That First Cup

That early morning ritual
Dark, swirling, steaming liquid
Held by, but also warming, two cold cupped hands
Slowly lifted to parted lips

Then with eyes closed shut against the insistent gloom,
Slowly breathing in the rich aroma
And then sipping, ever so slowly sipping,
That precious brew.

Outside the rain streaked and foggy window,
Accompanied by the muted sounds of steel on steel,
the world races past, to see where I have been.
But I, with my cup, sit, unchanging , uncaring,

Oblivious in my benediction.

Love - Hate - Father

I wrote this over a cup of coffee after attending a poetry seminar at the Geraldine Dodge Poetry festival in Waterloo Village last year. The next day I read it to an audience at the “open – mike” tent. This was painful to write and more painful to read.


He spilt his seed
In my mother’s womb
As a dog would lift
His leg to a tree
And piss.

I did him no harm
Except possibly to exist.
And yet he abandoned me
To life and world
To cold and death

A part of me . . is not
There is an emptiness, a hole,
I cannot name, what
I have never known.
I cannot feel, what
I have never felt.

But if he were not dead
I would hold him, kneel at his knees,
Cry endless tears and
Let my feelings consume him
Leaving only ashes
To fill the void in me.

If I knew of his grave
I would dig him up
I would kick, beat and curse him.
But most of all
I would talk to him
And say those things
A son can only say
To his father,
In the quiet of the night
And wait
For his reply.


Bill . . October 1st, 2006

An Attempt At Haiku

On a Cross of Pain,

Time and Space pause to witness.

The presence of Hope.


Bill, May 24, 2007

The Big Band

Fingers, snap, snap, snap
And four saxes
Spring to life
Blaring out the opening strains
Of “In The Mood”

Thoughts of the past
Mom and my sister
Moving in harmony
To the rhythm section,
A small Bronx apartment.

Memories of old movies.
Black, white, grainy, with a tinny sound.
Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman
John Wayne, World War II,
simpler times, terrible times.

The music changes
New song, new memories
Chuck Mangione, jazz trumpet,
Life in the 60’s and 70’s
Another war. Always another war.

The mood changes – To darkness,
“Our Love Is Here To Stay”, But wasn’t
A marriage, a shattered life, a suicide - almost.
The music blameless, a stake in the sand,
Marking a time, a memory.

And gone, like a fragrance,
Carried away by a breeze
Created by the piano
Hammering out a different song.
Infusing a different mood.

Bill – May 7th, 2007

Then And Now

Hank just got called up.
To go to war - or maybe not.
Not all see combat - but all face the possibility.
A crap shoot, just like life.
Which is worse, the thinking or the doing.
This is Now, but much like Then.

I remember a kid back in 67- Oliver called “Ollie”
He was from Mass., loved Dylan and smoked pot.
His face is in front of me, but the last name is lost
Three decades will do that.
The worrying drove him crazy, made him sick.
Then one day he volunteered for Nam to escape the worry
Was it worth it – I don’t know. I never found out.
That was Then but it feels much like Now.

And then there was my brother John.
They held him back, until I returned.
And then the gnawing began in the pit of my stomach.
It would have been better, if I had stayed.
And he was safe – eliminating the worry – at least for me.
That was Then and Now.

My cousin Bobby wasn’t that lucky
His B-52 went up in a ball of flame
Training mission they said –
But he was still dead.
And wouldn’t be, if he had not been there – then.
It was Then but it hurts like Now.

Those that haven’t faced it, will never know.
Back then, we had the draft,
And now the draft is gone.
Now only the LESS privileged need worry.
But then again, they always have.
Then and Now, for them it’s always Now.

So what of Hank?
He should be ok, I tell myself.
Probably stateside duty or at worst a non-combat role.
But for those who care, the worry remains
Odd how the names make it personal.
It was that way Then - it’s that way Now.

And what of the gnawing in the pit of the stomach
Like the bile that builds and is vomited out to purge the poison.
That’s normal. That’s being human.
The mind Railing against the worlds stupidity - Saying
“It was wrong then, and its still wrong now”.

Bill - Jan 2003

In 2003 my friend Hank was called up for active duty. He came back ok, but many did not.

Virtual September

Through your words
I see angels fall from pillars of flame,
but cannot taste your salted tears.

Through your words
I hear the chaos of a thousand souls,
but not one of your choked sobs.

Through your words
I touch the broken shards, pick through the scraps of paper,
scraps of lives. But My hands are empty,
My hands are clean.

Is it the same for the leaders of terror and war,
Too far to see or hear or feel.
Too far removed, too distant, too un-real, too un-real.


Bill – Sept 27th, 2002
After talking to a friend who had witnessed
the attack at ground zero.

A Lover's Dream

I am slowly pulled,
From the depths of sleep,
By winter’s chill.
The blanket is gone.
Wrapped cocoon like,
My lover sleeps on.

I lean over, putting my face
Into her hair,
I inhale the heady fragrance
I know so well
Soap, musk, perfume
The fire within re-kindled.

Moving inch by inch
Like the jungle predator
I ease under the covers,
Closer and closer,
Warmth joining warmth,
Two sinuous curves merging.

And then, when the two have become one,
And the breathing synchronized
Into a single in and out.
My hand closes on soft flesh.
My head eases down to the pillow,
And slowly, I drift and dream.

A Gift of Poetry for Lora and Pamela
Written on the Occasion of Your Wedding
God Bless
Bill – March 31st, 2007

Wild Ride To Coney Island

Life in the late Fifties
Was, well different.
On a Saturday, some four or five of us
Would head down the stairs
To the endless caverns
Of the NYC Subway System.

We’d wait for the “D” Train.
The “D”, was the express, and
After all, it was all about speed.
Our faces pushed against the window
Of the first car -
We’d ride the rails.

We’d get thrown back and forth
As the train gathered speed
And flew down the tracks
Bouncing as it navigated
Switch crossings and turns.

Stations would RIPPLE BY
In a blur
Of steel girders
And flashing lights
The horn blaring
The steel wheels squealing.

And then out of the dark
And into the sunlight
The wooden ties
Disappearing beneath us
Flying, faster and faster
And Finally, at the end,
Looming up large in our young eyes
The parachute jump, the roller coaster,
Coney Island.

Bill S. 03/28/07

Remembering what it was like
To be a kid in the Bronx

Taken For Granted

A door.
You approach.
Your hand turns the knob -
But it doesn’t turn
You pull but, It doesn’t open
Then you remember.
Where you are.

How long has it been,
Since it happened.
One week, perhaps two.
Learning the system
Of who can come, and who can go.
Who has power and who has none.

The nurses of course.
They can go anywhere.
The aides, the staff
The keys dangle
From belts and lanyards
Symbols of freedom, of control

The walls, so close.
Your world
The length of the hall
Back and forth
You walk
From one door to another.

You read, As you walk
You walk, it seems
Forever. You read
It seems, forever.
This, your link to sanity.

And you think
Of what it will be like
To once again, turn the knob,
And open the door, and walk through
Back to the world, where something as simple
As a door, is taken for granted.


Bill, 03/23/07

A glance back at Trenton Psychiatric.

The Pay Phones

At the farthest point
In the shabby recesses of the lounge
Against a cold gray wall
Two pay phones hang

Patients sit nearby
Waiting for the ring
The ring that means contact
Contact with the outside world

Though they try not to flinch, they do,
Each time the phone rings.
Though some fear the phone will not ring,
They want it to.
Though some want the phone to ring,
They pray it doesn’t.

Of conversations I have stolen
Some uplift.
Some depress.
Some traumatize the patient
They walk away, slowly, silently, and sit down.

Some shake while others cry
Fuck the phone
Fuck those who call
Fuck those who don’t .

And then, after a time,
A brief moment to compose,
In ones, twos and threes,
Patients walk over to the stricken
And, with a pat on the shoulder, a smile, a kind word,
They begin to heal what the phone has harmed.

WHS 08/13/03
Poems from the Hospital

The Gerrys

Faces framed by open doorways
Always open of harsh necessity

Unmoving faces, propped up
In their geri-chairs,
Facing out - - Always.

But the eyes, the eyes are Alive.
They move and follow
The limited world
Framed by open doorways
Always open, of harsh necessity.

WHS 08/14/03 6 a.m.

The geri-chairs are special chairs for geriatric patients.
Poems from the hospital

The Sun Came Up

The sun came up this morning
Go figure!
It was only last week
When I thought
It’s down for sure.

It was only a few days ago
When I took a personal hand in it
And tried to make it set for good.
But it just came right back

It seems as though,
Just when you’re really down
And you decide to take yourself
Out of the game
Somebody steps in and says
“Not Yet!! My ball, my rules”

WHS 08/15//03 5:30 a.m.
1 week post suicide at Overlook Psychiatric Ward

Mental Hiatus

Writing again
It’s been a while.
Maybe two years
Maybe more.
Feels like more.

Like chipping at the rust
From an old faucet.
Squeaks and groans
Work the handle back and forth
And then the water, brown at first, filthy at first
But clear and sweet afterwards

Nothing too hard at first
Nothing too deep.
It’s been hard and deep
For two years
Too hard and too deep
For paper.

Keep it light, Make it flow
Don’t force the memories
They’re there, waiting to surface
Waiting for the right moment
To spill across the paper
Flood the page

Watch as the words
Uproot trees and take out bridges,
Destroy barriers and sweep away lives
Old lives.

Watch as they rush into
Collide with and break upon
The sea, the soul

Watch as they come full cycle
Back to the source, the beginning
New beginning – New life.



Bill – Nov 24th 2005

Evening Sky (A Prayer)

The evening sky
Sometimes alight
With the fires of heaven
Burning red
To cleanse the way

Indicative

Of a better day
A new tomorrow
Without the ailments
Of a troubled world

Prayerful

For a future
Without shame
Or Bigotry
Of enduring love

Thankful

For God
Her Love
Her Compassion
Her Endless Mercy


Amen

Empty

What do I feel?
Empty - - I suppose.
Can you feel empty?
I don’t know, though the word,
Seems to fit.

Is empty a feeling?
Or is it a condition?
Both - - I suppose
Both seem right
Both seem appropriate.

What does it mean? - - Empty
A place within where
Once there were friends
And now there are none.
Where once there was feeling,
And now nothing.

Where once there was love
And now, Only
The sound of my lungs
breathing.
The sound of my heart
Beating.
And nothing else to intrude
On this stillness - called life.


WHS 08/16/03
Re-Worked 02/10/07

On Life And Death

I died once.
Almost.
The pills were - all different colors,
Like a rainbow.
I remember some of the names, “Xanax, Ambien, Zoloft”.
Some hers, some mine.
I didn’t want to die.
I just didn’t want to live. Alone.

The pain was in my mind, in my soul,
In my body.
It was tangible, a living beast.
The stomach clenching, twisting, in knots,
The throat raw, rasping from crying
The pain drove me down into a corner
My arms wrapped around my knees.
The agony was unlike any physical
Hurt or pain I had ever known.

Where were the pictures,
Of our life together.
Nothing remained.
Had I ever been there,
Or was that just a dream.
Did I ever exist.
And if not, why bother now.

I remember finding an album.
A wedding album
The pictures unclear,
Through tears and pain.
I remember lying down,
Album on my chest,
Rosary in my hand,
Jesus, please take me. Whispered in pain.
Jesus, please take me. Whispered through tears.
Jesus, please take me. Please take me - whispered alone.
Alone and then nothing.

When I came to,
I was in the ICU,
They were forcing charcoal
Down my throat.
I wasn’t strapped down,
It was unnecessary.
I was too weak to move.
I woke up crying and
It was two days later.
Two days marking life and death
And life again.

My old life
Gone forever.
My death,
Temporary.
My new life
Another story.

Bill – Feb 2007

P.S. My new life – I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Free Association With Blind Typing

It’s interesting, nothing forced,
Just floating, eyes closed.
Just fingers on the keyboard, typing

Not much mattering where
The fingers go
Sometimes words, sometimes patterns
The sounds of the keys tapping
Almost like music

Don’t look up yet
Just keep hitting the keys,
See what comes out
Of the mind
The machine
The soul
Don’t look up, don’t try to add structure
What the hell is structure anyway?
Constructs, barriers, rules
To keep us in check, lock up the mind
Strap down the soul.

Words don’t matter, just letters pushed together
Sometimes making sense, sometimes not
But let the words come from within, from the mind, from the soul
Then you have truth
Then you have something worthy – to be told.


Bill - Nov 24th 2005

Trying To Think Again

Trying to think again, so strange,
So hard after so long.
Months of forced apathy
To deaden, not deal with the pain.

Emotions on hold, feelings numbed
One day at a time
No planning, No thinking
Afraid to hope, afraid to laugh

Now the thoughts drift up
Like smoke from a rekindled fire.
Up - out of the cave
Away from the hurt

Toward the light
Of a new life
Accepting who I am
What I am.

Allowing myself to
Feel again
Cry again
But this time
Not from pain, not from loneliness

Finding, along the journey
God and Peace
Friends and Joy
And for the first time
In many years
Hope.



Bill – Sept. 7th 2004
Re-worked Feb 2007

There Are Times

I reel.
Thrown back in chaos.
Light, images, feelings
As seen through a spinning fan
Disordered yet ordered
Meaningless yet not
My eyes restless, unfocussed
My mind un-quiet
I hold my breath
I pray.



Bill - August 2006

Rainbow Breakfast

Up the hill they wind – slowly
Safe in their protective shells
Of steel and glass.
As they draw near, they almost stop
Then turn and stare.

And I in turn, stare back.
Seated at the restaurant table
Peering out, through the safety
Of the large picture window – And wonder,
If I missed the notice.

When was it to begin –
The freak show, the zoo parade.
Should I be doing something?
Waving – Blowing kisses.
I don’t want to disappoint.
They have traveled so far out of their way.

They look out from their cars
Waiting, hoping for a quick glimpse
Some insight into the pervasive gay-ness.
Their hearts quicken as two young men
Hand in hand, cross the road.
How delicious, How decadent,
How – well – different.

And I sip at my coffee
And wonder – are they good people,
Just curious – just interested
Or – are they filled with hate
And should I be glad for that thick
Pane of glass which separates our world from theirs.

Bill - February 18, 2006

Tenement Memories

It was summer 1953
When we moved in
To be on our own
Away from him and her.
Just Mom, my sister and my brother.

Carol didn’t want to come, she cried.
She stayed with grandma and her friends,
Until the fall and school started.
John and I explored - new neighborhood, new friends.
Not a lot of baggage at six and eight.

It was always hot back then, before air conditioning
You couldn’t breath upstairs, and it wasn’t much better on the street.
The old folks lined up their chairs on the sidewalk and talked.
You’d sit on the stoop and listen for hours,
Or sit on the cars, until somebody yelled at you to get off.

We made up games, to have something to do.
Like sitting out on the fire escape
Me and John and Bobby
Writing down license plates and car makes
Just in case the police needed them – and might ask.

There was one day in early spring, when He visited.
The car pulled up, she was with him.
He wished me a happy birthday,
Handed me a Kodak Brownie, and left.
I have no memories of him after that.

I had to explain to my friends who he was.
That was my Dad. He doesn’t live with us.
Why not? I don’t know. He just doesn’t.
I didn’t know why
I never knew why.

We lived on the fourth floor.
One day there was screaming and crying in the hallway.
Frankie, Johnny and his Mom came out of 4E.
Frankie’s father was hanging from the bathroom steam pipe.
We didn’t understand, we just stayed with Frankie and Johnny.

Another day and another scream
Same floor, different family
Mr. Rosado had stabbed his daughter, blood all over the white tile floor.
She dated a guy he didn’t like and he taught her a lesson.
The police came – again.

Some days were good
Like the time we bought two Christmas trees
We couldn’t afford a big one and the skinny ones were cheap.
I had this idea and told my mom. Put two trees back-to-back, I said.
She thought I was smart and that made me happy.

And I remember leaving 179th street.
I was eight when I moved in and now I was fifteen.
Every friend I had was left behind.
It was supposed to be better but I couldn’t see it.
Nobody every explained anything back then.

Bill April 8, 2003

No Smoking

The bars are different now
Without the smoke
The old ambiance of Casa Blanca
Hazy dens of sophistication, of iniquity
Gone.
The new scene, Boy Scout meetings,
Sewing circles.

Imagine Warren Cleaver
With tank top and tattoos
Tending bar
And the Beaver
Ordering a Bud light.
That’s it
That’s the picture.

Everybody used to look great
Through the haze of
A hundred cigarettes.
The drinks tasted better then,
Or maybe our taste buds,
Smoked like so many hams,
Couldn’t tell the difference.

Now, in the pristine atmosphere
Of our politically correct city,
There is a clarity of vision.
The hunk you ask to your bed
Is the same guy you wake up to.
Adventure is dead.

The predictability – is nauseating
Where is the romance
Where is Paul Henreid, lighting
Two cigarettes, handing one
To Bette Davis.
An age lost
Now Voyager - Now Boring.

We have become as children
Protected from ourselves
No longer capable of making decisions
The committees of the informed
Instruct us, guide us,
Surgically remove our free will.
And we let them.



Bill – Oct 19, 2004

Writer's Block

Writers have blocks.
Poets have dementia
Writers have plots and characters
Poets have feelings and constructs of thought

Writers invent stories
With twists and turns
And people with honor
And others with perhaps
No so much honor.

Poets feel and use
Words to express
The workings
The innermost workings
Of the human condition
Or possibly in-human condition.

Writers invest their time
Poets invest their souls.
Writers create a fiction
To entertain their readers.
While poets mine the depths
Of their own joy and pain
As an emotional offering
To the mind of the reader.




Bill - 02/22/2006

Imperial America

And so it happens again.
Leaders so caught up in righteous rhetoric
So intolerant of any position not in lock-step
With their own infallible logic
That we must again send our children off to slaughter.

The super power now prepares to bludgeon
The third world tyrant.
We will use our twenty-first century technological
Marvels of death and blow these goat herders back
To the stone age –

We will show the wrong thinking nations of the world,
How to deal with a threat to imperial America.
Who are they to tell us to wait and talk.
We who have the power and the will.
Doesn’t might after all make right?

And what if we do dismantle the structures of peace
and security built up over the last sixty years.
They haven’t served OUR purposes, they haven’t
Furthered OUR goals. Our perfect goals.
Our splendid vision of truth and justice for all the peoples of the world.

Our old allies muddled in their thinking.
are no longer with us, they have voted against us.
Alas, they too will have to conform. They too will have to lay down
Their arms at the altar of imperial America.

Bill – March 18th, 2003 – Prelude to War
On the occasion of bludgeoning the United Nations.

Utopia Achieved

It never seems to change
We never seem to learn.
Old men argue - Young men die.
Ignorant of history – fooled by bravado

Now we begin again
Whipped up in a frenzy
Of righteous rhetoric
We grant the power to destroy,
We loose the dogs of war.

We believe our leaders are intelligent
And far seeing as they lead us to war.
Only the ignorant and near sighted would
Try to lead us to peace

And it has to happen, of course. Time after time.
Consider the cyclical nature of war.
If we are overly long at peace, Away from the killing
It starts again. We seem powerless to stop it. This is our legacy.

But now we have made war safe for the middle class
Kids go off to college, in Polo shirts and Dockers.
We no longer fear the draft board. The armies
are now filled with the children of under-achievers.
They are poorly educated, unwanted in business, expendable.

No longer do we fear losing our best and brightest to war.
The machines do all the work, they are marvels of technology.
The uneducated just drive them, a useful occupation, if they survive.
The machines do all the killing, marvels of science and efficiency.
Our expendable children just point them and the losses are acceptable..

Utopia achieved.

Bill – Nov 2002

White Out Run

We couldn’t hear the car
Coming from behind
Hushed as it was
On white mufflers.

As it passed we could see
The windshield wipers
Going to and fro
Two fingers scolding us

We trudged onward
Seeking the half way point
Running shoes digging in deeper
Deeper into the pure white snow.

We turned into the park and
Became polar explorers
No passage of man or beast could be seen ahead and
The marks we left behind, quickly disappeared.

At times you couldn’t see the path
Blinded by sudden gusts of wind and snow
Exposed flesh being stung by millions of
Tiny, cold, white crystals.

We ran heads down
To escape the fury
My beard now covered
In breath turned to ice.

We existed alone in a world of white thoughts.
Depending on each other for survival
Or so the mind fantasized
As we laughed aloud like two kids.

And then turned back.

Bill – December 5th 2002
After running with a friend through a blizzard.

Mockingbird

Atticus is gone
But the story lives on
Of Scout and Jim and Dill
Of the memories of youth
In a small southern town

Atticus is gone
But the lessons remain
Of reason and compassion
Of the fight against bigotry
In a small southern court room.

Atticus is gone
And he who was him
With gentleness and love
With steel and resolve
In a small southern town
In a small southern court


Bill – June 13, 2003

On the passing of Gregory Peck

When I was Eleven

When I was eleven, life was kind of cool.
Not a whole lot of grief
Not a whole lot of responsibility
Life was one day at a time, and
Nobody ever thought of tomorrow.
Today was good and tomorrow could wait.

In the summer, we went to Day Camp
Each day was new
Each day was different
One day we’d go to the beach, and
Another day we’d go on a special trip.
We never knew where and it really didn’t matter.

One excursion was Coney Island.
Three hundred kids on the subway
Kids getting lost, counselors panicking.
Kids getting found, counselors breathing relief.
Gold fish spilling all over on the trip home.
Three hundred kids making it back.
How, only God knows.

We didn’t have much money,
But if you never had it, you couldn’t miss it.
We had the street and we had the schoolyards
If you had some chalk, you could draw, and
The sidewalk was your canvas.
Yeah, life was kind of cool at eleven.


Bill

There Was A Time

There was a time,
When the walk to the altar
Was filled with apprehension
And dread.

Will they ask the Questions?
And how will I handle it?
Will I wither and die before their stares?
Will I lie rather than face the embarrassment?
Will I turn and walk out in defiance?

All choices born of confrontation.
Do I stand and answer?
Do I challenge their right?
Do I fight for my right?

What do I gain by staying or lying, or confronting?
What do I gain by putting them through it –
By putting myself through it.

I believe that they are embarrassed
For what they are made to do.
They follow blindly,
The edicts of Rome.
Although they may be slow to administer,
They never challenge, never question.

In the end, of course, the choice is mine.
It always has been.
The fear to change was fraught
With superstition
They washed my brain,
All those years ago.

The nuns, the priests, the brothers –
Piling on the guilt, the fear
There God is the only God.
Their church is the only church.
Their way, the only way - -
To salvation and Christ.

I was being crushed, ground under
By guilt, by shame
Don’t you have the guts to stick it out?
Don’t you have the guts to leave?
How can you abandon your church, your God?
What kind of vile scum are you?

And then the moment arrives.
The straw finally breaks the proverbial back
I can’t do - that one - final - thing.
I can’t stand at the altar Of God
And lie.

I see the truth. Finally.
God isn’t asking me to lie
God is asking me to see the truth
God doesn’t ask such things of men
Men do these things in his name.
Men beat you down.
Men pile on the guilt
Men make the rules – to control,
To justify their own actions,
To reinforce their own beliefs.

And so, I move on
To a place of acceptance.
Where there are no questions,
Of my sexual preference
Or whether I think women have a
Right to choose what is best for themselves,
Or whether I think that priests should have a right to marry

And so, I move on
To a place of love
Where I kneel at the altar of God
And profess my love for him,
Just as I know that he loves me.
Where I take Holy Communion.
And no one questions.

And so, I move on
And I speak to people of the congregation
About myself, about my beliefs,
About all those things that define
Who I am. All those things,
That make me human.

And they accept me for who I am
And what I am.
And they love me for who I am
And what I am.
And I in return love them and
For perhaps the first time in my life
I feel truly happy, truly blessed.


Bill - January 17, 2007

Black & White

I remember the first grade
Drawings of block letters
Around the room, above the blackboard
Small letters – a,b,c,d and
Big letters – E,F,G,H
Learned by rote from women
In black and white.

We’d draw them over and over again
With stubby pencils
Or erase them until there
Were holes in the paper
Until they were perfect
Images on ruled paper
In black and white

We learned how to go from place to place
Two by two, hand in hand, smallest to largest
No talking on the stairs
No pushing, no shoving.
Everything was good or bad, right or wrong
All the lessons learned ,
Were In black and white.

And now things are not so simple
The maybes and what ifs pull at the mind
The grays and hues cloud our thoughts
Where once we acted decisively
Now we grind to a halt, and think, and ponder,
And yearn for the days when everything was -
In Black and white.

Bill S. 1/2007