Coronary Reflexions  1 to 10

David L. Young

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Coronary Reflexions

January 1989 / New York City

Beat to beat I wait to meet the end,

Still pulsing fist stands fast against the frame

Of time and space; though transience will send

Me on to other worlds and quench my flame

For now I burn, contemplating views

Of what is felt and known through this estate:

Not all would I accept or care to muse,

Nor would you if you could choose your fate;

But as a glass returns the subject's gaze

And starkness sends to flicking, peering eyes,

I'll not suppress, distort, or seek to glaze

Or darken, but, with grace, will dispel lies;

On earth I'll mirror all I see through art

And pray I cast each image from the heart.

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Equilibrium

March 1989 / New York City

capricious

accusations

cataract like lava flows,

downpours inciting churning,

flared nostrils like flame throwers

throw sparks you-ward, reducing to humility--

you the tough one, teeth-clenched stalwart bulwark,

momentarily collapsed; me, meek, submissive, scared,

scarred, stomping foot-demanding action ... the nile

overflows, tides turn, seasons change, even God

repents now and then -- regardless,

buckling knees firm, jaws relax,

you return, the hesitation that

is me resurrects, and we

are as we always are,

sun and moon, the

light and the

reflector

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Vertical Meditation

June 1986 / Somewhere over the Midwest U.S.

shadows inch across checkerboard soil

smattered with dollhouses and matchbox cars;

riverbed snakes twist and flip-flop,

helix churning like writhing sleep;

amoeba lakes and steel and glass glint light

and i blink,

eyes open to irrigated circles

corn-rowed like a brother's crown;

mist creeping under my wing hazes creation

till peeps of urbanity

peak through wisps and conjure a vision:

offered hands, trembling, reluctant --

bitterness paves hearts;

we peer from behind logs to remove specks...

engine whirs, cabin buzzes,

a knee presses against my seat;

"would you like something to drink?"

gazing northward through cotton billows

i lean against the pane

and swallow the lump in my throat

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The Pearl

December 24, 1986 / Springdale, PA

it takes time

to make a pearl,

tiny grains

adorned with silvery essence,

layer upon concentric layer

of lustrous hues

glossed and polished,

lovingly placed in a lovely shell

by God's almighty hand;

likewise, He turns His gaze to you:

the Master Craftsman sculpts,

patiently, carefully,

little by little,

adding line upon line

as you grow in grace and style;

placed in an eternal frame,

your setting is the heart of God;

for, unlike sand,

no temporal shell

could contain precious you.

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Elegy on a Flower

(for Grandmother Young)

March 1989 / New York City

it wasn't any shock to see

pink pearls on wrinkled white

and blue sunday best draped on the frail frame -

after all, she was ninety-three

and had been sick some time;

course, it was still sad. somehow

nostalgia gripped us like terror, knowing

she wasn't in the garden anymore

when the preacher spiced the air with favorite

psalms, when he spiked our bleeding hearts

and his southern nasal twang dwelt on the faithful

servant's years of selfless benevolence: the rigorous

denial giving dictates over and over, handing out,

pouring out that highest ideal, strived-for but illusive,

bursting into eternity, sending out fragrance

like the bouquet atop the coffin temporarily

wafting sweetness, brilliant colors searing eyes

adding to the streams cascading to the

grass amid the dirt that rattled the pine swallowing

her from sight but never, no never, from mind.

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Growing Up

January 1989 / New York City

Goody is gross, tough and rumpled is cool

When young, and spontaneous fire bourbon

Wets stubble growing on a chin, at school

Hang with the bad boys full of smoke and push

The ruddy little wimps who got it cush;

Then out by the wood breaking hearts in hand,

Satisfying pressure in swollen glands,

Slightly insane passion's fully undone.

Speak no peace to eyes abloom with craving,

Inside old worlds wither like daffodils;

Full blown youth knows of nothing worth saving:

Traveling hearty, idea to idea,

Merciless explorers hark no plea,

Like hawks dive to grasp their ignorant prey,

Quickly bored, cast battered victims away,

Moving on to more adventurous thrills.

Course, though harm comes through investigation,

Soon, by and by, truth smacks between the eyes:

Throbs of displacing alienation

Catch the hardiest, right where it hurts most--

Tapping into fears like a well-trained ghost,

Or deferring hope with ironic twist,

An ill-fated birth or a broken tryst--

Even the most careful jerk back, surprised.

Up, up, higher and higher, they all trudge,

Looking back sometimes, though chances are few --

Lots'd profit from it but just won't budge,

Choosing, instead of reflection, clamor,

Spouting opinions and pushing glamour,

Best friend's a mirror, the narcissus-bound;

Others, more thoughtful, often turn around--

The cold fact is that many never do.

But most'll keep climbing, gauging toil by fame:

Necessity dictates all fill their plates;

Some'll fall, proud mothers weeping their shame,

Ramifications of choices grown cold,

Haunting delusions of grandeur and gold;

A few'll jump, anxious to get somewhere,

God knows where, then again, that's His affair;

Sooner or later all meet the same fate.

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If I Could Climb Out

January 1989 / New York City

if i could climb out

like a snake

or a tarantula

i'd look down at the empty shell

and laugh...

funny how defensive i get about it.

after all, it's just dust.

if i cut off my hand,

nails and hair and all,

could i still catch the smell

of freshly baked bread?

would i see fewer autumn scenes

or miss the patter of rain on the barn?

would the mockingbird's song

pass over my head

if i lost my leg?

if i jab a hole in my ear

and put a gold ring through

am i worth more?

if a tooth with a silver lining

rots and falls out

am i worth less?

if i poked out my eyes

and couldn't see your eyes

could i feel your gaze?

if i tore holes in my eardrums

could i still hear

my thoughts?

?

i saw a man once

in a city,

he'd lost both legs

from the waist down

and i looked at him

with pity:

like a severed stalk

of celery

sitting on a little wheeled plate

he scooted along the sidewalk

faster then i could walk

and his twinkly face

smiled more

in the twenty seconds i saw him

than mine has in weeks;

if he could climb out

he'd probably be amazed

at how similar we are:

him with his strengths

and daily pain

and me with mine;

someday we will climb out--

i hope for now i'm a caterpillar

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Cross-Country Race

March 1989 / New York City

i will win today,

the rest will die. as the red ball

making the misty pond glow pours

intensity, painting a backdrop against

the patter of our running shoes hitting

the sand alongside the road, vastness

swallows us into the morning choir's

happy chirping, up the hill, through

rows of tombstones jutting from the grass.

the birds hail dawn but i'm focused

on the ribbon stretched across the track

at the starting line become finish line;

it touches my heart and i coast,

in slow motion grasping the cup, drinking

the already fading glory but aware

of the ribbon flapping haphazardly,

marking the moment of victory

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Jimmie and Mommie

March 1989 / New York City

clay clods push fingers into the

furrows on the bottom of sneakers

and hold tight, letting go and dropping

onto newly-waxed floors. a handprint on

a cheek fades slowly but shock never dies.

the clod's escorted back to the street on a dustpan,

fitfully flung into the rivulets

of rain that collect like pools of tears

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Going Bald

1978 / State College, PA

singly,

or in twos and threes,

black men jump off the cliff

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