WINTER LANDSCAPE

                           

                        Along a line of low hills where

                        Dark pine and oak stripped to winter runes

                        Glint in the cold as if carved from stone,

                        A flock of black birds scores the air,

                        Crackling like static, and disappears.

                        In a hoarse whisper the wind dies down.

                        Field and pasture lie brown and bare

                        Beneath the moon's high, soundless soaring.

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Photo from bluejaybarrens.blogspot.com
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THE QUESTION

          What will you do, poor human,

          When you discover

          At your death that God is not

          Your Mafia grandfather,

          But vacant, immense

          And numberless as the stars—

          Like being alone,

          And faceless.

Image from http://redbulls.theoffside.com/players-red-bulls-news-rumors-opinions/stars-out-of-alignment.html

SONG FOR A ROCK GROUP

I look at you,
You look at me—
You with the eyes of an angel, a demon—
What do you see?

I say Hello,
You sing the refrain
Of a song that says things that I don’t understand—
What does it mean?

You take my hand—
Is it for real?
All of a sudden I’m falling, I’m flying—
What do you feel?


CHORUS
I lie awake all night
Thinking of you,
Stumble around in a daze all day,
Don’t know what to do….
When will I see you again?
Will it be today?
Some times you seem to be
So far away.
Sometimes I think I’ll never know
What you mean to say. 



June 1985

PASCAL RESTATED

As often as I say there is an afterlife,
You say, “Not so.”
Friend, let us cease this futile strife
About what can’t be proved true or untrue:
If I am wrong, I’ll never know—
If you are, I must pity you.