My Happy Dance

My vision blazes into the rush
Colors blush feverishly
on the cheeks of flowers
who do smile as gaily as I.
I wear a dress of white cotton
with light pink flowers embroidered on the hem.
Dance comes naturally,
at variance
A knee-lift, toe-touch, step-together:
Jig of joy!
Blessings
There is sunshine
It emblazons golden light on green shrubbery
and incandesces the latitudes of my grin
Chirruping surrounds my ears
in the language of delight
Euphoria is my name
and this is my happy dance.

Hands

Insomuch as I have lived,
Always I have spied
Hands of different sizes
Resting at each human’s side

Respecting hands flat on the heart
And hands stretched out to greet
Hands at work and hands at play
Kissed hands so sweet

Throughout the working places
In houses big and small
Though the hand be a small member,
It helps us one and all.

The carpenter’s hands are strong, gnarled, and rough
The nails of his hands are cracked
And every line within the palm suggests the artist’s craft

The preacher’s hands are pale,
The knuckles: white as snow
From the weary task of directing poor sinner’s
In the way that they should go
The musician is a wonderment.
His hands so nimble and full of grace
But carpals only last so long,
Arthritis takes their place

God’s Hands are the most captivating to me,
They can’t be seen, or touched, or tangibly felt
Yet they are in our midst every moment

I feel them in life’s hurricane’s eye:
They are the mainstay.

When my life is naught but bad dreams, 
Loose seams, and unraveling schemes,
His Hands are in the starry sky,
I may see them on moonbeams

A touch here or there
Is not how God works:
His fingers sift through all of us as
Sand, the oceans course

And my hands are young
My fingers, long, supple and strong
But I know not how my own strength will last
Nor how long

I only hope God will grant me grace
And give my fingers strength
To hold another’s hand,
And to fold my hands in thanks.
                     
©2013

Anechoic Chamber (Hank Andover: Newspaper Writer and Author of Books)

From an alley of open doors
Into a compartment of closed doors and ink wells
All you saw before entering trails
in sensory traces and stops at the stoop.
You, a man with no name, walk into a room with no people
anticipating the pushing of a button:
compelling the singing, or wanking of a bell or buzzer.
The outside door had no lock,
the inside tells no reason why it would need one
And there is no smell to speak of.
Maybe that’s telling.

If a picture’s worth so many words
a place must be worth millions;
Perhaps this newsroom is without readers;
facing stagnation and eventual extinction
There is barely any air where you stand
and you can quite literally hear your blood course
in this anechoic chamber.

The silence seems like it’s listening to the other side of the door
And there must be a bustle on the other side.
Every movie you’ve ever seen having a newsroom,
including His Girl Friday 
-the flick your mother forced you to watch on your layoff-
depicts the unsound, unsealed offices and cacophony.

You’ve written articles, essays, ads, and poetry,
promotionals, leaflets, handouts, synopses;
and wouldn’t you like to slide in an envelope under that door
and have a look at what your life could be, rather than
walk through it when the bell rings, wanks, or buzzes?

It’s uncomfortable, paperboy
Will you join it?
The tearing, scrounging man-machine;
the system of shambles and kerosene lamps-
Parchment packers, ink fingers, typewriters,
paper eaters, lemon-sippers, and doormats.

Which side of the door shall you be on?

You know that the walking through that door
and the shaking of hands,
handing over the portfolio under your arm
May result in:
"Hank Andover- Newspaper Writer and Author of Books"

“Yes
 I’m
 Ready”

*(Buzz)*

Mr. Andover, please come in.

A Light Thought In a Dark Day

I’d like a light thought in a dark day

The sort that you can linger in,

A thought to dip your toes within

A point to put your finger on,

A glinting dream, a glad migration

A merry moment of the mind,

A pier without an edge

A cliff without the climb;

A thought to pick out of my pocket

And throw out on the path

The sort that breeds where e’er it grows

I’d like to pick up one of those

Pierre

A Swede by stately heritage

Tho Frenchman by the makers’ hands

Was more than sold for less a grand

He’s like an orphaned dog, a sage

She cleans Pierre with careful care;

He was waxed with pine tree sap

And where once he had a tick to tap

No longer rattles like a snare

His accoutrements are cold and chrome

His contortion bears a stolid air

He breathes out the city’s sullied air

And tucks away beside our home

He roams wherever we roam

And when he tarries at a halt

She isn’t addled by his faults

But learns the way he’s knit and sewn

A progressive work is his stave

We will learn him till we know him

And even if his chance is slim

Everyone wants to be saved

"To An Impetuous Snowflake" (On Her Birthday) by Nina Ricci

I. Dedication

Ten years

Adjacent storybooks forced to a far end,

Seven shelved reference books

spread to meet the first ten

And the latest past, a chapter book

a required text, a must-needs read

was volume 17 of your anthology



II. Bookends, dividers
Years are markers to sort and order time

There are no portals entitled to enter

-no swing-hinge doorways:

we are door-makers

We walk long halls,

not that they are long,

We just get stuck, or stay lost, or slay time

Long, because our indirect steps and

latent footfall, we are

Lackadaisical.



III. Memories

Clips of confetti fluttering

catch our eye, a pence of what was-

They are dramas re-mastered

sequences quantized,

the shorts we store-

Those that inform on ourselves-

Impressions kept



IV. Reveries

Films we spasmodically score

set to the music we dream by

Reticent elaborations-

Thought-spun illusions;

Be careful of them.



V. Commencement
On the first chapter of your 18th book,

Do not scribble on the page.

Take notes, stick post-its.

Have confidence and confide in

The Caretaker,

Most dreams are pipe schemes

Ask for a bearing and row


Don’t let sincerity be a dullness

You won’t knock off your shine for

Smile at violets,

To an impetuous snowflake

On her birthday

Whispers From The Engineer

It was a train ride and I held the brakes                     

I turned the nozzle, I scoped the lines                                   

I turned the curves and pounded time                                   

As we shuttled past the railroad stakes                     

The engine ground, the piston pined

And whined within its steely gates

I counted stocky wind-turbines

Flailing at us from a ways away

I shut an eye, the other fluttered

Signs were bland and very vague

Little ladies talked and tittered

Men read pamphlets children played

Droning, droning ever forward

In the milky, sleepy dull

The coals cried dry and wispy whimpers

In the cistern’s muggy lull

I watched a light show from my window

It was the train light’s flashing X’s

I was dazzled then my vexes

Faded black and faded slow

I went where most people go

I didn’t know anything anymore

But they did, all the rest on board

They saw us heading past the shore

We danced on tight ropes not ballast

I knew nothing of our waltz

I tell you it was not my fault!

I was not conscious of our stance

I felt a rush that woke me up

A siren squealed and jarred me

My heart burned hot, my blood caught fire

I cast the light upon the water

  

I could see the end I could hear them wail

They clutched their children by them

They prayed to God to save their lives,

I prayed to God He’d hear them

The water caught us, cold and fast

We stayed afloat on perilous pillows

We were blindfolded under steaming billows

And sunk into the watery pasture

Pleas and calls drowned out forever

They departed to eternal stations

Save me, I was carried on the waters

By a Hand with expectations

Where the locomotive sank

I now return to squat

Bowing towards the wreckage,

Stooping on the dock

Whispering rueful sentiments

Mixing my tears with the ocean’s salt

They’ll not hear but I wish to tell them “Sorry”

For, in truth, it was my fault