The three short poems here do not follow any particular thematic pattern. All they have in common is that I wrote them recently - that is, in the latter half of May 2001.
Steven C. Scheer
Coming to America
(Remembering "Auld Lang Syne")
Not by boat any more,
Neither to Ellis Island,
My mother flew by military plane.
I sat next to her in the window seat,
And while it was still daylight
We naively took the clouds beneath us
For endlessly rolling snow-covered hills.
Later I slept, lulled into ungainly dreams
In the shadowy drone of the engines in flight,
In flight from the Old to the New.
When morning came and I first looked up at
The towering skyscrapers of Manhattan,
My head a whirlpool and the vertigo
A mix of unseemly apprehensions,
The anomalous suddenly took a merciful turn
Towards becoming the miraculous.
Stuck in Traffic
Suspended in heat and shimmering air
The highway blocks all movement.
Heartache and physical decrepitude
Beset impatience as it toys with
Thoughts of cold beer and a towel
To wipe the sweat off the brow.
The icy air from the vent cannot
Compete with the abominable sun
Perforating the windows with burning
And blinding light, which entomb the
Flesh that it betimes may yearn for
Acquaintance with a heap of dust as dry
As the twirling sand in the Mojave Desert.
Memories of forgotten loves spill
Out of hiding from the subconscious,
Ready to assail an ache, nameless and
Eternal, in the suspended life of the
Heart (which knows reasons reason
Shall never understand) endlessly
Waiting for all waiting to end.
The Double Bed at Night
Love whispers or perhaps says
Nothing while it leans against
The dark between the lips that touch
And the hands that grope.
The night is for amorous rites
Till the crack of dawn, till all
The vestiges of bodies that bruise souls,
Unleashed, tumble into the sleep of
Memories, the dream of follies, the
Nightmare of bliss. I lie awake and
Listen to her gentle snore while
Thinking of the morning. There will be
Orange juice and coffee and bacon and eggs
And whole-wheat toast with jam.
The rays of the sun will flood
The windows to the east. The clutter of dishes
Shall punctuate the quiet contentment.
But first I must succumb to the vagaries of sleep.
Words are for those with promises to keep.
Forward to And Still More
Copyright 2000 - 2001 © by Steven C. Scheer.
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