The Frozen Tundra

Photographers camp
Those spies with their black boxes.
They don't belong here.

From the Fat to the Fire

I can't comprehend how you could have been so careless with our romance
To throw it away on the first guy you see. Why, you hardly gave us a chance!
I thought we were cooking and you seemed so pleased but another has caught your desire
Which demonstrates clearly our sizzling affair has now gone from the fat to the fire.

If you've found what you wanted in somebody else then there surely is no point in trying
To convince you to stay. I'd be wasting my time, and I'm hurt, but you won't catch me crying.
 So run to his arms or go jump in his bed. Pretty soon, I suspect, you will tire
Of your gentleman friend, and this new fling you'll end, tossing him from the fat to the fire.

Beside the Fire

Beside the fire we reminisce
Of our first date and our first kiss
Which ultimately led to this
Epitome of wedded bliss.

Beside the fire we thank the Lord
Our prayers for love were not ignored.
We go to bed each night assured
We have received life's best reward.

Beside the fire we entertain
Indulgences we must restrain
'Til we're alone. Then passions reign
And fierce desires we can unchain.

Beside the fire, as man and wife
We count the blessings of our life.
So many gifts, such little strife.
With Heaven's Grace the world is rife.

An Ice Cold Soul

My mistress has an ice cold soul
And has me under her control.
Although I love her none the less
Her cruelty brings me much distress.

Her beauty is an attribute
That none who meet her can dispute.
But she has other potent tools
For dominating fawning fools.

I never thought that she was kind
Which strangely, made me more inclined
To seek her favors and romance
Like countless other sycophants.

She never stoops to crass or crude.
Is always quite politely rude.
Yet with unquestionable ease
Can bring opponents to their knees.

With pleasure she dispenses spurn.
My love for her she won't return.
Quite callously my heart she stole.
My mistress has an ice cold soul.

Rasputin's Farewell

So finally they’ve struck me down
And rushed headlong to ring the knell
Proclaiming in their wicked mirth
That I at last have gone to hell.

One winter night a faint light streaked
Across the bleak Siberian sky
Beyond the Urals to the east
Across the southern steppes came I.

Yea those there were who called me Christ
Horse thief, healer, devil man
Betrayed by him I once called friend
Who lunged, then like a coward ran.

Adrift upon a sea of blood
Which has engulfed the entire realm
Now Bolsheviks and Cossacks clash
With thieves and cutthroats at the helm.

So let them dance upon my grave
And wallow in their filthy glee
It is Grigori who at last
Shall laugh for all eternity.

Cheating the Worms

Even rats with their prodigious, persistent fangs would be hard-pressed to penetrate
Two inches of concrete, reinforced with stubborn iron mesh.
And the occasional auspicious crack caused by the careless backhoe
Only leads to further disappointment: a shell of galvanized steel.

But the unkindest cut of all, if we should by some miracle
Gain ingress to that which is rightfully ours
Pungent, poisonous preservatives lurking in those inert veins
Like a rusty razorblade embedded in a caramel-coated apple.
Why do you hate us so much?

Air-tight urns with ashes interred
Present to the subterranean scavengers
Still another conundrum.
If the contents are so precious, why not keep them on your mantels beside faded photographs?
Why burn them at all?

Why dress them in their finest, style their hair and smear them with make-up
Then lock them away forever in stifling, impregnable sepulchres?
Stuff them, put them on display in your homes
Prop them up at the table, reading the paper
Or lay them out in their favorite recliners
Their lifeless fingers locked around the remote control.

Then you can truly say, “He looks so natural.”
Then you can truly say, “She looks so peaceful.”
Do this if you would cheat death.
Do this if you would cheat us.

© August 30, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

You say that you are not afraid

You say that you are not afraid to face the final call?
Because you are superior to all us “infidels”
Who undulate like ragged rowboats in the ocean’s swells
Engulfed at last by angry seas that form a swirling pall.

Here’s my take:
God forsake?
Your mistake.

Suppose the bridge of stone and steel that you will walk across
Is really made of rotting wood and decomposing rope.
So if the boards beneath your feet give way, I only hope
Your pompous days of re-born faith were not a total loss.

Caustic wit?
Live with it.
Hypocrite.

On angel’s wings, you claim, you’ll soar to rendez-vous with God
While all the rest of us descend to well-deserved perdition
So confident you are your sins will all receive remission.
Perhaps your wings are made of wax.  Now wouldn’t that be odd?

Apostate?
I debate.
Just you wait.

© August 27, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Musings on Mortality

Years slowly settle on us, like the dust
In layers first invisible, then white
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must
Upon unwary surfaces alight.

Quite cognizant I am of coming night
But trepidation’s given way to trust
That life has been a blessing, not a blight.
Years slowly settle on us, like the dust.

Time causes stone to scale and steel to rust
It flattens mountains with a gentle might
And coaxes glaciers with a steady thrust.
In layers first invisible, then white

The snows of time will bury me from sight.
But winter is a lovely season just
Like all its sister seasons in their right
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must

Evoke mortality with every gust.
The spirits of the ages who unite
To fill the heavens with a reverent hush
Upon unwary surfaces alight

While those who walked the earth or soared in flight
Sleep soundly deep beneath the hallowed crust.
I see the silhouette of death, a slight
Surreptitious shadow filled with lust.
Years slowly settle on us.

© August 19, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Will-o-wisp

Shimmering on, souls not quite gone
Dance in the dark until the dawn.
Some claim it’s swamp gas, but I know
What science says isn’t always so.
These sparkling specters seem the spawn

Of charcoal night, that lingers on
When lights are dimmed and shades are drawn.
These spirits neither stay nor go, shimmering on.

That threshold they are trapped upon
A living limbo, leaves them sans
Salvation or perdition, oh
A sad and scary evening show, shimmering on.

© August 10, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Godmother

I could not bring myself to weep
Ashamed I stood, my eyes still dry
Until at last, the mourning sky
Fulfilled the vow I could not keep

And roused the thunder from its sleep,
Dispensing proxy tears from high.
I could not bring myself to weep
Ashamed I stood, my eyes still dry

My sorrow buried six feet deep.
I loved her none the less, yet I
Despite a most concerted try
Could not evoke a sob, or peep
I could not bring myself to weep.

© July 28, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

I Saw a Spark Streak Through the Sky

I saw a spark streak through the sky
A tiny, dim and distant dot

There goes another soul, thought I.
I saw a spark streak through the sky

And then I wondered, when I die
Will poets pick up pens to jot:
   
“I saw a spark streak through the sky
A tiny, dim and distant dot?”

© July 28, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Why Not a Poem of the Grave?

Why not a poem of the grave?
Why should we such a verse eschew?

My proud, prolific pen will brave
Why not? -a poem of the grave.

We must return that which He gave
That life bestowed on me and you

Why not a poem of the grave?
Why should we such a verse eschew?

© July 27, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Gerald Died Alone

On July 27th, 2001, Gerald died alone.

Were his 75 years –years of pleasure and pain, triumph and tragedy, love returned and rebuffed- squashed to a scant several seconds, flashing fatefully in a vanishing, valedictory vision?

Did he depart docilely, heeding William Cullen Bryant’s advice to “approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams?”  Or did he fall into the chasm screaming and struggling, after clinging to the crumbling cliff of mortality?

Did the bells ring in his brain a terse tintinnabulation of terror, a dread declaration of death, a haunting harbinger of the hereafter? Did dearly-departed decedents descend, whispering wistfully “It is time?”

Was the Reaper the awful apparition of old, bedecked in black, swinging his scythe, his crimson eyes piercing pinpoints placed in a gaping skull, or was he the decorous, discreetly-dressed dandy from that episode of The Twilight Zone?

Was Gerald aware and awake, thumping his throbbing chest, wretched realization rising in his throat, or did he softly succumb, sleeping on the sofa, effortlessly evanescing into eternity?

Did he seek solace in the Scriptures, consider the Koran, unlock the Upanishads, or ask audience of the Almighty?  Maybe his mind moved to the mundane, and he thought of his 3:00 p.m. dentist’s appointment, suddenly moot.

Casting aside all superfluous speculation, abandoning all assumptions, all that we really know is this:

On July 27th, 2001, Gerald died alone.

© July 27, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Sisyphus at Bull Run

From a forced, fitful slumber they strain to arise
With the darkness and dirt of the grave all around.
After all these years, ignorant of their demise
Their young souls full of fight, that would burst from the ground.
They were stopped in their tracks by a rebel force keen
As they gathered like storm clouds above fields of green.
Eager crowds from the city had followed to see
The rash rebels run, routed, and Beauregard flee.
Still the words of dead generals ring in dead ears:
"Send them all back in boxes to Robert E. Lee!"
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Bright blue uniforms tattered, and no one is wise
To the absence of motion, of light and of sound
Since reality neither appears nor applies
To an underground army in death's dressings bound.
Still, an iciness grips them, as cold hands unseen
Wrap their foul, phantom fingers around the pristine
Patriotic young spirits still yearning to be  
The defenders of Union, and pride of the free.
But they slough off uneasiness, banish their fears
Knowing nothing of destiny's dreadful decree.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Apprehension exhumed speaks astonishing lies
Whispered over the phantom reports that resound
Over landscapes surreal, under false summer skies
That would fade in an instant were truth ever found.
But the damp cloth of death often wipes the mind clean
Of that fierce, final blow, leaving one in between
Realms of substance and shadow, to cling like a tree
To a desolate heath strewn with weeds and debris.
Resolute that their duty not fall in arrears
But unable to fight and forbidden to flee.  
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Somber columns of stones greet the visitors' eyes
But an upsurge of sentiment swells from the ground
Stifled patriotism, and rage that belies
The initial tranquility seemingly found.
And the living grow quiet, attempting to glean
Further psychic impressions that hover unseen.
There are courage and hope, and the smallest degree
Of repressed trepidation, a silent, last plea.
But the dead can keep secrets for thousands of years
Secrets locked behind doors to which none have the key.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Still the dead soldiers dream of their final goodbyes
To their mothers and sisters and wives who surround
Them with sad valedictions and watery eyes-
Then a mournful farewell from a faithful old hound.  
With their guns locked and loaded, physiques hard and lean
A fierce phalanx of Federals heads toward the scene
Of the rebels' last stand, for the Yankees agree
That the South's Armageddon will take place at three.
Fire and smoke fill the air as the enemy nears
But serene is the creek that traverses the lea.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Cycled ad infinitum, until at last the
Uninformed, restless souls heed death's final decree.
The Assumption of silence, as ancient veneers
Faintly flicker and vanish, thus setting them free.  
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

© March 22, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

360°

I'll leave no flowers at her grave, because this is a lie
A dark deception that descends like fog upon a lake
No need to mourn or shed a tear, because she did not die
Another hour or two will bring the breeze to gently take
Away this foggy, fatal vision, leaving in its wake
The morning bright, the water clear and gleaming in the sun.
Or possibly this granite stone was placed here by mistake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.

How selfish of her to desert me, knowing full well I
Could never face the world alone, could never fully shake  
The shroud of sorrow from my soul, and so I must rely
On disappearing memories and reveries to make
Amends for missing company that stirs my heart to break.
And yet, I must not fold to fate, lest I become undone
Though others in relentless mourning their whole lives forsake.
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.

Futility is the result of trying to deny.
Each life that comes into the world is like a single flake
Descending to oblivion while falling from the sky
To melt away with all the rest when spring shall overtake.
I miss her in the day, and many nights I am awake
Seeking solace in the stars and somehow finding none.
Some turn their backs on former faith, insisting God is fake
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.

I think that this is just a dream, perhaps a stomach ache
Produced some deep disturbance that has caused my mind to run
Amok with evil images.  A lesser man would quake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.

© December 31, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Skeletons in the Closet

Sealed away forever with the closing of a lid
Long-forgotten secrets strewn with dreams whose time has past
Bound with broken promises, lie moldering amid
Buried bones in boxes, in a yard that has amassed

Long-forgotten secrets strewn with dreams whose time has past.
Strollers in this grove of graves walk over much more than
Buried bones in boxes, in a yard that has amassed
Sepulchers containing what was and what might have been.

Strollers in this grove of graves walk over much more than
Cold cadavers resting in their horizontal cells
Sepulchers containing what was and what might have been-
Echoes of Elysium or private little hells.

Cold cadavers resting in their horizontal cells
Bound with broken promises, lie moldering amid
Echoes of Elysium or private little hells
Sealed away forever with the closing of a lid.

© November 14, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

The Raven in the Graveyard

This strange, sepulchral spectacle to me does not seem right
They fill this place with stones and sculptures honoring the dead
Who lie in boxes underground, forever out of sight
I wish that they would plant another tree for me, instead

They fill this place with stones and sculptures honoring the dead
Whom they so carefully preserve, then dump into the ground
I wish that they would plant another tree for me, instead
They waste their time on those oblivious to sight and sound

Whom they so carefully preserve, then dump into the ground
The mourners come with rosy wreaths to offer the deceased
They waste their time on those oblivious to sight and sound
I watch this graveyard grow and grow, the numbers have increased

The mourners come with rosy wreaths to offer the deceased
Who lie in boxes underground, forever gone from sight
I watch this graveyard grow and grow, the numbers have increased
This strange, sepulchral spectacle to me does not seem right.

© November 1, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Is your grave tended lovingly by grizzled veterans
Who stoop to leave you a wreath
Or to pluck away an errant dandelion
That, like a stubborn stray, keeps returning?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Do you frolic in some stately, spectral hall
A Valhalla for Continental soldiers
Where, each evening, you return victorious
After having once more routed the Redcoats, and shine your saber?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Do you lie near the edge of a woods
Underneath weeds, crabgrass and thorn bushes
The last testimonial to your role in American independence
Savagely-uprooted by iconoclastic vandals?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Is your name in the history books
Where your courage and leadership
Are memorialized for future generations
Who may never open those books
Or from whom the names "Saratoga" and "Valley Forge" elicit blank stares?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Did your men regard you as a paragon of patriotism?
Did they salute you and call you "sir" to your face, and "scoundrel" to your back?
Do you rejoice with the Father and bask forever in the eternal light
Or have wanton acts of wartime barbarity consigned you to eternal night?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?

© October 26, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Five Tankas

Just six feet of dirt
Separating you from me
Like the nearest star
You are always there, and yet
Utterly unreachable.

Do not weep for me
I am the apple that falls
Harboring new seeds
I am grapes plucked from the vine
Turned to a fine libation.

Forever enshrined
In pseudo-reliquaries
Their manner of death
-Violence, pestilence or time-
Makes little difference now.

I stand in the yard
Among graves, grass and granite
Straining hard to hear
Those spectral supplications
But there is only silence.

If they could but stir
From their eternal slumber
For merely a glimpse
Of their erstwhile surroundings-
No, better that they should sleep.

© October 26, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Spider on a tombstone

This tiny vermin has a lot of nerve
To so unceremoniously crawl
Across this polished granite, which is all
Some poor decedent has left now to serve

To keep his fading memory alive.
This shiny stone, assaulted by the rain
Disgraced by feathered folks time and again
Attacked by an arachnid who should strive

To crawl around it, at the very least.
I've half a mind to crush him with my shoe
But this would further desecrate the stone

To splay the essence of this little beast.
So I suppose there's nothing I can do
But ask him, please, to leave the dead alone.

© October 22, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Remembering Jennifer

She should have been among that group of students on the plane
To stroll the gardens of Versailles she should have had the chance
She should have been with all of us when we came home again
In 1987, when she never went to France.
I can't but wonder, when she crossed the street that fatal day
If she were thinking of that gala summer she would spend
Were her last thoughts of sipping coffee in a street café
Or walking hand-in-hand through Paris with some new-found friend?
We thought of her from time to time, but never did we dwell
On subjects much too somber for a summer meant for fun.
I must believe that in His wisdom, God has made it well
Her spirit glides above the Seine, her dreams undone redone
Oblivious to her demise, forever in the past
I like to think that Jennifer arrived in France at last.

 © October 15, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Five Graveyard Limericks

Here lies Jack, in a small wooden box
Under six feet of dirt, sod and rocks
Mourners utter no breath
Of his horrible death
But the specter of suffering mocks.

Kate was never the virtuous kind
To ignite burning lust she designed
Though her morals were lax
Let us not make attacks
Rather hope that some peace she will find.

Chester bickered at spending a dime
And his wife called him "sweet as a lime"
When informed, that at last
The old miser had passed
His three daughters said, "It's about time!"

Grace was 99 at her life's end
And to heaven her soul did ascend
But her funeral rites
Oh, the saddest of sights!
There was nobody left to attend.

Once again, fate has bitterly stung
And has snuffed out a life much too young
As we gathered around
She was laid in the ground
While lugubrious dirges we sung.

© September 28, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Lasting respects (a sestina)

The father once again has come to mourn
And offer prayers to speed her soul's ascent.
He mutters invocations as he bows
His head and stares directly at the ground
Oblivious to wind and whirling leaves
 He reminisces as it starts to rain.

Quite soft at first, it sprinkles the terrain
And summons mist that lingers in the morn
And hovers over browning grass and leaves
Olfactory remembrances, a scent
He smelled that day they laid her in the ground
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs.

Remembering the eulogy, he bows
His head and thinks how God will come to reign
While lives that should have lasted long are ground    
Like pebbles into dust and parents mourn
While all the while still nodding their assent
Their loved one flies to heaven as she leaves.

His shiny shoes now covered with dead leaves
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs
He can not but resent what fate has sent
But as a man, he has been taught to rein
In his emotions, and to never mourn
In public, and be strong, and hold his ground.

He feels like he is sinking in the ground
That each time that he visits her he leaves
A part of him that stays behind to mourn
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs
Oblivious to chilly wind and rain.
He takes small comfort in her soul's ascent

But gives to God what God to him has sent.
At times he envies those beneath the ground
Forever sheltered from that somber reign
Of drenching sorrow which holds sway and leaves
The living lingering beneath the boughs
Of poplar trees upon a misty morn.

The sun's ascent declares the end of morn
And towards the soggy ground the father bows
The rain has stopped, a single rose he leaves.

 © September 13, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

On visiting the Paoli Memorial Grounds, June 3rd, 2004

I cleared my mind and strolled across the rolling grassy field
The scene of slaughter on an autumn evening long ago
When sharp, cold steel and bright, hot flames clashed with soft, warm flesh
As soldiers -shocked and sleepy- stumbled out into the night
Into a barrage of British bayonets.

I cringed in anticipation of the agonized screams
That the spiritually-attuned claim still linger in the air
I braced myself against the onslaught of an icy wave of horror
That would surely sweep through my body
Leaving me drained as a skewered corpse, to fall limply to the earth.

The grass -long dry and green- yielded no clues, told no tales
Of an ancient hecatomb.
The air was still save for the sounds of birds, passing cars
And an occasional dog in the distance.
No apparitions darted from the woods upon the edge.
There was no haunting presence, no overwhelming sorrow
No pounding pathos to assault the living.

I stood within the tiny, walled graveyard flanked by iron cannons
Where the 53 patriots –stabbed and skewered, burned and bludgeoned- lay
Nothing more than a heap of buried bones now
Beneath a faded marker whose inscription
Could never tell their tale.
Even the king of the park
A majestic granite obelisk that watched over the whole site
Was just a giant block of stone.

© September 2, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Haunting Haikus

From my narrow cell
I wish that I'd grasped at dreams
When I could still grasp

Shielded from all storms
I long for the sensation
Of rain on my face

How she would have loved
A bouquet of roses then
More than a wreath now

Spirits and specters
Are not found in the graveyard
Only dirt and bones

Foolish epitaphs
Vainly issue a challenge
They can never win

Bye-bye, Big Bob

Big Bob always said that he led a charmed life
Though he lost his job, his home and his wife.
But the only comfort that Bob ever needed
Was a bottle of booze, and he never heeded
The doctor’s dire warnings about his liver
Malt liquor flowed into his mouth like a river
One day crossing the street, he was praising his luck
When he chanced to look up, he saw the Mack truck.

© August 30, 2005 by Allan M. Heller

Epitaph for Elliot

Elliot wasn't especially bright
While cooking snapper soup one night
He leaned a little too close to the fire
When suddenly he began to perspire
And noticed his apron was ablaze
But remaining calm, he turned his gaze
And grabbed the closest liquid handy
Which happened to be a pint of brandy.

© September 1, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

We, the Forsaken

Our names and faces no one can recall.
Beneath the sodden earth wherein we lie    
Within the confines of a crumbling wall

We have one last request to ask of all
Who pass our way, to simply pass on by.
Our names and faces no one can recall

Our very presence clearly must appall
Most all of you, who will not cast an eye
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.

So do not deign to bring us wreaths or fall
Upon your knees to pray and then to cry
Our names and faces no one can recall.

The weeds are thick, the grass uncut and tall
And dead the trees that strove to touch the sky
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.

No longer comes the widow in her shawl.
A simple fact that no one can deny:
Our names and faces no one can recall
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.

© August 31, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

Grave Reflections

An effigy atop a stone has fixed its gaze on me
Itinerant intruder in this city of the dead
As growing stillness slowly stifles all thoughts in my head
‘Til I can almost hear the soft, sepulchral inquiry
Why do you come to such a place to spend an afternoon?

I know the answer as I walk past graves with flowers strewn.
While noting markers lined in rows or clustered into groups
I hover over history to see who slumbers where
A founding father, matriarch, mass-murderer or mayor
While epitaphs illegible, like missing combat troops

Demand imagination more than those that clearly tell.  
I'm beckoned by the symmetry of tombstones great and small
With angels capped, whose silent trumpets sound the final call
Proud monuments and mausoleums striving to excel
Alongside sunken, crumbling markers grappling with the vines.

Still wondering and wandering, I ponder fate's designs
And grieve with all young parents, widows, widowers and friends
Who came to visit frequently, until they came no more
Because the sight of loved ones' graves grew harder to endure.
So seeking no acknowledgement, I am the one who sends

Those lasting tributes, last regards and prayers for fleeting souls.
And finally, I feel a peace that can not be obtained
Through mortal slumber, quiet walks or thoughts of riches gained.
I envy those no longer plagued by superficial goals
Unburdened by those worldly woes that life so blithely doles.

© August 30, 2004 by Allan M. Heller

A Father’s Waltz With His Daughter

     I

I’ve dreamt of this dance for so long, though
A slight sadness hangs in my heart
For now that you’re married, we both know
Your own brand new life you must start.

     II

I trust that he always will love you
As much as I love you, and more
And that he will always be tender
To this little girl I adore.

And that he will always be tender
To this little girl I adore.

   III

A memory lasts but a lifetime
A moment arrives, then it’s gone
And now that my daughter’s a wife I’m
Aware of the time passing on.

   IV

And so with a sweep and a flourish
This father now gives you away
I hope that you grow old together
And that deep in love you will stay.

I hope that you grow old together
And that deep in love you will stay.

May 16, 2009 by Allan M. Heller

From That Noble Saint of Love

From that noble saint of love
These words come from high above
They are simple thoughts, but yet they are profound
That which sparkles in your eyes
Is a glimpse of paradise
You’re the closest to an angel that I’ve found.

You and I were meant to be
Side by side apparently
Every day that we’re apart seems like a year
I pray fervently that you
Feel precisely like I do
Take my hand and understand I love you, dear.
Be my valentine!

Five New Haiku

Potent poetry
Is like a steel fishing hook
That skewers your thumb.

The smiling orchid
Foolishly crossing my path
Dealt the kick of death.

Licking matted fur
With the unruffled finesse
Only a cat has.

Gold foil packages
Laced with red and green ribbons?
Show me the money!

Bountiful bookcase
Bulging with decades-old dreams
A mere megabyte.

© November 5, 2012 by Allan M. Heller

The Poet's Lament

The poet was truly dejected
When all of his work was rejected.
He thought himself clever
Yet somehow he never
Received the response he expected.

To Be a Poet

To be a poet you don’t need to rhyme.
This tiresome practice died out over time.
If you insist this old rule be obeyed
You’ll never win a single accolade.

Parameters like meter too are dead.
Dispense with all of them if you’d be read.
Iambic, anapestic, just forgo.
There’s really nothing that you need to know.

Those metaphors and similes? Cliché!
They are the stale croissants of yesterday.
Such imagery is too hard to digest
And leaves the reader utterly distressed.

Alliteration’s such stupidity
And reinforces that rigidity
Without which would-be wordsmiths will succeed.
Such superciliousness you don’t need.

Let words flow from your brain into your hands.
Don’t worry if nobody understands.
A stream-of-consciousness should be your aim.
Comprehensibility is lame!

On talent too much emphasis was placed
But now this harsh requirement’s been erased
Allowing anyone to garner praise.
Everyone’s a poet nowadays.

Rhythm, Rhyme and Meter

Rhythm, Rhyme and Meter, I shall miss you when you’re gone
Without any structure, how can poets carry on?
Some self-indulgent, babbling hack is an awful bore
Who can wonder why folks do not listen anymore?

Rhythm, Rhyme and Meter,  you have raised me from a child
If not for all your tutelage, my poems would run wild
Lacking any discipline, they’d ramble on, or worse
I’d be producing doggerel some people call “free verse.”

Rhythm, Rhyme and Meter, why have most deserted you?
To claim “poetic license” new age writers now eschew
The priceless origins of lyric lore, the very rules
The masters handed down to us from literary schools.

Rhythm, Rhyme and Meter, you are obsolete, I’m told
Restricted to the very young, or to the very old
But I fall somewhere in between, so I have no excuse
I’d rather hear some Ogden Nash, or good old Dr. Seuss.

Jack of Diamonds (in memory of Jack Couchard)

What legacies do we leave behind?
Am I to believe that all those who’ve gone before
Have been relegated to the status of
A faint rustle in the wind
A cricket chirping in the dark
Or a thin corona around the midnight moon?

And how can you tell me that Jack is gone-
My old friend Jack
Whose jovial face I still see
Whose familiar shtick still makes me laugh
Whose second hand cigarette smoke
Still lingers fondly in my nostrils?
How can you compress 81 years of joy and pain
Of success and failure
Of sheer excellence and mere mediocrity
Into a rectangular slab of marble
And call it a monument?

Some holes can not be filled with dirt.
You can’t cover up a lifetime with six feet of peat moss and say it’s gone.
Your can’t bury a lifetime of inspiration and aspiration.
No one can tell me that Jack’s buried.
Jack’s not buried.

I don’t believe that he’ll never walk through that door again.
I know it, but I don’t believe it.
I can still hear him gripe about those lousy lottery numbers
Or that slowpoke horse that came in dead last
And cost Jack a bundle.
Good old Jack.
What a card.

Well, let them put some empty wooden box into the ground.
Yes, I said empty.
Let them dump a ton of soil onto it.
Then cap it off with a piece of stone they call a monument.
I have a few monuments of my own.
And long after the last flowers to adorn that stone wither
And all of the surrounding grass is uniform
I’ll still have that old end table
And that crystal ashtray
And that three-way lamp
That Jack picked up for me at a flea market.

Patience

He stood there longer than any thought possible
Watching them play, watching them grow, watching them live
Certainly they knew he was there
But did they ever really take notice of him?
Sometimes he was the center of their play
Although he was completely passive
How could he have initiated anything?
He passed many hours alone-
Crystal-coated fingers, dressed in white
Yet naked and subject completely to the forces that battered him
He withstood it well enough
And it didn’t last forever
He could appear quite sinister, although not intentionally,
If the hour were late
Or the weather were stormy
From behind the window the children might become frightened
Completely forgetting that it was only he
But he was no monster-
Many little friends flocked to him
He could consider almost everyone little
And as the years went by and the children grew
Until they were children no longer
He saw less and less of them
He had seen it all before
Perhaps more would come
Perhaps not
He would always have some companions
And for a long, long time to come he would remain
A proud patriarch
On a carpet of green,
Of white,
Of red and gold.

The Dwindling of the Night

How long it has been since I have known
That gentle, peaceful, drifting feeling
Of being lulled back and forth
Up and down
On the undulating sea of sleep.

I don’t remember what it’s like
To sink slowly in the sands of slumber
To descend delicately into a dream
To sense time and place and reality drift away
As I emerge, twirling, into a new dimension.

Now I know only the harsh stillness of a dark room
The glaring red numerals from a digital clock
That ominously signal the dwindling of the night
The night which has been so graciously given
To attain that which is nearly unattainable.

Sleep when it finally comes is a pouncing panther
Striking me suddenly by the throat and pulling me down
But leaving me still to waken
Pierced by fatigue
In the pale morning light.

Faces in the Wall

I see faces in the wall
Peering out at me from other dimensions
Faces from the past, the future
Twisted and in pain, laughing and smiling
Weeping and pining, and some singing silently
These merry, moribund and omniscient countenances are not on the wall
Make no mistake- they are in the wall.

If time is truly a continuum, as I have heard them say
Then there are an infinite number of faces
None are ever added or removed
Like the distant denizens of the constellations
The light from some has not reached us yet
While others, long since extinguished refuse to succumb to the surrounding blackness
Still taunting us from their phantom firmament.

If I had the power, and perhaps I do
I could learn much from the faces in the wall
How I strive to comprehend them
To learn their pasts and my future
To hear their soundless speech and strained mutterings
But maybe it’s all the product of a fevered mind and when I look away and look back
I’ll once again be staring at paint and plaster.

A Simple, Secular, Holiday Verse To A Splendid Mother

I could pen amusing little rhymes
Or maudlin stanzas that ooze sentiment
Like bloated, half-thawed maple trees
Waiting patiently for the poetic woodsman
With his hammer, spigot and tin pail.

Or I could blubber, teary-eyed
About the countless nights you sat by my bed
And assured me most whole-heartedly
That there was absolutely nothing sinister
Lurking underneath it.

I might even mention how you held me in you arms-
Thick, brown mud smeared over us both
After a certain mischievous sibling
Was possessed by some diabolical urge
To shove his little brother face-down into a mud puddle.

But I will not compromise literary integrity
For the sake of silly sentimentality
I will not embarrass us both
(And all those who may read this)
By an egregious discharge of emotion.

Let me simply express my love and gratitude
In a dignified sort of way
And more deeply than some nameless holiday-verse hack
Who has never even met you
Could ever do.

Rain

The patter of rain
Against my window panes
Growing louder and faster
Yet maintaining perfect rhythm
As it beats against the thin, clear glass
And pounds upon the shingles and the stones
Intrepid intruders searching for ingress
Making cats twitch their whiskers and dogs raise their ears
While a part of me wonders if the house will collapse
As I shudder to think what would happen if I walked outside
When suddenly a brazen clap of thunder splits the air
The cymbal cracking the coalescing crescendo
Sending domestic animals under the beds
Yet soothing the storm as is shatters the nerves
The torrent turns to a soft, steady tapping
And gently drips down roofs and gutters
A sound which went unheard before
Until a trickling begins
After a space of time
Then I am asleep.

Mistress

I wait in darkness on my naked knees
When the sound of softly-creaking hinges
On forbidden fantasies impinges
To make my darkest dreams realities.

How I love your wanton, wicked laughter
That mingles with my half-ecstatic cries
While gazing, prostrate, at your fishnet thighs
I beg for cruelty first, mercy after.

I need the discipline your shiny boots bring
Your swiftly-swinging, stinging little palm
Imbues in me a deep, submissive calm
As humbly I succumb to conquering.

The promise of each sweet, sadistic meeting
Of which the unenlightened are appalled
Until we meet again holds me enthralled
Of those torrid torments worth repeating.

Alone, I close my eyes in reminiscing
And pretty, painted toenails I am kissing.

Fountain Meditations

Here I sit on a round stone seat
Watching the water spewing
From a dozen places
Around the fountain
Shaped like an eight-pointed star
In the center of the square.

Reflecting human life I see
This elegant display
This Fountain of Existence, if you will.
Each jet continuously gushing forth
Streams of eternity-
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years.
A ceaseless, surging, silent sound
Of endless epochs going round.

The water shoots into the air
And lands in the middle
Mixing with a million mingled memories
Effervescing deeper and deeper into oblivion
As the water splashes on and on
And froths and foams and bubbles white.

Lights shine from the bottom
Clear but soft and distant
Not like mere electric fixtures
But a backdrop of stars
Immune to time
Forever fixed
Behind rushing, evanescing eons.

Silently they sit and watch
What is and what has been
The water churns
The decades roll
The bubbles burst
The ages fall.
And it’s all the same to them.

Sun, Moon, Northstar

Sun, moon, northstar
Is what you are to me
Throughout the seasons of my life
And of my life to be.

When I was young, you were the sun
And by your warmth and light
I learned to live and grow full strong
And hold myself aright.

Now you are the moon
Still shining on, but more subdued
Though I need only turn and look
To have my strength renewed.

One day you shall finally be
A glimmer from on high
The distant northstar glowing ever
In my memory’s eye.

Alpha, Omega, Alpha

A huge, amorphous ball of nothing, seemingly destroyed
Detonates in silent blasts which echo through the void
A purpose from the purposeless, as countless pieces hurled
Consolidate through clouds of dust to spawn a million worlds.

A solitary mountain, standing stark amid the waves
Endures the unrelenting pounding from these ocean slaves
‘Til spewing molten rage that brings a fiery demise
It slowly settles down into a teeming paradise.

Those whose solemn, stately beauty decked the world in green
Compacted to a lump of black, beneath the earth, unseen
Undergoing transformations, centuries they linger
Emerging from their timeless sleep to sparkle on some finger.

Unyielding laws of entropy bring chaos and decay
Yet still the darkest evening evanesces into day
Though she who soars above the clouds inevitably crashes
Her conflagration sparks creation rising from the ashes.

An Imprecation to the Muses (sung to the can-can music of Offenbach's La Gaite Parisienne)

I
There I sat at my wit’s end
Writing a letter to a friend
Yet I had not a single line
Because a group of sisters nine
Were causing me such irritation
With their stupid inspiration
I tried in vain to find a way
To firmly but politely say,
“Would all of you please go away?”
It seemed as they were there to stay. . .

II
Terpsichore, I think that your
Tap dancing on my hardwood floor
Will make the neighbors quite irate
And I for one can’t concentrate
I’d like to see a termination
Of this little demonstration
But if you’re going to refuse
To stop at least take off your shoes
Or else they’ll hear it on the news
“Man goes berserk and strangles Muse. . .”

III
Euterpe, please do not rehearse
Your endless repertoire of verse
Though I’m a fan of poetry
I’m busy now, as you can see
Don’t think that I’m a rotten louse
But can’t you find some coffee house
I simply do not have the time
To listen to your every rhyme
But I am sure you’d be sublime
If you were to become a mime. . .

IV
Calliope, now I am mad
For I have read the Iliad
I really do not have the yen
To hear the entire thing again
Why don’t you take my Aeneid
And go and bore some high school kid?
For ancient Greek I have no ear
So I will make this very clear
Just get the Hades out of here
You and your sisters, disappear. . .

V
Erato, though I am inclined
To say you have a nice behind
Go somewhere else and get your kicks
And stop those dirty limericks
Though I admit to feeling lewd
On seeing you completely nude
I have to write and this I swear
I absolutely will not stare
Get off my lap, this is not fair
Erato, please, don’t touch me there. . .

VI
Melpomene, now you’ve been told
You’re acting like a two year-old
I’ve never seen someone who cries
As much as you, so dry your eyes
Your father Zeus may be a cad
He dumped your mom once she’d been had
Like he does after every tryst
But find a good psychiatrist
And maybe if I really wished
You’d vanish in celestial mist. . .

VII
And Clio, why must you annoy
With details of the siege of Troy
It simply goes beyond conjecture
That you’ll start another lecture
I hope that by the Punic Wars
Your voice has gone completely hoarse
Someone with your ability
Should try a university
I’m sure that you could oversee
Their department of history. . .

VIII
And Thalia, I fear that you’ll
Have to get new material
Your lines may work on other folks
But I think you’ve got rotten jokes
And even if I were to deign
To allow you to entertain
Me it would surely not be now
So why don’t you just take a bow?
Don’t make my scream and beat my brow
You have the manners of a cow. . .

IX
And Polyhymnia, your voice
Would certainly be my first choice
If I wanted to hear a tune-
But not tonight, you crazy loon!
If you don’t keep your songs in check
I’ll wrap that harp around your neck
You may be without inhibition
But I didn’t give permission
For a song and harp audition
Put your music in remission. . .

X
Urania, Urania
Now homicidal mania
Is gradually setting in
And don’t give me that stupid grin
I’ve had enough, I just can’t cope
So put away that telescope
Can’t you find something else to do
Than seek out constellations new?
Why don’t you take a journey to
The planet that’s named after you? . . .

XII
Then contemplating suicide
I flung open the window wide
But finally I used my head
And pointing towards the street I said,
“Who is that walking by those trees?
Why ladies, look, it’s Hercules!”
Then quickly as a lightning flash
Right out the window they did dash
And as each leapt I heard a crash
I smile and thought, Now that was rash. . .

Grandma

I know a woman who can go anywhere, do anything
Visit anyplace in the world
Whether it be Paris, Honolulu, the Stardust Ballroom
Or even Siberia, for that matter
She sits on the porch of the home the entire day
All but crippled from longtime ailments
But her mind is still so strong
And her impotent dreams so powerful
That even though she can’t cross the yard
She can cross the sea.

You, however, are not that woman
Your world is a television screen
Which flickers randomly from channel to channel
You have neither the strength nor the inclination
To get up and change the dial
And bereft of your remote control
Are condemned to stare at static
Or foreign stations
And about the only program that can still stir you
Is the occasional film noir.

Soliloquy in Beige

In memoriam: Allegro, 1980-1995.

The familiar sight of you
Scampering into the kitchen
On your padded little paws
To greedily gobble your ration
Of Sunday morning bacon
Is a sight which, sadly,
We shall never see again.

Nor your peaceful, poised, majestic pose
Atop the dining room table
As you sat and stared and shed
Reclaiming your perch
After countless removals and reprimands
Which you never seemed to comprehend.

Your plaintive, croaking meows
And persistent pleas for people food
-Mere moments after you scornfully sauntered away
From you heaping bowl of crunchy victuals-
Are forever relegated
To the realm of past repasts.

Your endless, loud, squeaky purring
For any and all and no reason whatsoever
Made you sound like an engine
That was idling too high
Until someone finally decided
To take out the key.

So fare thee well, our feline friend
Your long life of luxurious indolence
Has well prepared you for a blissful hereafter
And as long as they serve you
Bacon and turkey and roast beef
You’ll probably never know the difference.

Nary a Scarier Fiend

Silently he glides down the empty corridor
Clinging to the wall like a shadow
His beady red eyes widening with evil anticipation
As he comes ever closer
To the innocent object of his desire.

Softly still he crosses the threshold
Between the corridor and the chamber
With all the sound of a crow hopping across a field at dawn
Plucking hapless worms from the bosom of the earth
And rending them asunder in its filthy beak.

He has no beak, but a sinister little mouth
From which no word of truth is ever spoken
And ruby-red lips, strangely delicate in their own way
Trying in vain to conceal
His vicious, glistening teeth.

As he leans over her and thirstily licks his chops
His marble complexion seems to glow a bit brighter
He drapes one arm over her and cranes his head down closer
Until he is inches from her soft flesh
And whispers in a low, beguiling voice,

“Have you been injured in an accident?
I can get you a large cash settlement.”

Nini Lee

As we sat in a circle, thumping away, in our makeshift basement percussion band
My lonely eyes strayed to the girl at my right bouncing a beat on a big rubber ball
So much like a child on a Hoppity Horse, so much like a woman, I could barely stand
The tension that mounted with each brazen bounce, and as my libido heard the call

My lonely eyes strayed to the girl at my right, bouncing a beat on a big rubber ball
Thrashing her head in tune to the music of pummeling fingers she made me feel
The tension that mounted with each brazen bounce, and as my libido heard the call
I was slowly entranced by her pink, pouting lips, and her soft, supple thighs made my senses reel

Thrashing her head in tune to the music of pummeling fingers she made me feel
Like a man who is starving, but not for food, and whose thoughts have crossed far beyond the risque
I was slowly entranced by her pink, pouting lips, and her soft, supple thighs made my senses reel
And her cute ponytail whipped up and down as she closed her blue eyes in a passionate way

Like a man who is starving, buy not for food, and whose thoughts have crossed far beyond the risque
How I knew that the ball wedged beneath Nini Lee, if it were alive, would be bouncing with glee
And her cute ponytail whipped up and down as she closed her blue eyes in a passionate way
And that night, as I eagerly lay down to sleep, I knew I would dream about sweet Nini Lee.

Uninvited Guests

When I was but a boy of four
I madly dashed across the floor
To the refuge of my squeaking bed
Within the glow the nightlights shed
From a distant corner of my room
Where they tried in vain to beat the gloom
As encroaching shadows seemed to scoff
At such attempts to fend them off
And my fevered mind was filled with dread
At the thoughts which swirled inside my head.

When sunlight shone upon the floor
I would assert myself once more
‘Til night returned and taunted me
With sights I could not clearly see
And sounds I could not clearly hear
Then I confessed my total fear
Of lurking fiends in every place
Threatening always to show their face
If I should step into the hall
Or peek out from the covers at all.

Placed strategically, so I thought
And after a few close calls I taught
Myself to heed the night’s bleak warning
And cross my legs until the morning
Though I was sure that now and then
An occasional one would wander in
And floating several feet away
Stare at me coldly until the day
Would chase him back where he belonged
With his infernal midnight throng.

What made the evenings tempest-tossed
As I grew older, then was lost
And with the passing of each year
They all began to disappear
But in all the time that’s gone by since
I can’t say whether I’m convinced
And sometimes think that I’ll awake
To such a sight I start to shake
As terror makes my steel nerves bend
I’ll hear a whispered, “Hi, old friend.”

De Casibus Illustrum

I once was successful, one might even say rich
But now I’m as poor as a bum in a ditch
I suppose I have no one but myself to blame
I’ve lost everything on that horrible game
My story’s a tale of sorrow quite stirring
Of course, you must all know to what I’m referring
That wretched game, Pinball!  The Devil’s own tool
And he who finds fun in such folly’s a fool
Pockets stuffed full of change I would hit the arcades
And often stormed out in violent tirades
It’s extremely frustrating to spend the whole batch
Of your excess quarters and not even match
Though I did win a free game once in a great while
It just further encouraged my profligate style
Of living and spending and spending some more
That smooth, silver ball is a powerful lure
It shoots up the ramp, the multipliers double
Special lit, extra ball, you know you’re in trouble
With a half-crazed grin, I watched the lights flash
And slowly but surely lost all of my cash
But my occupation with it was so deep
I can still hear the rollers go PING! in my sleep
My addiction’s destroyed me, and I’ll say again
Beware that two-flippered seducer of men.

Fortune Cookie Messages

Introduction

The idea came to me, as so many great ones have, when I was finishing a fine repast in a Chinese restaurant. Being the traditional type, I accepted the complimentary fortune cookie that comes with the check. Crushing the stale orange-cinnamon shell with one had, I popped the pieces into my mouth and unfolded the tiny white slip of paper. I felt like the fisherman who eagerly shucks an oyster in the hopes of finding a pearl, and instead uncovers nothing but a few grains of sand. "Interesting things will happen to you," it read. This certainly wasn't a very promising start. After several more of these disappointing after-dinner rituals, I resolved to do something about it. Certainly a country that had given us Confucius, Zen Buddhism and the only man-made structure visible from space deserved fortune cookie messages which were, well, interesting. Messages people would read and say "Hey, that's neat!" These would not be trite one-liners, they would be little poems -each with a message unto itself. They would be sad and serious, light and amusing, simple and esoteric. All would be somewhat didactic. Most importantly, they would be poetic, prophetic and aesthetic. The more that I thought about it, the more that I like it. I could have decided to make this a life-long endeavor, to write one or two a day for the rest of my existence, so that future generations would never have to see the same fortune twice. I passed on this option, however. What follows is merely a brief sampling of what I have endeavored to start. Those writers willing to pick up the torch have my blessing.

I} Those people whose thoughts depart from their lips
    Quick as the lashes from taskmasters’ whips
    Find that some thoughts are better unspoken
    And sometimes silence is better unbroken.

II} The prisoner counts the blocks of his cell
     Alone is a world he knows all too well
     So sunk in self-pity he can not see
     That the window’s ajar and he’s long been free.

III} Life can be sweet and fate can be kind
       The briefly unhappy drunkard may find
       If some small repentance he does utter
       And solemnly pours his drink in the gutter.

IV} The realms of the mind are wondrous indeed
       With fantasies there to fill every need
       But stones are not mortared with stardust and dew
       And all that is not all too soon fades from view.

V} Only a pessimist has the notion
      That he is an arc on an endless ocean
      Winds blast away, waves assail every side
      Yet no one need be a slave to the tide.

VI} Harsh words to the soul are a fierce monsoon
       Or softly splash like a shower in June
      Shaking the trees or spraying the dew
      It all depends on one's point of view.

VII} A glimmering pile of gold on a hill
        Will only for a brief will sit still
         If the first man who passes walks on by
         It will not escape the second man's eye.

VIII} People grow old and the years pass them by
          As they wistfully gaze at the candlelit sky
          Half-crying, half-trying, feet stuck to the ground
          While friends, good fortune and riches abound.

IX} That which the idle call comfort and ease
        Eats at the years like a kind of disease
        As blue skies grow black, and green leaves turn brown
        The days slip away as the sun goes down.

X} The lazy old hound will not fetch a stick
      Nor perform any sort of a trick
      And a horse can be made to gallop away
      But the farmer will slap his mule all day.

XI} Most awesome of all, the power of thought
       To draw from darkness the hope man has sought
       Changing black, swirling mists that loom and affright
       To billowy clouds aglow with dawn's light.

XII} Behind are failure and dreams long-dismissed
         For those who look back the past never is
         Though they walk many miles, for each step tread
         Slide back three more every turn of the head.

XIII} Friendships neglected are leaves of a tree
          Which grows by a pond known as Memory
          Where they wither and die on this lonesome heath
          Then silently sink to the quagmire beneath.

XIV} Cursing the waves, whose incessant crashing
          Batters the cliffs with relentless thrashing
          Is like the squirrel, with small head askew
          Cursing the mountain for blocking his view.

XV} Faint, flickering fears and shadows half-known
        Can quickly be vanquished once one is shown
        How easy it is to sweep through this horde
        Using only a lantern and seldom a sword.

XVI} Rage bounces back like a hatchet thrown hard
          Against a stone wall, which remains unmarred
          When hurled at those who could not care less
           If they have caused someone any distress.

XVII} Too many serenades lost in the wind
            Issue from hearts that are hopelessly pinned
            To those who are always a source of despair
            Who just do not know, or just do not care.

XVIII} High on the mountain the white flowers grow
             With pink ones above them and red ones below
             Which all look the same when stomped or cut down
             For grass is still green, and dust is still brown.

XIX} One stroke with an axe will not fell a tree
          No matter how stout and strong one may be
          Unless he is willing to toil and sweat
          He will hear evermore the words "not yet."

XX} The inkbrush which once seemed almost alive
         May only need but a dip to revive
         That river of prose which from it once flowed
         To a fallow field and eloquence sowed.

XXI} A monument crafted with skill and pride
          May last a lifetime but on every side
          Stand towers, castles and cities gleaming
          With brilliance of those who never stopped dreaming.

XXII} A blade in a sheath need not be a threat
            Only a warning to who would forget
            That even the snake, who crawls through the dirt
            Will let loose his fangs at the slightest hurt.

XXIII} Beneath the clear creek, passing the ages
             Free of frustrations turned into rages
             A thousand small stones in silt make their den
             At peace with the current which sweeps over them.

XXIV} Who plucks the daisy serves as its bearer
             Though wishing she had a blossom fairer
             Such as a rose she could forever clutch.

XXV} The captain recruiting a soldier at dawn
            Doubles his efforts until he has drawn
            A small force by noon, an army at night
            That pitches its camp with conquest at sight.

XXVI} Tight leaves unfurling, he spreads through the air
             Not too long pausing or dwelling on where
             Those tall trees have gone that once ruled this lot
             Who slumber unseen beneath this same spot.

XXVII} Ten coins in a purse soon make their escape
              To render their erstwhile owner agape
              At what has become of his fortune of yore
 While ten coins at home soon generate more.


XXVIII} A belly full-fed should not feel the squeeze
                Of a small morsel surrendered to please
                A starving stray dog who somberly crawls
                Through dank city streets, sniffing cracks in the walls.

XXIX} A ship that sets out with port still in sight
Then swiftly succumbs to a spiraling plight
 Might have sailed on for years, as she was meant
 Had she been mended before being sent.

XXX} The angry fool hurling stone after stone
At the fiend in the pond, as yet unknown
When pausing a moment for reflection
Is bound to make an unpleasant connection.

XXXI} Under a mantle of heartache and tears
Dreamers' lost diamonds lay buried for years
  Firmly withstanding the hammer of time
Patiently sparkling, forever sublime.

XXXII} A lovely oasis glimpsed in the morning
 Dries up in the desert without warning
 Leaving the wayfarer and his blind trust
 Condemned to spend his last hours in the dust.

XXXIII} Smoldering sentiments clouding the eyes
  Consume the fuel on which envy relies
  And fanned by bellows of realization
  Kindle a bonfire of inspiration.

XXXIV} Chores that every man swears will be finished
   Before tomorrow's light is diminished
   Cannot distinguish the moon from the sun
   And day after day are never begun.

XXXV} That bundle in the poor traveler's pack
  Is a reminder, this pain in his back
  Of a wrong he clearly does not recall
  Why does he carry it with him at all?

XXXVI} Doing the work that is never complete
   Is neither inviting nor fighting defeat
   Though one hand can count the favors returned
   He who has given is he who has earned.

XXXVII} Sifting through sand in the bed of a stream
    On a windy hill in a distant dream
    Ceaselessly searching, one should be aware
    Time travels faster than water or air.

XXXVIII} Some will maintain the stubborn delusion
     On the circular path of confusion
     That somewhere lies a simple solution
     Requiring no work to find resolution.

XXXIX} A tumultuous world, battered by change
   Is often predictable, often strange
   While some things vanish and others endure
   Foresight can help make the future secure.

XL} How dull are the lives of people who see
         Fruition in toiling endlessly
         To sit by a brook, composing a rhyme
         Is not necessarily wasting time.

XLI} Crystalline falls which humbly deliver
          Foaming loads from the mouth of the river
          Forever whisper an ancient story
         And need to hear no talk of their glory.

XLII} Whether or not he reaches the summit
The climber has no fear he will plummet
And knows that nothing can ever compare
To the feeling that comes to those who dare.

XLIII} To duly request and duly receive
A much-needed meal or a small reprieve
If nothing else more, should serve to convince
Those skeptics still hungry for evidence.

XLIV} The twirling descent of withered oak leaves
That calmly collect in forest floor sheaves
Tells all who listen to solemnly strive
To make use of time while they are alive.

XLV} As all of the world in a twelve-hour space
           Softly reposes in evening's embrace
           Across the seas are millions of eyes on
           The gleam of dusk beyond the horizon.

XLVI} Pride of the painter, who passed countless hours
             Splashing on skyline and dabbing on flowers
  She hangs aloft in a great, gilded frame
A glimpse of reverie born from the same.

XLVII} The small wooden cart with its bulging load
 Bounces along the precarious road
 Splintering wheels portentously rumbling
 'Til into the street its wares go tumbling.

XLVIII} When sweeping storms wreak bleak devastation
               Tearing the house right from its foundation
  Rebuilding, each day, the wise will make haste
  Mourning 'til evening is time laid to waste.

XLIX} Meticulously astrologers track
Systems and cycles from centuries back
So those who may scorn, accept or refute
Can find no fault with the way they compute.

L} Before is the door to the greatest school
     Where virtue and vice contend for their rule
     And banners of fate still wait to unfold
     Glorious happenings yet unforetold.

Rasputin’s Farewell

So finally they’ve struck me down
And rushed headlong to ring the knell
Proclaiming in their wicked mirth
That I at last have gone to hell.

One winter night a faint light streaked
Across the bleak Siberian sky
Beyond the Urals to the east
Across the southern steppes came I.

Yea those there were who called me Christ
Horse thief, healer, devil man
Betrayed by him I once called friend
Who lunged, then like a coward ran.

Adrift upon a sea of blood
Which has engulfed the entire realm
Now Bolsheviks and Cossacks clash
With thieves and cutthroats at the helm.

So let them dance upon my grave
And wallow in their filthy glee
It is Grigori who at last
Shall laugh for all eternity.

Like a Candle's Tiny Flame

“Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa;
Misericordia e giustiza li sdenga:
Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa.”

-Dante’s Inferno, III, 48-51.

A small, dark room with plain, white walls
A candle flickering on a table
Upon whose silent, somber light
I gaze and think of what I might
Have done when I was able.

On a cushioned chair I sit
All day long and all night long
But really there’s no day or night
My soul’s a wingless bird in flight
Fluttering towards some unseen height
But doomed to spiral down again
And sink in the depths of what might have been
Drowned
Yet never dying.

I’m all alone and here with me
My fixed, yet fleeting company
Of ghosts I neither hear nor see
But yet I know are all around
Flying about without a sound
And from the corner of my eye
I sense two figures standing by
I think, perhaps, I hear one say
As I turn my head and they fade away
“Questi non hannan speranza di morte.”

How poetic, I tell myself, as the words echo through my mind.

Fantasy can be so real
I think that days-gone-by still linger
And that I can change the course
Of the unrelenting finger
But then I sense
And then I know
It’s nothing but a picture show
I can not turn the pages back
Only think of what they lack
My mind forever on the rack

But it’s not all that bad
One gets used to it after a while
What is a while?

Life is brief but briefer still
Is that fleeting spark of will
Which if not fanned will never rise
Into a fire of any size
But dance forever before my eyes
Like a candle’s tiny flame
Never waxes, never wanes
In this fine and private place
Far from the world’s unsightly face
Here where the lark never calls
And where the evening never falls
In a small, dark room
With plain, white walls.

More or Less

My lady friend asked me the ultimate question, and my answer, I must confess
Caused a terrible schism I never expected and cannot seem to redress.
Though I tried to explain that I just wasn't thinking, she insisted I should have said, "Yes"
When she asked, "Do you love me?" instead of the wretched response that I gave: "More or less."

Could I turn back the clock, I would answer "correctly," avoiding this state of duress
That has wholly demolished my efforts at courtship, which would likely have met with success.
So I strongly advise you, in that situation, to be tactful, not truthful. Impress
Your significant other, your wife, or your mother, and never reply, "More or less."

I Spoke to Ed Galing

I spoke to Ed Galing the night that he passed.
He was feeling depressed, even though he'd amassed
An impressive portfolio throughout his life.
He was plagued by ill health, and the loss of his wife.
"Your poems are priceless," I said to my friend
Not knowing, of course, that tonight was the end.
Wheelchair-bound and half-blind, Ed still wrote every day
On a manual typewriter; that was his way.
He tasted the hard life, walked down the mean streets.
Overall, Ed's achievements outweighed his defeats.
Homelessness, poverty, he knew them all
Saw the wake of world war, and sights to appall
Like a camp liberated, whose smoldering fires
Brought tears to a young soldier's eyes, and desires
To do terrible things to the terrible men
Who blithely destroyed futures that might have been.
97 long years produced volumes of verse.
For a "poor, simple poet," he could have done worse.
We said our goodbyes, and he promised he'd write
And then God called him home in the wee hours of night.
But Ed made me a promise, and he did not fail:
Two days later, his letter arrived in the mail.

When the Going Gets Tough

When the going gets tough, the dumb ones get tougher
Like a pair of bull rams knocking their heads together for hours
Rendering both of them senseless
Which is redundant, of course.

When the going gets tough, I become a lightning bolt
Meandering down the dark sky
Seeking the path of least resistance
While stupid thunderheads bluster and rumble
Until they are totally spent
Dissipating into the vapors from which they emerged.

A famous Samurai, who boasted of his many kills
Found the form of a feather more formidable
Than unrestrained ferocity
And struck with perfect precision
Only after his opponents had exhausted themselves
Trying to smite a floating feather.

Even Alexander didn't bother
With trying and prying and untying
Some ridiculous knot.

On the end table

I held a funeral for us.
Photographs of you and me, and every place we'd been together
Along with the cards and letters
Went into the shredder, then into the fireplace.
The ashes I swept out with great ceremony and care
Put in a consecrated trash bag
And placed alone on the curb.
I said a prayer.

I opened the windows and doors wide
To remove any lingering scent
Like that perfume you loved, that I never told you I hated.
Drained, I sat on the couch
When my eye settled on the indelible, circular stain
From the glass that held your drink
Which, when you walked out, you left half-finished
On the end table.

I Had a Perfect Poem

I had a perfect poem forming in my head last night
Mere moments after lying down and turning off the light.
Determined to recall each word, 'til morning came again
I made a mental note instead of noting with a pen!

A scream awoke me later on, that was, in fact, my own
Because those words had disappeared, my perfect poem, flown
Away into oblivion, my inspiration gone.
And so, without a single verse, I faced encroaching dawn.

Those great ideas can occur at any time of day
Especially the dead of night. Don't let them get away!
A simple pad of paper and a writing implement
Will hold that thought until the morn. It's worth the effort spent.

Freight Trains Split the Night . . .

Freight trains split the night
Piercing Suburban Stillness
With angry whistles.

- 11/7/2010

Many Happy Returns

A birthday comes but once out of 365
Days in a year, most often, so it’s good to be alive
On Planet Earth, where days and years are just the right duration
Contrasted with those other spheres with whom we share creation.

Spasmodic little Mercury whips wildly ‘round the sun
In under three months, hardly any time to get things done.
The birthdays pile up much too fast; the pace would make you swoon.
Your hectic, hurried, harried life is over much too soon.

Venus shows a little less alacrity, although
225-day years can hardly be termed “slow.”
The temperature is sweltering, the seasons never vary.
Instead of April, taxes would be due in January.

687 days is just about how long
You’d wait each time on Mars to hear the Happy Birthday song.
And even if, in lieu of presents, you got cash instead
No matter how you tried to save, you’d still be in the red.

Fifth from the sun sits Jupiter, a swirling, twirling mass
Of hydrogen and helium that takes 12 years to pass
From apogee to apogee, and as for birthday cake:
To strike a match to light the candles would be a mistake.

400 million miles beyond is Saturn with its rings
Where birthday celebrations are infrequent happenings.
And if you lasted ‘til your third, you probably would hate
The fact that you were only three, but felt like 88.

With two pronunciations, both embarrassing to say
Uranus is a daunting distance.  Even though a day
Is only 17 hours long, a year is so much more.
You’re one on planet Earth, but on Uranus, 84.

Go farther still, a billion miles, and 81 more years
Are added to the time before your next birthday appears.
And while the planet Neptune may look pretty from afar
It’s just another massy, gassy, lonely would-be star.




249 years add one digit to your age
On dismal little Pluto.  That, and nothing can assuage
That Pluto does not have the status it possessed before.
Officially, it’s not even a  “planet” anymore.

So cherish your position in the cosmic scheme of things
And with your new perspective, know that every birthday brings
A cause for celebration.  Happiness is the solution.
Be thankful that you’ve made it through another revolution.

© December 13, 2008 by Allan M. Heller

Lullaby

Never fear the coming dark
Darling, go to sleep
On the ship of night embark now
Sail into the deep
Vast domain of slumber sweet
That surrounds the world
From the port of day retreat now
With your sails unfurled.

Feel the comfort of the night
Darling, go to sleep
Let the world drift out of sight, now
Sink into the deep
Dark embrace of starry skies
That surrounds your soul
Rest your head and close your eyes now
How I love you so.

© February 6, 2009 by Allan M. Heller

360°

I'll leave no flowers at her grave, because this is a lie
A dark deception that descends like fog upon a lake
No need to mourn or shed a tear, because she did not die
Another hour or two will bring the breeze to gently take
Away this foggy, fatal vision, leaving in its wake
The morning bright, the water clear and gleaming in the sun.
Or possibly this granite stone was placed here by mistake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.

How selfish of her to desert me, knowing full well I
Could never face the world alone, could never fully shake  
The shroud of sorrow from my soul, and so I must rely
On disappearing memories and reveries to make
Amends for missing company that stirs my heart to break.
And yet, I must not fold to fate, lest I become undone
Though others in relentless mourning their whole lives forsake.
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.

Futility is the result of trying to deny.
Each life that comes into the world is like a single flake
Descending to oblivion while falling from the sky
To melt away with all the rest when spring shall overtake.
I miss her in the day, and many nights I am awake
Seeking solace in the stars and somehow finding none.
Some turn their backs on former faith, insisting God is fake
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.

I think that this is just a dream, perhaps a stomach ache
Produced some deep disturbance that has caused my mind to run
Amok with evil images.  A lesser man would quake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.

Go-Go Nights

He wants another whiskey sour
This time without the dainty plastic straw
That whispers insinuations about his masculinity.
A TV flashes impotent images above the bar
All audible output drowned in a sea of cacophony.
Feigning ennui, he steals a glance at the evening news
Takes a long, desperate drag on a Camel
And sheds another worn dollar bill
As a pair of oscillating thighs pauses before him-
Another gala nothing night.

Together

We lie not on the cold, hard earth
But buoyed by the bouncy meadow grass.

We walk not shrouded by stalking shadows
But through softly-sheltered glens, in the shade of protecting pines.

We plunge not into a murky swamp
But a cool, crisp, inviting ocean.

We fly not through sunless skies blotted by thunderheads
But borne by the Hand of God, under the arcs of rainbows.

Someday I'll Take You Far Away (for Tatiana)

Someday I’ll take you far away
To a distant state or state of mind
Where neither thoughts nor words unkind
Can assail the spirit, or unwind
That peace that we so rarely find
Someday I’ll take you far away.

Someday I’ll take you far away
Where you’ll never feel the need to weep
For promises I did not keep
As we watch the sun towards shadows creep
You’ll lay your head in my lap and sleep
Someday I’ll take you far away.

Someday I’ll take you far away
Where you’ll never have to fret again
On what might have and what has been
Where the sordid, sick affairs of men
Don’t merit a word of tongue or pen
So remember this much, until then:
Someday I’ll take you far away.

Sonnet for Cynthia

Green buds on trees and flowers make one wonder
About creation's fleeting pristine state
While lightning flashes that precede the thunder
Precipitate a tempest of debate
Concerning time's eternal, vernal nature
Inevitably dragging young to old
Immortalized by poets' nomenclature
But lovely as the green leaves are the gold
And red and yellow tumbling through the brown yards
Which cede the ground at last to flecks of white
And ice stalactites dripping down like glass shards
Creating rows of crystalline delight.
So never cling to old regrets and tears
To mark the gentle passing of the years.

Solitaire in the Sand

Squadrons circle silently
Steel and glass birds of prey waiting patiently
Until unleashing precision-guided pandemonium
Spewing sand and stone and blood
Across the desert floor

Paving the way for sundry soldiers rooting through rubble
So that the dust and smoke will clear
To reveal a fresh, new democracy
Springing up like a weed through cracked concrete.

Draped in the flag as he cries to the crowd,
"This for the safety of our great nation!"
Reflecting a moment, rephrasing his thoughts:
"This to avenge those 5,000 Kurds."
A short, final pause, and our mission is clear:
"This for the freedom of our swarthy little friends."

As Pyongyang prepares

Sultans and sheiks smirk

The dark continent seethes

The graying guerilla ruminates

And behind our great leader

Fading away like after-images 

Burned onto closed eyes

Are the ghosts of Tiananmen Square.