Coronary Reflexions  11 to 20

David L. Young

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To Fallen Leaves

(In memory of John Keats)

September 18-19, 1987, Verona, PA

January 12-13, 1989, New York

Crisp air came south rekindling weary flames,

  Alive with bright crimson, orange, and gold,

Spinning naked dancers swirling without shame;

  Treading on summer's heels, they laughed, so bold,

And played, like children, foolish games of chance:

  Darting before cars and tempting cruel death,

    Or mocking the gaffer's steel garden-rake,

  They leapt and soared, caught in the season's breath,

Till, almost lulled to sleep and off-balance,

Stumbling, tripped, falling in a trance,

    And whispered, praying God their souls would take.

Beneath the Winter snow the aged keep,

  Dreaming of warmer days and endless hours

Of cheerful chirping birds and bleating sheep,

  And friends long gone, soft fragrant, gleeful flowers;

How happily they surfed the current's tease:

  Rising now, riding a raging swell

    Then leaning low to kiss a gentle sigh

Or standing firm, facing the full-forced breeze;

  At last succumbed to Autumn's tranquil spell

  They lost grip, and whirling earthward fell,

    Malcontents all, willing ne'er to die.

Yet Spring shall wake to sing before too long

  And shake the drowsy ground to loose its prize:

Food to pump the sagging sapling strong,

  Teeming veins with ore and filling skies

With clouds of foliage, a million shades--

  Pale yellow, pink, and subtle verdant hues,

    Until horizon's edge bursts into song

Amid a chorus rising in the glade,

  Whistling jays adorned in formal blues

  And swarms of cliquey, buzzing insect-crews;

    The budding trees add voices to the throng.

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Marital Stress

November 1987 / Springdale, PA

heavy duty words--

guilt,

adultery--

take a breather,

look out the window:

there's big fat bald bob,

my boss,

riding a bicycle

in the rain;

what a gas:

painter's hat topping a gray suit

and black tie shoes

whiz past

clutching english handle bars,

straining the neck

to peek through foggy specs

in need of windshield wipers--

coping

with a partner's compulsion

is tough,

like dealing with employees

who write poems

on company time

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Release

September 1979 / State College, PA

nail-bitten fingers

rattle worm-eaten wood;

frustration trickles

from fist to pen

eyelids flicker

like candles;

wax drips to lighten

secret sins

voices drone,

mournful, together;

free spirits rejoice

in the end

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The Fox Hunt

June 1982 / Verona, PA

Catch us the foxes,

the little foxes,

that spoil the vineyards,

for our vineyards are in blossom

sleep late?

"come on," he said,

"time ta git up..."

scarlet skies at sunrise,

sorta reminds me of a glass harp,

all brilliant-rayed like arrows

shooting from the strings--

jubilee!

crouch low,

breathe deep,

the fox hunt has begun:

early morning chase

through dew-clad vegetation,

thick-forested wood,

cloak wet,

hounds' bay echoes in the distance,

fog rises,

dims the edge of sight;

dull hoofbeats clomp on soggy soil,

jump over logs on winding paths,

larksong pricks ears lulled by the rapid pace...

"what ho?"

"over there!"

horn's shrill cry pierces thick air

as hoary-headed bumpkin's vineyard

streams into view:

"catch the little varmint,

before he breaks the grapes!"

"no, sorry, gone..."

so the hunt goes on

and the foxes still run wild;

but we're watching

and waiting

for the last horn to blow

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Papa's Farm

January 1989 / New York City

sneaky feet used to play on plywood next

Papa's pig sty, Virginia red-clay-

stained pants made BomBom mad: her willow switch

stung bad on the back of bare sunburned legs;

Teddy never got lost in the wood next

the garden flushing out stinky skunks and

imaginary bears; Papa got sore,

us tramping on squash and beans and young corn;

Uncle Bradley's bulls looked big behind the

electric fence but climbing through to get

under a tree was easy; pies they dropped

squished under our sneakers and Teddy's paws;

instead of scissors Papa threatened to

cut off our hair (we might become hippies!)

with mule shears, and instead of going to

the dentist he chewed black gum and only

had eight gray teeth left in his wrinkled mouth;

he'd sit me on his knee and ask if i

wanted a chew -- BomBom always said no;

then he'd laugh and ask me whether i was

a poot or a pigtail and i never

really knew which one i wanted to be...

he'd take me and Richie to the barns

where bacca hung drying: i liked the smell

and he'd tell how the old lame niggerman

could cut more bacca than anyone else;

Sundays sometimes we went to the Baptist

church with Papa and other times to the

Piscople church with BomBom; i didn't

like neither cause most everyone was old

and it was always too long and too hot;

sometimes we'd drive up the gravely road

to Uncle Jesse's store; Papa'd buy us

a bag of candy and a soda pop,

then we'd stop to visit old Harry and

Roxie--their house always smelled like string beans

and bacon grease -- Roxie's saggy face

was gross to kiss, but she was nice and made

great chocolate-drop cookies and had root beer...

then we'd go over to Aunt Lois and

Uncle Starley's farm and Starley'd take us

for a ride in the back of his pickup:

me and Richie'd bounce along the dirt roads

hoping hard to fall out but not really...

course we'd always visit cool Uncle Neil

who played guitar and bass and knew a bunch

of good old-fogy songs that cracked us up...

then we'd visit chubby cousin Lynnie

who had a pony i rode bareback once

but she hit the pony's butt with a stick

and i fell in a ditch and cut my leg;

once we went hay baling and spent all day

lifting huge squares onto a flatbed truck

and itched like crazy till we took a bath...

wild cats under the barn hunted the wasps

that got me good on the back of the head

when i stepped on a piece of rotten wood

leaning against the old rusty wire fence;

BomBom's country fried chicken tasted good --

it was sick when Papa cut off their heads

with an ax and blood squirted on his face --

she fed the Tom cats the leftover bones

on the back porch and said they wouldn't hurt

'em none 'cause they're lots smarter than we think...

me and Richie would play mumbletypeg

but used bows and arrows instead of knives;

one time he shot me right in the left arm--

i still have the scar but not the arrow;

then Uncle Judson bet Richie that he

couldn't shoot a hole in his hat -- Uncle

Judson lost and still has the hat and hole...

then one day Papa started his Chevy

and by accident ran over Teddy

and i cried but i don't think Papa did;

then he didn't want to go for a walk

and instead went to bed early that night...

the last time i saw Papa wasn't at

the farm but in Richmond outside a big

building in the garden, and a long white

curly tube stuck out of his pajamas

and filled a plastic bag with yellow pee;

then he never came back to the farm

and BomBom lives all alone even though

she's deaf and hardly has anyone left

to help clean and take her grocery shopping:

Uncle Bradley died of complications

and next Uncle Jesse of lung cancer;

Starley had a third, final heart attack;

Harry and Roxie died of God knows what;

then Uncle Neil got smashed in a car crash

and Lynnie's new third husband blasted her

in the chest while cleaning his old shotgun;

and there's no more pigs, chickens, or garden,

just a couple of cats, the house needs paint,

and you can't even step on the creaky

back porch 'cause the whole thing just might collapse.

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Sky Scraper

1979 / State College, PA

liquid plastic

   writhes

        with evil laughter

  as toxic

           black smoke

       trails out

      the chimney

           to murder birds

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Divine Sojourn

1985 / Springdale, PA

Swaddling grave clothes

covered His tiny frame;

life blossomed

like a root from dry ground:

Emmanuel--God with us--

tore the shroud of death.

Mortared with blood,

polished in love,

His narrow road beckons

to God's towering throne....

When time fades

and trumpets blast,

knees will bow and brows will bend

as Son of man

splits the sky in glory.

God's pilgrimage--

babe to man,

cradle to cross,

earth to heaven--

paved a path

to lead us home.

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Popcorn

January 5, 1989 / Darien, CT

little golden babies

clap their hands,

jump for joy,

fall down old men,

cotton-soft and a bit moist,

then disappear

through rows of tombstones

streaked with silver

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Harbin Sunrise

April 1986 / November 1987

Harbin, China / New York City

tall buildings

blast through clouds

jutting toward fading stars--

dirty streets, shuffling bums,

city soldiers dressed in

three-piece uniforms,

siren-screaming fright

stops my heart;

holding my breath,

mile after mile,

block after city block of

throat-gripping dust

eye-choking smoke,

and the drunk next to me

who lost his heart in the war

keeps sputtering about the last days,

some notion he heard at the mission ...

craters in the cobblestones

bounce the bus,

nobody makes a fuss

but it jostles me back to

another ride in another city

where the clamor was foreign

but the feeling familiar...

"this guys nuts!"

he laughs,

weaving the taxi in and out of traffic

" ... thinks he's the great Andretti..."

heading for a crowd

he swerves just in time,

hurrying up bicyclists crossing the road

and screeching to a halt

in front of the ferry

"pretty quick, right?"

"yeah, thanks, pal"

escaping, we're swept

into a current of culture shock:

moose nose is gourmet

but we prefer rice

atop the Overseas Chinese Hotel;

the view goes on forever,

spires and ogives dot the skyline,

architecture influenced

by raiders

who breached the border

time and again;

even now the city is full of green-clad soldiers --

i see them through a window

standing and smoking

in a post office waiting room,

reminding me of heavy air

that closes in each time

we try and talk to the people --

a typewriter in an adjoining office

machine guns patterns,

and ripping paper slices air

like icy spikes;

shadows at midnight rotten with death,

they remember, these people ...

a pained expression in the eyes

of a new friend rebuked for talking

to white devils haunts me;

a thousand eyes follow wherever we go,

white faces in a sea of yellow

attract stares like freaks in a side show;

groups of school girls chime "Hello"

all together in singsong

and giggle,

first chance to practice

foreign language skills ...

the public privy perfumes

the neighborhood,

a perfect malodorous backdrop

to the river, the city's pride,

boasting statues of the revolution:

maidens with guns

and peasants elevated like gods;

twenty or thirty cobblers

sitting in the dust,

little shoe-repair kits open,

expectant and idle,

grin as we trudge by,

reeboks kicking up puffs;

three ancient ladies dressed in black

pants and shirts, braids dangling

from under broad straw hats

and swaying to their movements

like pendulums on grandfather clocks --

they must've swung a long time, from

the last emperor to the first chairman,

through the long march

and a hundred flowers

to the cultural revolution --

pass quickly pushing mounds of dirt

that gets picked up by wind

and settles back down on the curb ...

we take a wrong turn somewhere

and end up on some street --

we don't know where --

and when you're lost

in a harbin sunrise

and you're from new york

you're lost ...

another hard bump

and i'm back, the drunk,

leaning on my shoulder, sways

as the bus turns up Broadway

and stops at Times Square;

my feet hit the pavement and

i march east on 42nd Street

through the war zone,

past refugees, scantily clad

bones and glazed eyes, neon

signs flashing vice. the day's

first rays pierce my eyes, and

i take a wrong turn somewhere

and end up on some street -- i don't

want to know where - 'cause when

you've been lost in a harbin

sunrise and you're back in new york

you're lost.

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The Street Harbors

March 1989 / New York City

the street harbors

smells like a smorgasbord,

each gourmet to a memory:

i'm feasting on wafts of stale wine,

devouring clouds of perfume -- kissing her neck

her hands like silk with traces of butter

sliding across my cheek, sizzling. barging in,

the stench of burning pretzels penetrates

the wistful vision, dissipating the fantasy till

another olfactory inspiration captures my palate

and i'm off sailing again, dining

on epicurean delights fit for a royal entourage.

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David's Main Page    Back    Next     The Rocklore Files     Jamie's Home page

Click "Back" or "Next" to scroll through David's other poetry pages.