Give and Take

And let me say that I have seen older people
Circling the young like hungry vampires,
Desperate to swoop in and suck the life
Out of what seems like a bottomless well.

Yet there are others who instead offer
Cupped hands full of gifts such as
Wisdom, kindness, encouragement,
Humorous tales, gentle guidance.

Be wary of the beckoning glance.
Look askance at the free cocktail.
Shy away from the hollow laughter.
You are juicy prey to be hunted.

Stand firm in your place in time.
Walk your pace, your chosen path.
Pluck the fruit, eschew the fallow.
Empty souls are life's vacuum.

Archimedes

Archimedes lived and died on the island of Syracuse,
Where his capacious brain grappled with mighty challenges
And, over and over again, was victorious.
He was killed in error by a soldier disobeying orders,
For when order is cast aside in moments of lust or greed,
The only possible results are chaos and tragedy.

You asked me to write you a poem.
A poem about you, perhaps, or one about
The impact you have had on my life.
This is my challenge, and my brain
Has grappled with the question:
How can I measure what you mean to me?
And I kept thinking about Archimedes.

Archimedes found the way to calculate
The area of a sphere, the volume of a cylinder.
Legends say he pondered such questions
While soaking in his steaming bath.
When he noticed how his body
Displaced the hot, salty water around it,
And made it rise to accommodate its
Impact, he rose up in a burst of clarity
And ran naked into the Syracuse streets,
Shouting, "Eureka! I have found it!"

I cannot clearly recall when we first met,
But over time, I realized that you were a
Person of tentative grace, and curious interest
In the world around you, as well as times
And places and experiences long past.
You observe the whirlwind and take
Something useful from it, yet you are
Vulnerable to its bruising passing.

As Archimedes slipped his weary bones
Into his bath, and set his mind on fire,
He must have felt a rush of ecstatic joy,
The glorious moment of discovery.
His gift, one among others such as
Calculus, geometry and mathematics,
Was to show us how one being impacts
Everything around it, and displaces
Volume, pushing surrounding matter
Aside to make room for something new.

And, as I began to observe you observing,
I realized that I was not as I saw myself,
Not the discarded hand I thought I'd become,
Not an ace high, with shreds of a baby straight
That had never really materialized.
No, I was still capable of inspiration,
Quite alive inside and ambitious yet,
Not willing to capitulate to time's passing.
That is part of your impact on me.

After Archimedes' tragic death, he was
Hastily buried in a shabby grave, one
Neglected over time, grown over with
Brambles and dust and grime.
Later, the great orator Cicero
Sought the forgotten tomb and, upon
Finding it, restored it to honor the
Timeless gifts of the great Archimedes.
As the late thinker had requested,
Symbols of his favorite discoveries
Were placed upon his restored tomb:
A sphere and a cylinder.


The sphere and the cylinder must
Represent something greater, 
I thought, and they are linked somehow,
Joined forever in complement,
Representations of two types of beings
That may look very different, but are
Meant to stand together, and to 
Have an impact on each other.

As Archimedes proved, one being
Displaces liquid or air or mass
Around it, disturbing the status quo,
Changing it forever. 
And so, you have an impact on 
My existence, stirring the waters,
Creating new space,
Area to be filled with something
New, something unknown,
Something that may, with the 
Help of Archimedes' gifts,
To be measured one day.

The Brassy Girl

She was young, though not as young as she'd like you to think.
But younger than the old gasbags that snickered at her as she
Strutted by with boldly undulating curves and
Wildly changing moods and smiles so flashy
They could only be described as gaudily so.

Alluring still, despite a few wrinkles, cracks and sags
From the rumbles of the shaky ground beneath her
Towering, strappy heels, from the slap of the winds that
Always seemed to be swirling around her, and mostly,
From the strain of keeping up her saucy reputation.

Years could pass behind her, but she was still that brassy girl.
Nobody had such an audacious way of being so changeable.
One moment cold as an igloo, then the next perky as a crocus.
Towers and trees fell into a belching gulf of rended earth,
But the next morning she rose up, as usual, and sang an aria.

On the tips of her eyelashes, I could dance until sunrise.
Tracing her lush lips, I could taste espresso and sugared rolls.
On the outline of her hips, I could tumble downward,
Until I reached the edge of the sea, the end of the earth,
And then ride back up again with bells clanging.

At her side, I dreamed, my elbows right on the bar,
Sipping slivovitz with a blossom of plum flesh,
My ass barely able to stay on the barstool,
With all the wolves leaning in for a bite
Of her pink neck and drowsy eyes.

As she watched, I tasted, every steaming bite
Rolling by in a mad circus of flavors and smells,
And walked for miles beneath ancient trees,
Until my muscles screamed from her steep hills,
My mind whirring from her flirty misdirection.

As she whispered, I yearned, dizzy from the
Precipitous angle of the drop, spoiled rotten,
For every glass was full, ever bar a rooftop
With a breathtaking view, every lane lined
By flowers impossibly, always, in bloom.

She is still a brassy girl, and I love her.
In her arms, I am reminded of the beauty
That I had ignored for practical quests,
Beauty that is priceless, ageless, timeless,
And, more than ever, what I need.



 

Unfamiliar

I stepped onto a slick, stone walkway
Winding through the heart of the city,
Leading directly into a wider artery,
The very aorta of the city,
teeming and loud and jostling,
As it was years before,
Before everything changed forever.

Still the avenue seemed alive, I thought,
Though the past was long dead,
Full of air rather than blood and tears,
Seeming to move, yes, seeming to shine, but
With false cheer and gaudy glitter,
Cacophony where there had once been sweet music.

Above me, there were the same
Intricately carved arches,
The same heavy oak doors,
The same swirling, scowling faces,
Gargoyles spitting cold water,
Their hollow eyes and mouths
Stained with the muck of
Many centuries.
They were the same, but these faces
Looked upon a strange city,
A city I knew no more.

As I walked through the throng
Of shoppers and businessmen and
Truant schoolboys and lost souls,
Suddenly I spotted a familiar face.
My heart raced to see an old friend,
But as she approached,
I realized her eyes and chin and hair
Were the same, but it was not her.

Shaken, I walked off the avenue,
Turning into the entrance of the park.
There, beneath bare branches
Reaching hungrily toward a slate-gray sky,
I breathed the fresh, cold air and then,
Caught a familiar scent, the cool
Perfume I had once worn on my
Silk scarves when we danced,
At parties overlooking these same
Oak trees, this same broad green,
Under glittering lights that warmed
Our reddened faces, cheeks stained
With many glasses of wine.

I breathed deeply to capture it,
This trace of a flower
In the dead of winter, but
It was gone, slipping away,
Washed clean by the rain.
Or perhaps I had imagined it?
Was this the same place
Where we had danced and drank
And laughed and kissed?

Running from the park, I
Entered a slim alley, darkened
By tall, aged buildings on
Either side of its narrow run.
I heard the bang of hammers,
The screech of sanders,
And the slap of bags of trash
As the city was noisily rebuilt,
Remade into something new,
Something unfamiliar to me,
Unrecognizable.

And then, as I rushed by,
Amid the blare and howling
Of the workers, of machines,
I heard a scrap of a sound,
Yes, a familiar sound,
Only a few straining notes perhaps,
Of a song I knew, an old song,
A song we once danced to,
Wildly, like a carousel at full speed,
Pressed together so that our
Faces were hot and our
Kisses concealed from eyes.

How much I missed that dance!
How much I missed the feel
Of skin touching skin,
And tongues tasting wine.
How much I missed the music
That now seemed to only
Linger briefly in the air
To be quickly overtaken
By the bangs and scratches
And screams of this new city.

Perhaps I did not hear the notes of the song.
Maybe I did not smell the trace of a flower.
Unlikely that I saw the face of a woman
Whom I once knew and adored and admired.
They were all ghosts to me now, here in this
New and unfamiliar city, that had the same
Outline of a face that I once knew so well,
But whose features, colors, scents and songs
Were locked in the past.

I had become one of those hateful people
Who doesn't know when to leave the party,
The kind of people we used to mock,
Who whined for the songs of their youth,
The old dances that nobody danced anymore,
Tastes of dishes whose recipes were lost.

Yes, this city was not the city I once knew.
Its swelling, passionate music had changed.
The faces on the avenue looked different,
Wore new and modern expressions.
And in the springtime, the park's
Frozen green would thaw and yield
Flowers of new colors and scents,
That would be picked by new lovers,
With new and radical ideas.

Leaving the narrow alley, I made my
Way back to the broad avenue,
And walked for many miles in the cold
January air as somewhere, the sun
Began to set, though all I saw
Was a subtle draining of light.
I kept walking up and down that
Aorta pulsing with life again,
And there, I passed a new cafe
Where people gathered to laugh
And drink and chatter and kiss.
Instead of walking on with no
Destination, I stepped
Toward its glow,
To grasp a glass full of new flavors,
To hear unfamiliar conversations
About new ideas and people,
To breathe deeply new scents
And to fill my lungs once again
With the spirit of life.

My city was not dead.
It was merely renewed.
My world was not gone.
It had merely transformed.
I was not buried.
I had been released.

The Fragile Memory of Wine at Dusk

High precipice, ringed in pale, fitted stones
Overlooking a broad valley, filled
With ancient, low buildings
Reflecting the late-afternoon light.
Waning sun and cooling air
Kissed my cheek as I stepped to the edge
And lifted a small glass
Filled with sweet, golden wine.

We toasted our arrival in this place,
And we all smiled and posed for pictures,
Now trapped in dusty binders,
Rarely to be seen and remembered.
We knew each other as friends then,
And we had traveled so far together,
But now we are silent strangers
And many miles apart.

I remember the taste of the liquid
And the wide sweep of the land
Before my eyes, dotted with trees
And warmed by the softness of May.
I remember feeling sleepy, weary,
But satisfied to have seen this place
At last, after incalculable centuries,
The last wandering apple rolling
To a stop after falling from a
Twisted tree with roots spanning
Continents and oceans and cities.

Now when I think of the friends lost
To life's variables, smiles fading as
Printed snapshots melt with time,
All that may remain in my mind
Is the fragile memory
Of wine shared at dusk,
Of youth and idealism
Swept away like dry sediment
To be pressed into building blocks
In some distant place unknown.


All memories are fragile, I find.
They are not made of limestone.
With the shifting winds of our
Ever-turbulent world, they move
And change and look different
As you view them from a new
Perspective and setting.

This memory, though fragile,
Still carries its flavor, and I know
That although I may never walk
To that precipice again, for it
May not survive and nor may I,
I recall that I once knew
sweetness and hope,
In the taste of the wine,
In the brush of the wind,
In the warmth of the flesh,
In the hope of the song.

Skip the Twist

She couldn't look away from the way
He stabbed his bourbon with a straw
Pushing the ice around in the glass
Slamming it against the sides
Incessant rattling, constant probing.

He couldn't look away from her eyes
Digging for a response, a beckon,
But finding the windows sealed shut,
Suspicion rather than seduction,
Concern rather than compassion.

She saw her concern as compassion
For he was obviously in need
But she smelled his desperation,
And it's a foul cologne, one that
Repels even the kindest heart.

He leaned in even closer,
Peppering her with talk,
For he saw his best shot at his
Prey was to trap it in its lair
And squeeze out any rivals.

She sensed his maneuver,
But knew, unlike him, it
Would fail miserably,
For love needs air and light,
Passion abhors a cage.

He ordered another drink
For himself, but not for her,
The unyielding one who
Rejected him, whiskey straight
With a sharp lemon twist.

She smiled at him, then

Suggested sweet over sour,
Less rather than more,
Share the loving cup,
And it will always be full.

No Pearls Without Diving

He saw the women lying in the sun
As oysters glistening on a platter,
Each open to his taste without
The need to shuck and loosen
Resistant shells, each cradling
A glistening pearl that was
Meant for him and no one else.

The man felt he had luckily stumbled
On a secret cache of treasures.
The open bar, the free buffet,
Where he was the only customer.
Bottomless glasses of beer,
Servers on call to hand him
Pearls to pluck as he pleased.

Pressing into their conversations
He begged to be noticed
Telling each woman his sad tales
Of wandering, of deprivation,
How he had been so long
Without a sweet taste of
Pleasure or satisfaction.

But he would starve no longer,
As he'd found his way to the reef
Rife with color and beauty,
Decked with waving anemone,
And all for him and him alone,
The only diver in the ocean,
The only Neptune in the sea.

To the man's great astonishment,
The sea nymphs were unimpressed.
Eels emerged from the reef's recesses.
Stinging reeds lashed his fingers.
Oyster shells snapped firmly shut,
Glistening pearls concealed
From his clutching and gawking.

That day, as sea waters cooled,
He learned that real pearls are rare
And very dear. To find one,
He must be willing to dive,
With patience and care, not
To disturb the sands and waters,
Nor to anger the sharks.

The Way She Wants It

Honey-warm wood and a big, round curve
Thick with sounds and scents and faces.
Theirs were supple, narrow, their eyes
Scanning, moving, as huntresses,
Their taut, amber necks
Rippling as they waved
Feathery manes back and forth
In an oft-practiced, oft-repeated ritual
That might never end.

Sweat bubbled up on his pale forehead
And seeped into the concealed
Crevices of his tightly buttoned vest
As he leaned over to speak to them,
His flirtations a bit weary, a bit practiced,
And his impatience overcoming his lust.
They couldn't make up their minds, or
Perhaps they were bored, and wanted
To be dazzled.

As he sloshed ruby richness
Into warm crystalline jugs
And jangled ice cubes and spicy whiskey
In silvered tubes, he made his
Game attempt to entice them,
With promises of peppermint,
Liquid fire, blood of oranges,
Snowflake kisses on top.

Finally, their eyes sparkled at his
Exhausted words and they, clapping
And cheering in a hollow chorus,
Saluted his game Friday night effort,
The Pepper-Pink-A-Tini
With a Flaming Twist.
Raising their womb-shaped glasses
For a celebratory clink, they
Sloshed and splattered
And smiled, at last.

But a handful of feet away, there
Was another woman, ready to
Shake the dusty shackles of
Work or life or boredom or regret,
To grasp a drink, in the crowded bar.
She was also wasp-hipped and swan-necked,
But not the sort who begged for notice,
Her silver hair cut in short, neat waves,
And her long legs encased in black satin.

The pale and sweaty man knew her well,
And knew that his chore would be
To please her, like the others, but
This one was far less indecisive.
Irene was a woman of purpose,
Who walked in knowing exactly
What she wanted
And the way she wanted it,
And this she could demand,
And unlike the others,
This she would have.

Not to remove the clammy broadcloth
Shirt of the young bartender, although
She would do that with swift mastery,
But a glass of neat, well-made Scotch,
A salad of full leaves kissed with oil
And the juice of a fresh lemon,
Her favorite cut of steak cooked medium rare,
No slathering of butter,
And three tender sprigs of asparagus.
Exactly that and nothing more.

Irene had dined on many salads and steaks
Before, you see, and had downed many whiskies,
So she had become decisive and strong,
Cutting through the jazzy banter
And slicing into the thick of things.
She could not help but offer just one
Disdainful glance down the bar,
At the chattering young girls
Getting filthy drunk on candy-coated rotgut
And tipping over to show off for
The leering, paunchy businessmen nearby.

Irene may have once been a California surfer,
Or a Vegas showgirl, or Hollywood agent,
Or even a Valley housewife.
Nobody knew, nor dared to ask,
But all admired her poise, her power,
Her practicality, her purpose,
All wrapped in a timeless glamour
Undiminished by a drizzle of steak juice
On her ivory chin.

She drank and ate in relative silence,
Her air retaining just a tad of hauteur,
For her life experience had made her
Somewhat superior in attitude.
When she was done, as the duo
Of martini-soaked ladies turned into
A seamy quartet of raw opportunism,
She quietly paid her bill in cash,
And stepped gamely off the barstool
To depart, her gaze flat, unrevealing.

And then, a man spoke to Irene,
A man unknown to her, though
He had been watching and listening
To her since her arrival.
His words were brief: "Good night, Irene."
Startled, she turned suddenly, and froze,
Her heart flipping just once, and a half
Turn more, at the mention of an old song,
One long forgotten by most, and
Unknown by the dewy revelers around
Her, but one that reminded her of long ago,
When she drank life the way she wanted it,
Straight up, unadorned, just right,
Just enough
And nothing more.

She smiled at the man, and winked,
And strode on into the night,
Glowing with a fire rekindled within.

She had never changed.