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SANCTUM SANCTORUM
The old man falls asleep by a birch tree. He dreams of killing an imaginary stranger. When he wakes up, he feels unbearable guilt. And he discovers that he is sprawled across the golden sands of a vast desert.
He rises and wanders in the desert, drifting west toward the setting sun. In the distance, he sees an oasis. Or is it the sanctum sanctorum?
When he arrives at the vanishing holy place, he finds only waves of scorching sand. Beneath a merciless sun, he stands tall, stretches his arms toward the Heavens, and cries out: “Forgive me!”
Tears cascade down his twisted face. Yet unexpectedly, he grows a blissful smile. Perhaps, he is no longer in our world. He may be traveling in Phantasmagoria, the country of delusions and hallucinations, an eerie place where wishes come true.
After sunset, he listens to the howling wind and in the chilling darkness, he falls to his knees and whispers: “Forgiven!”
- Mel Waldman
(added 12.04.08)
THE INVISIBLE CITY
Beneath our familiar metropolis of seductive beauty
and sparkling lights, there is an invisible city, a dark,
subterranean universe where unspeakable crimes are
impulsively committed.
A separate reality inhabited by freaks and other misfits,
it sometimes intersects the City of Light above,
threatening to contaminate the resplendent cosmos of
humans.
Beware! There is no sanctuary for Homo sapiens, in
the City of Light or in a sanctum sanctorum. Below
the sacred earth, the others are gathering. Soon, they
will be among us and will invade our Holy Land.
Or perhaps, they will wait for us to fall into the Abyss
and discover the secret entrance into Hades, a
subterranean home for freaks and other misfits.
- Mel Waldman
(added 11.20.08)
MR. OBAMA:
REMINISCENCE OF MY DREAMS
Mr. Obama, our President-to-be, you evoke poignant memories of
Yesterday, reminiscence of my dreams and the dreams of a nation,
the magical contradictory sixties, a decade of violence and love,
war and spirituality, when John F. Kennedy and Bobby too and
Martin Luther King, Jr. inspired us to be greater than we were and
we dreamed big dreams and we believed. We were a nation of
visionaries and we danced in the streets of hope in the U.S.A. until
our leaders were stolen from us, in a sudden wave of assassinations,
and we cried.
It seemed we cried forever and our grand visions of peace, covered in
blood, vanished too. Since that anguished time, we’ve mourned our
lost dreams.
Back then, I was a young man in my twenties, a Brooklyn College
student-a dreamer-who used to sit quietly in the Garden of the Lily Pond
and meditate on a grand future for our glorious country.
Mr. Obama, that grand future is now. And the endless days of mourning
are coming to an end. Together, we will fulfill the dreams of Yesterday
and rebuild this glorious nation. You and I and all Americans will be one
and we will repair our beautiful country. We will fix what needs to be
fixed and we will heal.
Mr. Obama, you are our inspiration and we will be greater than we were
or ever dreamed. A beautiful Spirit fills our soul once more and we
believe. Yes, we believe! And like the phoenix, America will rise again.
- Mel Waldman
(added 11.20.08)
ORIGINAL SIN
Perhaps, the original sin is birth or separation from Mother.
Inside Mother’s womb, I was one with her. But now, I am
separate,
different,
&
alone.
Forever, I search for reunion and the perfect oneness and yet,
I fear the intimacy of love.
Will I be engulfed by the other and lose my identity?
Swallowed by my beloved, will I die in a dark, selfless universe?
If I do not submit to love, I am condemned to wander across a
bleak, empty earth.
Yet must I risk all for love-this dark oneness that might set me
free?
- Mel Waldman
(added 11.20.08)
BREAKDOWN
The Dance of the Cosmos,
phantom dancers pirouetting
in outer/inner space,
the grotesque, beautiful
ghostly Dance of the Cosmos;
Ghosts, eerie beings of the sad,
fractured universe, becoming
bizarre Beauties
grasping and searching for the
incomprehensible
&
Dancing in Chaos,
evolving, dissolving in the
Dance of Madness,
vanishing in still life across all
galaxies
&
the universe is breaking down.
The Spirits move,
universal motion in still life,
invisible, electrical motion of all,
creatures strange and familiar,
mysterious objects alive and dead,
&
even dead things are filled with Spirit,
but a secret Force of Darkness is
spreading across the universe,
a contagious, hidden virus seeking
destruction, thriving on intense fear,
helplessness, and horror,
craving heinous acts, and shrieking
silently across all galaxies
&
the universe is breaking down.
A catatonic schizophrenic sits in a
corner of a small square room painted
in soothing white,
hunched over, alone, and wearing a
mask of madness-
a glazed, blank soulless look of distance-
he sits in the little crazy room within the
antediluvian mental hospital
located in an unknown place on earth;
his electrical brain has already broken down;
indeed, he has suffered a nervous breakdown
&
now, he is free, perhaps, to drift across a vast
universe,
for no one can stop him,
no one can reach him,
no one can speak to him,
as he wanders across an invisible universe,
a wounded universe that is also breaking down,
desperately in need of repair,
a universe that welcomes a crazy man
&
beckons him to think and behave freely,
courageously,
incomprehensively,
a universe that waits for a madman to dream.
But in the meantime, the universe is
breaking down.
The Dance of the Cosmos,
phantom dancers pirouetting
in outer/inner space
&
the universe is breaking down;
Ghosts, eerie beings of the sad,
fractured universe,
grasping and searching for the
incomprehensible
&
the universe is breaking down;
The Spirits move,
universal motion in still life,
invisible, electrical motion of all,
&
the universe is breaking down;
A catatonic schizophrenic sits in a soothing
white room in an antediluvian mental
hospital,
having suffered a mental breakdown,
&
he wanders across an invisible universe
discovering to his surprise that the
universe is breaking down too,
waiting for repair and transformation,
waiting for healing in the vast Void
where phantom dancers dance the
Dance of the Cosmos
&
he is needed too to mend the wounded universe,
he is needed too,
&
in an invisible, poignant moment,
the crazy man smiles.
- Mel Waldman
(added 11.09.08)
TRAUMASCAPE
Sometimes I sit on the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights,
close my eyes, and remember the way the Manhattan
skyline used to look. But the Towers, 2 ancient centurions,
are gone forever.
I still can’t return to the sacred place where they stood, for
my soul’s on fire, burning with trauma. Yet each morning,
in the private landscape of my psyche, the Towers rise again,
like the phoenix, like us.
- Mel Waldman
(added 11.09.08)
FLASHES OF BECOMING
Flashes of Becoming,
penetrating,
like a dream,
existence;
Flashes of Becoming,
inside the dark ocean,
incandescence,
a pure beauty,
emerging, vanishing,
seeking her destiny;
Flashes of Becoming,
pointed,
ineffable,
beatific,
like a fantasy
dying,
resurrected;
Flashes of Becoming,
proud and persistent,
whirling and swirling,
like a seductive dancer
leaping across the wet
darkness,
creating
space;
Flashes of Being and Becoming,
like a turquoise flower,
basking in the heat of
quintessence,
and
becoming,
but ripping her Creator apart,
in search of a hidden rendezvous,
inside the invisible universe,
romance, seeking absolute love;
Flashes of Being and Becoming,
penetrating, like a dream,
existence,
a pure beauty seeking her Creator,
and her Creator,
waiting,
sometimes impatiently,
with anguish and joy,
always waiting for her
creation
to
emerge,
like a turquoise flower,
suddenly
blossoming
beneath
a glorious sun,
fulfilling destiny
with the heat of
love.
- Mel Waldman
(added 11.09.08)
THE MYSTERIOUS FALL OF KID TWIST
There’s an old Brooklyn story, a Coney Island tale,
about the fall of a fallen man, the mysterious fall
of Kid Twist.
Born in Brownsville, Brooklyn in 1906, the tiny boy
named Abe Reles, handy with an ice pick and flooded
with rage, became the ferocious beast with the coming
of age, the devil incarnate, Kid Twist.
Yet the origin of his nickname is still a mystery. Some
say he was named after Max “Kid Twist” Zwerbach, a
New York killer of another time, or his favorite candy,
or his brutal method of strangling his prey. The truth
is unknown today.
The short, soulless monster, a fierce executioner,
darker than the Prince of Darkness, and blessed
by Satan, transformed the living into the dead.
Hitman for Murder Incorporated, he reached out into the
abyss with his long arms again and again, and he thrust
his ice pick into a victim’s ear, deep into the brain, and
there was a heavy downpour of blood in the cerebral
landscape,
a flood of bloody rain and unbearable pain until death,
in the private, dying universe of a victim’s lacerated,
bleeding brain.
Kid Twist was the king of terror. But the law caught up with
the Angel of Death and promised him a hot seat in the electric
chair. Then the Kid learned the sizzling meaning of fear.
In a swift Kafkaesque metamorphosis to save his life, he turned
into a government informant and testified against the mob.
Labeled a stool pigeon, rat, and canary, he sang dark songs and
hid in the Half Moon Hotel on the Coney Island Boardwalk.
On the fateful morning of November 12, 1941, protected by 6
officers of the law in the Coney Island hotel, Kid Twist fell from
the window of Room 623, and was suddenly free, and certainly
dead, a crumpled, twisted corpse on the ground.
What really happened when he flew out of Room 623? Was he
pushed or thrown or flying away from his enemy? If this was
his great escape, he forgot to wear a Superman cape.
After death, he received a new moniker: “The canary who sang
but couldn’t fly.” Yet even a psychopath could die.
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.22.08)
POET’S PRISON
I am here, because I
Create with forbidden words:
G-d,
Soul,
Love,
Eternity,
Heaven,
Hell,
Infinity,
Purgatory,
Resurrection,
Beauty,
Justice,
Redemption,
And…
I am here,
in my underground cell,
condemned by the grandeur of my words.
I am here,
below the Earth,
in darkness,
sitting with unbearable anguish,
but still,
surrounded by grand words,
visionary phrases,
apocalyptic statements,
dancing in my brain.
I am here,
giving birth,
to a magical universe,
and in particular, a metamorphosis:
Look:
a scorpion crawls up my legs,
sometimes touching raw skin,
seeking something it can’t identify;
a confused rat scurries
around in a circle
within the square cell,
perhaps guided by a shattered brain,
a limbic system gone awry;
a rattlesnake slithers across
our boxlike prison,
crushing a minuscule moth hiding in the corner,
discovered accidentally by a thrashing tail,
seeking nothing in particular.
Yet suddenly,
the scorpion crawls up my torso,
discovers my face, and finds my tight lips.
It kisses me, its touch as soft as a zephyr.
Harmony!
Unexpectedly, the confused rat stops,
escapes from its circle,
scurries to my feet, and journeys to the top of my head.
Like the king’s crown, it sits perched on my head.
Harmony!
Momentarily, the snake slithers toward me, and encircles my torso.
It does not crush me. It holds me. I feel its protective layers.
I am loved!
Harmony!
Miraculously, the crushed moth moves.
And magically, it becomes two gold butterflies.
They fly to me, landing on each eyelid.
Blessing my vision!
Harmony!
And revelation!
I am here,
in my underground cell,
empowered by the scorpion, rat, snake, and moth (butterflies).
We live in harmony, surrounded by grand visions and
particular circumstances that drive others mad.
This is our prison.
Still, we are free!
Harmony!
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.22.08)
SHADOW-LAND
One day after I followed the Shadows into a bleak,
barren landscape,
perhaps-the Other Side of Reality
where humans dare not go,
I vanished within an
invisible universe,
swept away in
terror and awe.
Then, I discovered something even
more beautiful
than life itself.
I found IT
in
Shadow-Land,
where Darkness is illuminated
and ancient secrets-
ineffable and unknowable-
are partially revealed at Midnight,
when the Shadows whirl and swirl
across the spiraling universe,
dancing the Dance of Creation
as we sleep, the deep sleep
and dream-
divine dreams of dark revelation.
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.22.08)
CONEY ISLAND BLUES
An old man sings the blues,
the Coney Island blues,
in the Brooklyn wasteland
by the sea.
In the season of despair,
an old man sings the blues
and strolls along a bleak
Boardwalk, drifting into an
ancient time.
The Cyclone,
The Wonder Wheel,
&
The Parachute Jump,
Fragmentary images
feed his shattered soul;
Dreamland,
Luna Park,
&
Steeplechase,
Fragmentary visions feed
his antediluvian brain.
And the old man by the sea
sings the Coney Island blues.
Traumatic shards of Yesterday,
Flashbacks sailing through his
private wilderness,
&
the old man sings the blues,
the Coney Island blues.
Coney Island’s on fire:
Dreamland (1904-1911)
&
Luna Park (1903-1946)
&
Steeplechase (1897-1907;
1908-1964) are burning!
And the old man by the sea
sings the Coney Island blues.
Hunched over, the old man
wanders through an ancient
time. And the fires continue,
burning endlessly at the end
of a majestic era,
for Coney Island is dying;
Coney Island is burning.
And the old man’s brain is
on fire,
as he wanders through lost time,
but strolls along a barren
Boardwalk.
And the old man by the sea
sings the blues,
the Coney Island blues.
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.12.08)
CONEY ISLAND DREAMSCAPE
Lost in a surreal time-container,
I’m a kid again,
flying high, like Superman,
sailing on the Tornado
and the Cyclone,
back in the Coney Island
of my youth.
In the Coney Island Dreamscape,
I’m a kid again.
I can conquer the world.
Anything’s possible,
for I believe!
And I’m rolling and rumbling and
roaring on the roller coaster,
flying high, as all my fears
vanish,
beneath the azure sky,
not far from the turquoise
sea,
and I’m thrilled to be alive,
dancing in phantasmagoria,
dreaming of Yesterday,
when Coney Island was the
center of my fantastic
universe,
before it passed away,
with the flow of
creation and destruction,
like an ancient majestic
King or Queen
going to sleep forever,
and vanishing in the
catacombs,
but resurrected
from time
to time
in my
Coney
Island
Dreamscape.
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.12.08)
CONEY ISLAND DANCERS
Coney Island memories,
sizzling summer days
and sultry nights,
disco fever by the sea,
lovers and strangers
dancing
on the Coney Island
street-the Bowery,
Dancers moving
rhythmically
in sweet phantasmagoria,
sensuous and seductive
motion by the ocean,
Free and flowing humans
gyrating in front of the
Polar Express ride
and the Thunderbolt too,
rotating and revolving
in circles and spirals,
surreal sexual
motion by the ocean,
Frozen heat of Yesterday,
captured in my
Coney Island mind.
Coney Island dancers,
as fluid as the surreal sea,
enchant, charm,
liberate, and free me as
they swirl and whirl
inside my Coney Island
mind,
moving to the ancient beats of Yesterday.
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.12.08)
CRIMSON VOICES OF THE NIGHT
Listen to the eerie darkness. Listen to the old
crimson voices of the night.
Desert-voyage, crucifixion, and listen to the
cold crimson voices of the night.
Crepuscular creatures rise at dawn and sip
from the surreal cup of ever flowing light.
Later, I will cross the River of Time and listen
to the cold crimson voices of the night.
I dance in the Garden of Eden with my wounded
soul, taste my loneliness-a dark piece of Void, a
small bite-chunk of knowledge, and I eat the old
crimson voices of the night.
Within my private universe, I shriek the Mourner’s
Kaddish and say goodbye. A blackbird flies away,
and I listen to the cold crimson voices of the night.
Now, I swallow the eerie darkness, capture a
vanishing soul, and lock it in an invisible cage.
I wait for death and resurrection and drink the old
crimson voices of the night.
- Mel Waldman
(added 10.03.08)
ZEN MASTER OF BROOKLYN
(previously published in NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL)
He was the Zen Master of Brooklyn, in the late ’50s,
when I worshipped false g-ds, before the world changed,
before…I became a man.
Zeus rode a motorcycle to school, taught 9th grade English
without the Muses,
began the Poetry & Philosophy Club,
without Aristotle & Plato.
Murdered my natural flow. What did He know?
His wisdom was a Void.
Did not teach me how to write, or show me the Light, or point
to
G-d
Heaven
Immortality.
What did He see?
Without his emptiness, He could not bless.
Within his emptiness, He could not bless.
Almost murdered my metamorphosis.
But I blessed myself with rage & killed Zeus in my mind.
Coming of age meant killing all masters on the road.
Violent thoughts were the code to my soul & to peaceful ways.
Those were the days…before I became a man.
Long before, I became a person.
Light years, before I became
a quiet wave in the spiritual universe.
- Mel Waldman
(added 09.21.08)
DRIFTING
(previously published in PRELUDE TO FANTASY)
Leaving the ocean behind,
And the sand, the pebbles,
The human ways of lonesome,
I drift the other way,
And confront
myself
as I pass through
change
as I pass
I drift
as I rearrange my life
as I pass through
Change tasting the evolution,
finding peace in the vast, where nothing
is born or dies.
- Mel Waldman
(added 09.21.08)
THE WAR
The War continues, and we listen to R & B-the
Rhythm & Blues of American soul music in
this beautiful, sad country.
The universal clock of Existence ticks again and
again and we wonder when the War will end.
Life and Death flow incessantly like the repetitive
oceanic waves of Time. And we struggle to be free.
In the distance, we hear Poe’s tintinnabulation of the bells.
For whom do the bells toll? The universal clock of Death
ticks again and again, and we wonder when the War will end.
Throughout the ages, we rage and the War continues. Is this
Destiny or human frailty and hubris? Is this our sin-the sin
of humans marching inevitably to Death, while listening to
the dark, heavy beats of lost Time?
The War continues and this compulsion to rage is our sin,
our dark mystery, and still, we dream of peace and try to
will it into being. And we speak of peace too, sometimes
silently or in whispers; sometimes we shriek the sacred
word in a cathartic release. It is our Holy Grail, our
hope and salvation, as we rage against our Darkness
and wonder when the War will end.
Our mantra is PEACE and in the tranquil ocean of our
souls, we sail across the turquoise sea and whisper
silently: PEACE. PEACE. PEACE.
- Mel Waldman
(added 09.12.08)
THE INVISIBLE POEM
The invisible poem, as beautiful as a peacock’s feathers to those who possess a celestial vision, wafts down from the Heavens, like a multicolored leaf floating and drifting toward earth breathing life into all things it touches, although it is invisible and unknowable, perhaps, to humans; still it secretly wafts down from the Heavens.
Like a Russian ballerina pirouetting through Time and Space, the invisible poem transforms Nothingness into Being & Existence with each exquisite, enchanting movement, as it secretly wafts down from the Heavens.
On a secret mission to reveal the mysteries of the universe, the invisible poem passes through our air and earth, fire and water, penetrating our human landscape, although it is invisible and unknowable, perhaps, to humans; and still it secretly wafts down from the Heavens, searching and waiting for us to see with celestial vision.
The invisible poem approaches us from without and within, and although it is invisible, perhaps, to humans, it is near, waiting for us to decipher its secret codes-each word and line longing to be read. Perhaps, we will discover its beauty one Day of Revelation or on a starry night while gazing with celestial vision at the Heavens in a courageous moment of faith and feeling and absolute peace.
- Mel Waldman
(added 09.12.08)
9/11 IN MY HEAD
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
The 7-year anniversary of
That day-
Is on its way-almost here.
Where can we hide?
So many died, I can’t believe.
Is there no reprieve?
Dark memories fall from the sky.
Why?
Some folks want to forget.
Let them if they can.
I can’t. I won’t. Toxic dust
Cascades down my soul,
Burning a black hole where
The dead shall live forever.
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
On the 7-year anniversary,
I’ll mourn my way. I’ll plant
The Tree of Life in the Waste Land
Of my broken soul.
My beauty, once shattered and
Lost in a black hole,
Will slowly rise again like the phoenix.
With faith and memory, I will heal.
I will fix-the scattered fragments of my
Being!
I will sing!
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
But I will sing! Yes, I will sing!
- Mel Waldman
(added 09.01.08)
DON’T MAKE US SMOKE THE AIR
Don’t make me smoke
the sweeping swirls of sky
or
swallow metallic circles of black air
high above & below
No! Save me from the whirling streaks of man,
which scar the atmosphere
& let me inhale the white universe
& let me breathe
& learn the ways of uncanny nature
& let me sing & resonate
with
the fiery leaves of Fall
that do not burn
& let me fly with them
on a cool, cathartic path
Above
the forest floor
& drift with them
my multicolored Spirits
until
we reach
the reddish-brown earth
& let us breathe
& let us be
let us die-no more
let us not give birth-
to disease
please
Don’t make us smoke the air
- Mel Waldman
(added 08.15.08)
CHAOS
At night, I travel on a dark journey to a mysterious place
called
Chaos.
Alone, on an ancient train rushing to the other side of the
universe,
I sit inside a tomb of ice and fire
&
struggle to survive, trapped and enclosed in this eerie
smothering space,
where the raw chill of evil bites my face.
Like a captured beast in a cage, I’m a human specimen
on exhibit
in this miniature, moving zoo (for they are watching me),
a frozen cattle car galloping across time and space to
Chaos.
But why? Why are they taking me away today? I’m an
innocent man.
Why must I die?
Hunched over in a dark corner, my feverish body shakes
and shivers. I taste the miasma and gasp for air. And I
inhale
a deep fear that assaults and covers me in the windswept
snowstorm
of despair and terror.
Still, I pray to my nameless G-d, Hashem, (The Name)
as I’m
buried alive.
With my faith, I may survive this dark journey
&
all that waits for me in Chaos,
a dark dimension of many horrific places,
especially one in particular…
a place of ice and fire
called
Auschwitz
- Mel Waldman
(added 08.15.08)
DREAM GHAZAL
I’m traveling on the Road of Dreams. This is my dreamscape if it’s me.
Got to call old Sigmund Freud, a kindred soul, and ask him if it’s me.
Once, I went to the Theater of the Absurd and searched for Truth.
Tried to understand why I’ve suffered so much and if it’s me.
On a dog day afternoon, I walked on the Coney Island Boardwalk,
saw a freak show, watched my ghostly face in the mirror and asked if it’s me.
A woman of beauty, with red flaming hair, danced naked in Central Park.
“I love my man!” she shouted. And I whirled and swirled and asked if it’s me.
The train rushes across the vast Waste Land and a bearded man sleeps.
I’m a Man of the Woods and a Wizard too-if it’s me.
- Mel Waldman
(added 07.12.08)
YOU
You ask me what I want from life and I say:
“You.”
A few tears cascade down your cheeks.
Some wet your parched lips.
I taste your tears.
“But there is so much more than I possess.”
“If I can truly love you, I will be free to
love others.”
“Well, they say you’ve got to love yourself
before you can love someone else.”
And so I gaze into my multicolored mirror
&
speak to the others, bathed in colored lights
or pitch-black darkness.
“Today, I love you-all of you-for a few
minutes, within the sea of contaminated
time, flooded with rage,
but calmed by soothing
waves of colors
& a vision that we are one.”
- Mel Waldman
(added 07.12.08)
CHANGE
Change is beautiful and frightening, like the Siberian tiger of the
Amur region in the Far East rushing and leaping across the
Waste land,
Strangely familiar and unknown, like the double approaching and
speaking to you in a fluid dream sequence, merging and melting
with the phantasmagoric landscape,
Consuming and destructive, like Count Dracula in the perpetual
night of mist and feral darkness biting and drinking the blood of
his victims,
Expansive and creative, like an invisible sphere of luminosity
exploding into a mammoth ball of fire,
Terrifying and thrilling too, like flat lining and dying and
mysteriously coming back to life,
Change is beautiful and frightening and new.
Change is grotesque like Gregor Samsa’s metamorphosis into a
colossal insect and yet, it is tomorrow’s golden sunrise, when
crepuscular beings rise gloriously at dawn,
observed on the Brooklyn Bridge by travelers trekking across
the majestic expanse or others sitting on the Promenade in
Brooklyn Heights
or strangers at Mallory Square in Key West celebrating an
enchanting sunset by the Gulf of Mexico,
Change is grotesque and grand, beautiful and frightening and new.
Janus-faced, it wears the multicolored and colorless masks of
hope and despair, a container partially filled with blinding
white light, yellow and purple, red and gold,
and gray and black.
Change is grotesque and grand, beautiful and frightening and
new; it is Janus-faced too and yet,
it is being and becoming,
and without it,
there is no life.
- Mel Waldman
(added 07.12.08)
FATHER AND SON AT MALLORY SQUARE
The young father and son run along the pristine beach,
stopping at times to taste the turquoise ocean &
to play within the magical kingdom of holy water,
splashing and anointing each other &
dancing through the rising waves
that reach up toward the majestic sky.
It is a perfect dog day afternoon and later,
Father and son will lie on the sprawling sand,
feasting on love and baking in the brutal gentle sun.
To end the day, they rush off to Mallory Square in Key West
Florida to watch the miraculous sunset.
A perfect day, indeed. But it is Yesterday, decades ago.
Today, the old young man rushes slowly through the labyrinth of
his soul and tries to recapture that precious day. He meanders through
the surreal landscape.
Yet he can’t find his son. Of course, the dead can’t speak to us. Can they?
He hears a distant voice whisper:
“I love you, Daddy!”
Silently, he screams: “Hello, son.”
With his boy nestled in his soul, he saunters off to
Mallory Square to watch a golden sunset.
- Mel Waldman
(added 07.04.08)
INNER SPACE,
OUTER SPACE
Inner space, outer space,
Spider web, broken mirror,
Fire & light, or earth &
Desert night,
Choose life at the center, or
Death on the fringe
& enter with passion and desire,
Enter the sacred place,
Hidden in inner space.
Red room, blue room, enter
Through the red room; inside,
Outside, & sitting in the blue
Room,
Overdose-crackling gloom,
Broken window, lethal visions,
Broken door,
Ghostly man & someone died
Sitting in the dark, a tomb in
Outer space, invisible in the
Human room.
Inner space, outer space,
Broken mirror,
Looking in/out,
No one’s there,
Lost!
- Mel Waldman
(added 07.04.08)
A ROSE DANCING IN THE WIND
A rose dancing in the wind-
ripped apart,
severed from its roots in
the dark storm
&
still dancing in the wind-
unwilling to die,
determined to be-
a homeless rose-
swirling in the storm-
inhaling the
luminosity of soul far away
&
within
as it dances in the wind,
releasing the scent
of a dying rose,
and breathing its final
dwindling breaths
but still breathing and dancing
through the wind
&
into Eternity
- Mel Waldman
(added 07.04.08)
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