Poetry

Leyte Gulf 1944, excerpt

On a coral reef you lay to die and breathless lay there eye to eye
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Winter

Winter strikes, blasts away at our sanity, Engages us and brings us down. Weightless, I sway in an eddy of doubt As waves of alcohol course through my veins Like errant bands of hooligans Terrorizing shock weary nerve endings. Slowly I disaggregate into a state Wherein my parts grow tired of adhesion Seek solice in their entropy And I am left a mist to be dispersed by your first word.

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Poem

I do not understand why those men are fishing there.
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Untitled Poem

In the ragtime of the mind will you or I be left behind? You will ask a question. And how will I surround it? Like a pintid aboriginal with dance and shouts and childlike derision? Or simply lurk around it in embarassed indecision? If I had posed the question first, how would you respond? Or would you answer it at all? Like trees in poorly planted arbors, we compete for distant light. Neither you or I can grow so it is time for me to go.

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Dream

And in no land I walk through ferns Where friends I now no longer know Wade into slippery streams, dive in dark pools and take no notice. My life, a hundred times transcribed in conversation, Telephoned in microwaves that are absorbed in childhood forests, adolescent mountains, becomes but heat. Weak signals of myself arrive And cool like love songs through a wire.

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Codicil

On an arctic night, auroral lights cascade a bluish fire.
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Leyte Gulf 1944

On a coral reef you lay to die and breathless lay there eye to eye With rippling morays where they hide in turbid currents deep inside of Leyte Gulf. Did you see me even then? For I too lay drowning in an amniotic sea, awaiting passage to maternal lethé, Suffused in wet, subdermal light and ignorant of you. Underwater blood that seeps from you looks more like smoke That drifts across a battle field of sand and reef. The odium of war persist above. Wounded in a vast littoral uterus, you know you are a father. Your father knows you are his son. Alone he waits for word of you, but you are speechless now and dying. I seem to …
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The Wood Duck

A wood duck trapped in the icing pond waits. It’s heart, a subtle engine, diesels in the lead December wind. There is no struggle, no shift in death. The spirit migrates, the wood duck stays, a still warm vacancy. Will I know when it is over? An aperture appears in which we dissappear. Like frantic children fallen through the ice, we panic. See the shadows of our rescuers above in a limpid fluvial light, A wordless colloquy of facial gestures, beg for absolution. We drift apart, born off on different currents. And what of us? Does the spirit migrate, drown or freeze? It’s cold inside our house, a neuraesthenic cold, impervious to heat. My dog has watched the duck all …
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Untitled

You are taking short, asphyxiating breaths. There is no air in you. I talk softly to you, aspirate you. Your lungs are full of what you have not said. You are not breathing. This place is anaerobic. I lance myself. My blood is thick and viscous And slowly saturates my clothes. There are too many others here. I now am mystified and cauterize the wound against your rage. Smouldering and breathless now we sleep. Fall 1991

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