share the world

They sat and talked. Filled somber ears, with weather conditions, sports
events, and conduct of governments. The highest forms of life flapping lips, to
to avail.

"Do you think it might snow?" said one.
"Possibly! The weather man says chances are 50-50. Though you know
his margin for error is greater than 50-50," replied the other.

Silence, both heads spin in hopes of finding subjects to next vocalize.

"That damn football team, blew it again. All they had to do, to win, was
run the defence's weak side," said one.
"The coach should have tried the rookie quarterback," replied the other.

Their emotional context is bogged down, restrained by non-felt words.
Spinning heads fall off contact, as if an electro magnetic's power switch
was suddenly turns off.

Silence, then lips start flipping, contact resumes at minimum power.

"That idiot mayor of ours is running for reelection again.
He hasn't an ethical cell in his enter body," says one.
He, however, presents an appealing image, will fool a majority of the
voters," says the other.

Silence, contact withdrawn to inner dialog. Two sentient beings,
sharing the same world, at a complete lose of how to share their common
heart felt experiences.

A wall starts to build between them. Blank eyes fix on invisible objects.
The wall builds higher; silence looms thick. Each sense their shallow words,
and are reluctant to flap more. The wall builds even higher. Power is off.
No residue contact. They are now deep into their own heads. The wall
builds higher, and now isolates them Curious these two, who's combined
memories, store vast ranging, sensations of lived experiences, set such
a limited, bland boundary for their expression.

"Look there! says one, opening the circuit, "That man, disgustingly drunk,
and its so early in the day. Its sad to see."
Hesitating, the other adds, "He cannot manage his drinking." Than pausing
nervously continues, "I know his need, and what kind of emptiness alcohol
fills. You see, I am an alcoholic."

Ears perk; interest piqued, hot; eyes merge and focus intense. Full power on.
Hallelujah! a devastating blow smacks and weakens the wall.

"I am surprised, " rejoins the other, "I never suspected you had a drinking
problem. You seemed so conservative, and not given to impulse. You
know," pausing, "my wife has a drinking problem, and I have a real
compassion for the difficulty alcohol causes. I greatly respect and admire
your honesty with yourself."

The other says, "You have taken on a completely new aspect. Previously,
I thought you reserved and some what aloof. Now, hearing you respone
to my problem with sympathy, and sharing your own experience has changed
my opinion. I like you."

Smiles burst forth. The two virgorously pat one another on the back. Then
a warm, long hand shake, while eyes twinkle with good feeling. The wall
now comes tumbling down, and in its stead, friendship unfolds.

Now the world seems none so bad, and they themselves such sterling lads;
a mixing in with life, no waste of energy here.

poems concerning family

Our primary relationships have the greatest impact on us. Those of family, extended, would be considered primary. We start relating to our family while still in the womb, and continue relating, on what can be called an unconscious level until we are approximately 21 years old. At 21 we have maturated to full psychological capacity. Meaning we can, at this point, began to process our experiences. Until (of course psychological maturity can begin earlier or later then 21, 21 is only a mean) we gain psychological maturity we take in our experiences on a strict emotional level. The power of our emotions without a reasoning process prevents us from making change. If we can not see the causes and effects in our relationships we are stuck with their emotions which are formidable barriers to change.


The poems presented were written over a period of years, and all contain the theme of family relationships, from my perspective. My intention is to cause a recognition within you of your own family relationships and hopefully help to release their pent up emotions bringing reconciliation and peace.


home



There was a time I knew my home
and the direction it did lay.
A two story brick storefront, cornering
the block, a harbor, a friendly, familiar
place to dock.


On snow covered days, I'd shovel
south to north from the alley, scrapping
the side walk clean. The shovel would
invariably thump the corrugated metal
plate my father made to cover an iron
grate. My stomach then would feel the
sharp tip of the shovel handle.
At the corner, I pushed a single path west
toward Gigi's side walk, then plowed
strip by strip past the mail box to the curb.
A technique learned from Frank the Grocer.
Now the two steps from the walk to the street
for bus rider appreciation and then finished


Mounting the shovel over my shoulder in soldier
fashion, I'd springily stride over the cleaned walk,
through the back yard gate, look lovingly at the pine
tree I planted, mount the stairs, absorb the homely
atmosphere and gently nap long side the warm
radiator.


There was a time I knew my home and the direction
it did lay. Centering from the brick two story, its
boundaries extended miles in all directions, like
Architurs in the evening's western sky, a reliable
fix had I.


Northward, passed cousin Mary Ann's house, the
railroad tracks, where balancing games, flattened
pennies, cries for chalk, floating, flashing, beaconed lights,
shrill whistles, rhythmic clicks of iron wheels on iron rails,
and powerful whiffs of air, were the order of things;
passed Aunt Annie's, passed Rose's fragrant Lillocks,
passed Duke the friendly Shepard, and passed block
after block of infinitesimal points, intimately tangent.


Southward, passed the old house, and the tree where
I caught a falling baby sparrow, my father set a ladder
to put the bird safely back into the nest; passed Cornia's
slippery, juicy cherry tree, passed the corner lot, where
summer baseball was played daily, then converted easily
to a race track for soap box cars, passed Keichen's
Grocery Store, where my mother once worked, and
where my attitude was dubbed, Louie the Thurd, passed
the 5 blocks of my paper route and passed block after
block of infinitesimal points, intimately tangent.


East and West, passed thousands of neurologically
recorded scenarios held fast by the camera in my mind's
eye. Panazzo's Funeral Home, where my father was laid
to rest, my high school, Vience's Barber Ship, the school
grounds and parks where my spent energy must still be
whirling; the churches, the drug stores, my sister's homes
the Michigan Ave hill leading to Pullman, Lake Calumet
where my bobber floated away, the etchings on the
side walks, "Beamster 1947," the alleys, all points of
intimacy.


Oh! yes there was a time I knew my home and the
direction it did lay. Finding my way by feeling the
cord of this umbilical tie.


Now I am severed, cast draft, no fixed point, no breath
of relief, no sanctuary, no kindred spirit, no intimacy,
no return, no home, relying only on dead reckoning.


Yet! there was a time I knew my home.





death comes to my Pa Pa



My eyes were dry, I took his hand
warmth in a wasted man. I stroked
his head, please Pa don't be dead.


We shared a family place, but how
unfamiliar his face. A spectre, a t-shirted
form speaking to me of sports:

"Rocky Caliveto, hit another home run.
He does it with strong wrists."
"Did you see that left hook, like a slap
from a lion's paw."


Pa, why didn't you talk to me the why
you did my friends?
Pa, did you love other women? Make
mistakes when you were young?
Pa, what was growing up like in Italy?


Damn your soul! I threw his hand to
his sunken chest. You left me without
showing me what it is like to be a man.


My eyes were wet, when they took him
away in the van.





Years to be a man





Pa, forgive me, I did not understand
It took me 40 years to learn to be a man.


I was blind, and listened only to my need.
I couldn't hear over my emotional greed.


Your love was stamped on my chest.
Yet, I didn't accepted it believing it wasn't the best.


Pa Pa, I am sorry, what manner of man have I been,
to decline the precious gift you freely had given.


We shared a family place. How selfish was my face?





A father to his son


"Son! determination the stuff real men are made of."

"Yes Dad! but how do I know how to get determination?"

"Determination is learned. You set a goal, one of course that
is within your capabilities, for instance, making the baseball
team, then focus your thoughts and energy toward its achievement.
That is how to do it."
'seeing you stand there on the brink
of life, excites and frightens me. all
the marvels and suffering lie immanently
before you, and I your father have a responsibility
to help shape your journey. I am frightened
I'll lead you wrong; I am frightened you'll not
like me;I am frightened of the power that will
grow within you, challenging my manliness, and
mostly I am frightened to hold you in my arms
and reveal my fears.'

"Yes Dad! but how do I know my capabilities?"

"You will develop a feeling for what you can and
can not do, as you grow older."

"Yes Dad! but where does this feeling come from?"

"You'll just have it. Don't ask stupid questions.
Go play somewhere."
'I don't know the answer to your question, and I am
annoyed at myself for not knowing. I am sorry
son. I like to give you a big hug but I am frightened
you would think I am weak.'

"Yes Dad."



my dear parents



Dear parents, know that your deepest and strongest
feelings penetrated to my total being.

Your aspirations awakened a spectrum of possibilities
and restrictions.
Your failures, on all levels, diminished the possibilities.
Your achievements, on all levels, increased the possibilities.

In our house regret and anger lived, like a manifest energy
that licked into my every pore.
A large part of my life was directed toward transforming
that negative energy into positive life force.
That initiation of fire, allowed me to understand a great
truth: although, I assimilated your deepest feeling, I am
from you but not either of you. I am your son, the baseline
of our family triangle: father-mother, son, following an
elemental, Cosmic Hierarchy. As the baseline I connect the
father-mother and evolve them into a more perfect form-me.

They sacrificed their lives in giving their life force to me, so that
I might progress beyond them. If you look very closely at life
you will see, that it originates from compassion and sacrifice.

There is a Buddha saying, that if you were to carry your mother
on your shoulders for your entire life, that not satisfy her sacrifice
to you.

coming together

There was a man who held silent for years.

Listening to the world with rabbit ears.

Revolving his radar to voice direction; hearing

and feeling with little expression; releasing words

that were analysed and mapped.

You see this man's mouth was tightly wrapped.

It seemed, a tightly coiled spring fixed in his jaw,

viced his lips in a chronic stall; although when

great pressure was applied the spring sprung,

and the mouth opened wide.

The words that escaped were low pitched and

mellow; sending monotoned waves as an aspect

of this fellow. Here what I mean, follow this scene:

his boss would say, "It's about your work, sometimes

brilliant, sometimes dull; inconsistency that's your fall."

As an iceberg he sat listening, then his mouth opened

and words came out hissing, "I appreciate your criticism,

sir!" he said monotonously, "I'll try harder to be what I

should be."

The beat of his heart slammed against his chest; anger

swelled as a wave mounting to its crest. His inside voice

seething with incessant jabber, "That living wart, how dare

he judge my worth. It's him that's the matter. Pure

incompetence encased in a fatty blatter." The blank face

with its iceberg stare, stands up and walks calmly from his

chair.

Still the jabber runs in side his mind, like an endless spool

of twisting twine. "I should have done this... I should have

said that...or maybe even spat in his hat. If my mouth could

only say what is in my mind, then I could be freed from this

terrible bind." He shuffled off in silent gloom, with occasional

murmurs he moved from the room.

That kind of scene continued for years, building a pattern of

anxiety, depression, and tears.

Yet with each encounter his internal lament grew louder, "If

my mouth could only say what is in my mind, and free me of

this terrible bind."

Till, like a chick cracking its shell, his felt need burst from

its internal well. His mouth tuned with his feelings, loosening

that tightly strung jaw for dealing. His lips vibrated freely,

words oozed out rapidly, easily, ideally, expressing his emotional

content, really.

Euphoria sweeped through his inside. The once incessant jabber

ebbed as a morning tide. A great understanding set in his crawl;

that he is responsible for his emotional raises and falls, and that

he holds a right to express them all.

There was a man who held silent for years.

There is a man who speaks of his tears.

the principle of change

Whenever the statement "everything changes" is heard, most people nod their head in complete agreement to its apparent truth. However, a closer look at peoples' reaction reveals that their understanding of the statement is only casual, and directed at the most superficial evidence of change. For example, take the case of the death of a close relative. Most people are shocked by the death of someone close. This reaction is true even if the close relative was near death for some months or years. When death does come it is experienced as a sudden, immediate event having a specific time and place. The most ostensive part of change seems to capture our attention. In this case, we notice the obvious change, from a living relative to a dead relative. However, the inevitability of change as an on-going continuous process somehow escapes our awareness. The moment life is spawned on earth, so too is its death. We therefore, should not be surprised when death comes. Change, it seems, is noticed immediately by its overt physical symptoms, and is not given primary consideration as an integral part of all on-going events. Events happen, changes occur, yet our attention is focused only on the most outward aspect of the event, and not on the underlying process. In truth, nothing on earth has real duration, for nothing remains without change for even one billionth part of a second.


The understanding of this truth was brought to my mind while riding a bicycle. As I was riding one day, I was forced to the edge of the sidewalk I was riding on by a pedestrian. My tires rolled over a large bulge in the concrete. I was nearly thrown off. I stopped, got off the bike, and went to see what exactly it was I had rolled over. It was a large crack in the sidewalk, caused by the roots of a tree. As my eyes followed the crack to the tree, it suddenly occurred to me how changeable everything is, and how little attention I give to that fact. Here was a slab of concrete, solid, rock hard, laid with the intention of permanence. Here too were the tree's roots, extending and growing, knowing nothing of permanence. Then little by little, year after year, the tree's roots pushed up and cracked the concrete. An apparently relentless effort, yet not fully noticeable until the concrete was cracked and raised above its original poured level. How is it that the pervasiveness of change is not readily recognized?

The reason for this weak reaction to the processes of change is mainly due to the limited quality of our senses. Our normal vision, for instance, is limited to within a certain range of light waves. We hear within a specific decibel range. We taste, touch, and smell, all within a specific range of flavors, tactile sensations, and odors. These given limitations function as a kind of clearing house filtering out all sensations not precisely corresponding to the normal range reception. The result of this filtering process products a common or standard range of experience patterns, and their accompanying state of consciousness. For instance, we awake each morning at approximately the same time. We wash with the same smelling, feeling, soap and water. We drive the same smelling, feeling car, over the same route, through the same landscape, day in, day out. Usually our job consists of doing a number of the same procedures, over and over, in the same place and at approximately the same time of day. These routinely repeated events have a common or standard sensual quality to them, and thus are perceived as changeless or static.

In addition, to this kind of standard, sensual quality, are other aspects of our human perception that combine to help create a common noun out of the verb to change. There is the ability of our conscious mind to isolate specific events, thereby framing in a small detail of a much larger whole. There is the ability of our memory to hold whole, part, or a series of specific events and to recall them at will in a form many times more static than originally perceived-something like taking a photograph, where one infinitesimal moment of our dynamic, fluid world is frozen in a solid, static form.

Change is not only operative in our material world, but also in all the more subtle realms of our world. To illustrate, suppose you suddenly were blessed with extraordinary capabilities of vision, millions of times keener than anything known. Now focus your super-vision on that woman standing in front of you. See her blond hair, light complexion, blue eyes, and red shoes. Now adjust your vision to see through her skin to the musculature. Notice how her muscles wrap, connect, and inner-connect. Notice the continuous change in the tenuity of her muscles as they adjust to gravity. Now adjust your vision to microscopic. See the armies of bacteria, continuously signaling, digesting, stimulating, discharging, and absorbing. See the red blood cells speeding through arteries, giving nourishment-constant movement, constant change. Now adjust to molecular vision. See her molecular configurations and their interactions. Now adjust to atomic vision. See the oscillations of the atomic action, the speed of light movement of the electrons. Now adjust to sub-atomic vision. See the vibrational wave pattern, then the particle, alternate, seemingly at random. Now adjust your vision back to normal. Here we see a human being once again in her most dense, material form. It is only with the realization of the plurality of realities surrounding this human form, and their complete occupation with the process of change, that we begin to grasp the eminent presents and action of the force of change. Of all concepts known about the Cosmos, the concept of change is, ironically, the closest to being an absolute constant.

golden youth or silver age

Vitality left me, I am awkward and slow,
crooked appendages shake to and fro.
Cease the day, cease the night, for the
young that's old age's plight.
Decrepit body, features sunken to my skull,
bellows of skin hang from jaw.
White hair and skin; I look like someone
who was bleached from within.
Aah! Sweet youth! Dashing in all directions:
bouncy, bubbly, brisk, bright and brass,
all pink and rosy cheeked, tight cropped
head, sparkling eyes, thin waisted, tight
skinned.
Oh! To be young again.

BULL!

I'd rather white hair, than a full crop
set on a corkscrew head. Scattered brained,
hardly trained, standing around in a stoup.
My white hair a sign. It's a compliment for
solving life's predicaments. With each
solution a new sprout of silver. A brilliant
dome, a silver star.
Bright, brass, prime hay? To bright to ask
for advice, to brass to use it if given,
and to prime for anything approaching the
sublime.
I have served my time in youth and never go
back except to collect a memory.
If you think old age is for napping
just ask Charlie Chaplin. Not an old bull
with a crumpled horn, but a silvered eagle,
soaring from it's ground history, steely eyed,
keenly aware of where and how to use life's
energy, and yet graciously available to counsel
any or all who would listen.
If I had a choice, "Golden Youth or Silver Age"? I'd
have silver with no hesitation.
Sliver glitters as gold, only in a different light.

withdrawal

I'm leaving behind the rest of my kind, and removing myself from the race.
I'm washing clean society's scene, and rinsing my mouth of bad taste.
Withdrawing from muzzled mouths, machine-gunning blank words with each round;
From the printed accounts of gruesome, terrible crime;
From the noise and the dirt and the slum and the grime.
I'm leaving this ocean of bullshit far, far behind.

As the earth spins in orbital glide, the sun shades its back and lights its front side.
Untolled lives end with the night. Untolled lives begin with the light.
Life seems to float on a pool of extremes;
Flowing from best to worst or worst to best, with occasional leveling.

I'll not be swayed. I am determined to leave, and once gone, there'll be no weeping
on my shirt sleeve.
Withdrawing from an economic mutation: freeze enterprise, castlepolism, and press-
chasing power; from increase the exports, decrease the imports, tariff davenports,
duty-free whiskey quarts; from inflate the dollar, deflate its value; tax all the income
who is the victim?; from grow with the country, consume a T.V.; use a lawyer regularly to gain a 3% increase in G.N.P. ; from inflation, taxation and money orientation.
I am taking leave of it all, and I'll burn my credit cards as a symbol of withdrawal.

As the earth spins in orbital glide, the sun shades its back and lights its front side.
Untolled lives end with the night. Untolled lives begin with the light.
Necro or bio, dispositions of mind; where place the difference?
The decision is mine.

I'll not bend. My mind is made up. I'm withdrawing from a political circus that
features corrupt; from the codes and statutes obstructing my time; from the courts and their justice, mentally blind; from the in-forms, the out-forms, the forms for forming forms,
and the formed forms from forms.
Take all the forms, roll into a wad, then blast it into orbit and form a new moon.
I'm leaving, leaving, I tell you, and it isn't to soon.

As the earth spins in orbital glide, the sun shades its back and lights its front side.
Untolled lives end with the night. Untolled lives begin with the light.
There are flowers that open full bloom to the sun and close tight to the moon;
Accommodating the change of day in a most thought way.

I am leaving! And when I am ..."safe in my sylvan home, I'll tread on the pride of
Greece and Rome." Safe I'll be, without ambiguity. Safe I'll be, separated from
society. Safe I'll be, withdrawn from that which annoys me.

Egad! I am a fool. To escape is mad. I am only accepting the good part of the world, while withdrawing from the bad.
I'll use flower wisdom; accept life's extremes, then accommodate the differences
as my awareness deems.

I am going to stay; mingle with my kind. Accept all behavior as human and where I can, adjust and refine.

life's energies---integration

LIFE'S ENERGIES


New modes and aspects of being prick
my pores, as if a burning field of life's
energies engulfed my core, in a fiery,
sparkling, blue aura.
And I, like a magnet to iron files, attract
these forces in subtle patterns.
Insight bombards my brain, knowledge
seeps through my frame, as residue from a
skyrocket after explosion, falling star like
through the night.
Its all movement, a swirling, spinning, blended
and mixed, simply and naturally.
Mass measures of energy are released, yet spent
without the feeling of effort. Time runs but lays
no burden.
So much to being, moment to moment.
So much to accept, moment to moment.
So much to understand, moment to moment.
Yet an order to apparent chaos.
A life time of order in confusion.



INTEGRATION


The golden faced, reclining Moon
nestling in the fleece of a generous cloud,
issued beams of golden light to capture
neighboring clouds and ignite them into
ghostly shapes, against the blue-black night.
The stars gathered up in various tinctures of
twinkle, set a magical tempo: moon, clouds,
sky, stars, dancing in perfect rhythm.
My fate was to witness this Cosmic harmony,
feel the pang of my disconnected soul, and
yearn for integration.
How far am I from reclining Moon?
How far am I from generous cloud?
How far am I from twinkling star?
How far am I from me?