Coronary Reflexions 21 to 30
David L. Young
21.
Common Pain
22.
Sunflowers
23.
Closing Windows
24.
Thanksgiving
25.
Through the City
27.
The Messenger
28.
Mutation
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October
1988 / Darien, CT
Jesus
wept.
i
weep, too ‑‑
not
to say
we're
much the same;
it's
just that dreams
have
poured from eyes
more
fair than mine:
kings
and queens,
saints
and gaudy stars ‑‑
each
has known the tang of salt
on
the tip of a tongue
too
torn to speak;
in
this world,
where
love too soon turns cruel,
it's
good to know,
that God, too, cries.
February
1989 / New York City
Looming
tall at the garden's eastern edge
They
beam with pride, each one bright as the first;
Happy
golden faces shining like girl scouts
Saluting
the flag for the morning pledge
Greet
a sunshower that quenches their thirst
And
praise the breaking dawn with silent shouts:
Spiral
arms open, welcoming the light,
Little
galaxies reaching for the skies
Kiss
the blood‑red moon and scorn the black night,
Sweet
giggling flirts winking rows of eyes;
Laugh
not too loud, proud ladies of August,
Autumn
comes courting while you flaunt your prime,
He'll
rob swollen wombs and turn hearts to dust
Reaping
Summer's toil and raping the time,
Leaving
slender frames cracking in the wind
And
waiting for Spring to raise them again.
February
1989 / New York City
june‑bug‑blue‑moon‑pale‑light
drift
through
holes in walls carry
plastered
street wanderers'
din
floating in with passing cars'
headlight
reflections creeping
across
walls like moving movies;
twisting
pillow‑soaking‑sweat anxiety
can't
wait for west to move east
under
hydrogen burning;
sleepy
fingers wobbling down hallways
losing
shadows clutch and pull,
slamming
out dawn's swelling infusion
Thanksgiving
Day, 1986 / Verona, PA
earth
is gray today,
dark
skies weep rain;
somewhere
above
golden
shafts light the world;
in
this morning's silence
i
see you:
standing
under a tree,
a
duck in your arms...
you
gaze out from my mirror
across
the room with a smile
while
i lie here
remembering
days of searching,
desperate
treasure hunts;
when
i got on my knees,
closed
my eyes,
and
looked Up,
then
i found you;
now
all i can do
is
thank God.
June
1980 / January 1989
Philadelphia
/ New York
stomping
on butts
and
plastic wrappers
old
men with gray or bald heads
hold
out bold wrinkled hands
and
gurgle lurid garble,
sour
faces sweaty and desperate,
stationary
at the train station;
cops
gather on horseback
chasing
vagrants
while
down the street
junkies
dressed in robes of rags
rob
a candy store,
to
feed eccentric habits;
toying
with death
and
trembling,
crack!
goes another one ...
cesspool
rivers stink,
where
barnacled barges
and
Russian ships
bring
imports to port;
fetid
oozing slime,
oil
on the docks,
host
a couple of frustrated pigeons
like
a leghold trap,
so
they settle down for the night,
and
i head home:
across
delaware ave,
through
potholes,
across
cobblestones and asphalt,
through
the city
past
sleeping birds,
addicts
in silent‑sirened ambulances,
horseback
cops, sweaty beggars,
and
plastic wrappers;
boarding
the west trenton local,
i
peer through dusty windows
at
shirtless kids
playing
on the tracks
January
1989 / Wilton, CT
scorched
by her searing epithet,
he
dove into himself,
dejected,
branded;
those
toxic lines delved into his soul;
mortified
‑‑ his own morals could be at fault:
Destiny?
destiny step by step...
have
you no free will?
no
conscience, you sot?
no,
amenable murderer,
your
progeny lies
at
the bottom of bags
so
torn as to hide from form ...
"look,
man, get off my back!
it's
my body and i'll do with it
what
i want ‑‑ OKAY???"
just
like you,
black
widow,
sick
with selfishness:
suck
on that.
February
1989 / New York City
i've
borrowed this pen
to
jot a line or two;
every
now and then
i
feel a need to:
with
nothing too profound to say
(never
is, really, you know),
just
another bright sunrise today
atop
a new fallen snow;
the
people aboard with me
each
caught in some routine
have
long failed to see
the
brilliant suburban scenes,
though
once in a while,
like
today, matter of fact,
someone
brings along a child:
she
can't keep her eyes off the track,
wide
brown orbs aglow with awe,
restless,
darting everywhere ‑‑
"wow!
Dad did you see what i saw?"
"shhh!
people are starting to stare"
painted
nails tighten 'round the Times
crunching
as they crease the edges,
revolving
necks creak, smoothing out lines;
brows
knit tufts like hedges,
bifocals
and coffee‑glazed eyes bear down
squashing
the wonder of innocence
under
a collective indignant frown,
demanding
a flogging or penance;
but
they've misidentified their foe:
dad
thinks the whole thing's a game,
smiling,
he shrugs off their woe
and
lets her continue without shame
"what's
all that for dad?"
"that's
just junk‑‑has to do with the train"
"oh,
that's too bad"
dad
pats her head, warding off more disdain...
we
pull into the station, and i return the pen,
dad
wakes up his sleeping prize,
the
accusers turn and glare again
at
the angel who's touched their lives
October
1982 / Verona, PA
dark
clouds shroud
countless
bright memories
as
i sit perilously alone
in
this familiar foreign room ...
last
night's prayer talk
peeps
through curtains,
this
morning's recollection
veiled
by bleary‑eyed hangover's ache
in
the street
smiling
necking couples
transport
me to younger days
when
electric smiles and eyes
returned
each to each,
selflessly
serving that master
we
called love;
day
after day
the
dull drudgery of metered toil
takes
its toll,
slavery
regards its owner:
protector,
patron, savior –
save
her, softly, secretly,
single‑handedly,
so selfish,
now
criticized "too nice" –
my
head's on the ceiling.
tables
turn,
like
heads when she walks by ...
slighted
and ignored?
awkward
and lonely?
you
bet.
better
to gaze back,
back
when we were
unaware
of each other …
but,
love to you,
beautiful,
and
thank you
New
York City / January 1989
When
I am no more bound by space and time,
Transcended
to less worldly, loftier climes,
Dispatch
my body to the raging sea
To
sink or float to some protective lee,
Or
grind my groaning bones to mealy grain
And
toss the dust to ride the restless wind;
Spread
my mean estate among the poor;
Leave
off the stone that boasts of futile fame;
Waste
no sentiment to mourn my end;
The
grave I'll greet with warmth, as a true friend,
And
hasten through eternity's bright door.
Death,
where is thy sting? Put off your pride!
You
strike to panic hearts aghast with dread
Of
sheol agape with arms stretched open wide
To
embrace the torn and sorrowed new‑born dead
Who
meet gehenna's curse, the flames of hell;
Burn
satan! Burn sulphurous fuming wrath,
Consume
your blackened victims age to age,
But
I in greener pastures soon shall dwell:
To
Abram's gentle breast directs my path;
At
heaven's gate awaits a sweet repast
Prepared
for those who trust the Ancient Sage.
March
1989 / Wilton, CT
the
pitch scatters
at
the sound and smell of sulphur
permeating
nostrils. we aren't yet used
to
light but as the wick ignites,
flickering,
strobing, phantoms dancing
on
walls, reaching, reaching me, reaching you
grabbing
hold, hand to hand, eye to eye,
we
adjust. darkness banished, the circle
of
vision shifts from me to me and you, bending,
blending
silently across valleys of uncertainty,
whispering,
transition, split‑second
perception,
revelation, catharsis
then
it's out. blackness is back
amid
waxy fumes, only a point of glow sizzling
between, fading then gone.
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