Daytimer just to make sure
that I’m not missing anything “important”.

Note to self – pick up a birthday card for Beth.
Not my weekend to have the kids so
I’ll drop it off in the mail tomorrow
so at least she knows that I didn’t forget again.
I glance at the family photo on the corner of my desk
remembering when that word had other meanings.

And my mind wanders to those Saturdays in the park
with the kids playing soccer with their friends
before we went off to Baskin Robbins for ice cream,
before I built this wall between me and my dreams.
I still go to the park on Saturdays,
but now it’s to watch other families at play, a voyeur,
trying to find meaning in the lives of others.

Tonight, on my way “home”, pick out a card for Beth
and probably another bottle of Johnnie Walker,
Johnnie and I became close friends these past years.
I’ll put on a CD, something mellow, and sit
in my favorite chair, gazing out the front window
reliving once again those Saturdays in the park.
adding one more brick to that ever-growing wall.