In whispering moments when we are quietly drinking
amid our dreams of tree and shade
and night, the predator, with cat eyes winking
more solumn in thought than faded rock,
I sense remembrance, the silent walker,
as I prancing willfully play.
I touch the void with violent fingers
and block the path of blackness
malingering at the edge of concious thought
forgetting too soon what once I’d sought
so skillfully the musicians play.
***

I am me looking up at him.
sweat run over ribs..tickling
air liquid and choking…hot
a field with grass…tangled green
ground……friendly conspirator
a column …red and flowing
neck muscles strain to stretch…looking upward
vertical parallels…the beam
I am me looking up at him.

A stranger…sun peeking over his shoulder
the outline…indistinct because of brightness.
He is looking down at me.
He seems to know me well.
a stranger
I seem to know him well
a stranger
He knows I’m glad I’m here..
I know he wishes he weren’t.

Then
places change
people….white ants on a hill
trees…dwarfed green dots
machines…toys covered with thumbs
sun…burning back
height….fellow worker
ground….distant enemy
He is I looking up at me
I am him looking down on me
***

The Seasons at Great Meadows Wildlife Refuge

Summer

rotted tree stumps,

splaying bright green ferns,

and skunk cabbage

and rich thick dark mud,

like a chocolate milkshake

Autumn
Raining pine needles

and leaves,

and the earth

is soft and

brown beneath my feet.

Canadian geese

honk melodiously overhead.

Winter

Frozen fields dusted with snow,

frozen ponds surrounded by trees

stiff as rusted robots,

clouds are fuzzy cracks in the sky

letting out the blue.

Spring
I notice these great giant bluish fish

in the shallows, splashing and bumping

into the dried, cracked reeds, but I’m thinking again

of Christine my first girlfriend so many years ago,

remembering so clearly her dirty blonde hair,

her green eyes like dragonflies,

her soft pink lips unsoiled yet by the rigors

and toil and injustices of life.

Neanderthal

I’m in Harvard’s Widener Library,

funny place for me to be

considering my pedigree, and (let’s face it)

my basic intelligence (or lack thereof).

But I’m here taking a night class, studying

and learning, commiserating with

other students, all of whom

are smarter than me. But

if I don’t tell them that my father was

a car mechanic and his father a butcher how

will they ever know? What

would most impress me would be to earn

a PhD in Philosophy from Harvard

University (found Robert Nozick’s office,

315 Emerson Hall, stood there contemplating,

then brushed up against it, trying to

absorb his philosophic ether which

was hanging no doubt in the stale hall air).

Of course, there is as much chance

of this happening as Neanderthal coming back

to life. But I can’t fix my car either

like Dad could, so have spurned my lineage,

and am denied my academic

aspirations, caught between first

and second. Neanderthal indeed. Hey!

My daughter just scored 700

on her math SAT! Yikes! There’s hope

for us yet. Do you think they’ll clone

a Neanderthal one of these days?