Marty At The Beach, Looking Up

Memories of 9/11

I was eating a fried egg sandwich in the great rotunda hall,

Where the entrance to the flow of men, that mighty human sprawl,

Took on a festive bent, with pinwheel spinning doors at speed,

And the drumming march of random steps intent on commerce deeds,

Rumbling, shifting, sliding souls on limbs of those so bold,

In lively pace to move toward fate, the tolling bell not tolled.

Barely, in the bite of bread to reach the softened golden egg,

The whispering of the banks of lifts, the double doors' extended maws

Open to receive the milling mass, hushed in daily apprehension, flushed in expectation, great and small,

A nervous hum in the crush of lines, the dreams of business intercourse,

Soldiers, trained in sum discourse, filing, marching through the hall,

Waiting turn, the wait to earn, in the halls of the heart of the moneyed world.

Halfway down, the hardened crust, a poor resist to grinding mouth, lunch disturbed,

I heard a yielding mournful grate, a noise above, now joined within, to add vibrating sound.

Rumbling, shuddering ground to warrant serious look-around,

With heads swung back and forth to search the thunder in the vaults above,

I thought I saw a dove, glimpsed from far below, wheel and dive and swoop out low,

As if to signal flight, extreme, and caution those who moved too slow.

The sound of grumbling trains, in non-existent tracks, increased the doppler pulses heightened whine,

Approached the suited, waiting backs, to cause poised ears bent, mid-step, in case,

And those still shifting, turned to face an unknown force, just set in place.

The windows, large, once streaming sun, now quivered in a violent shake,

A darkened lake of rippling waves, preparing for the ending quake,

The jaws no longer bit the yellowed mass, but gaped at odd shapes falling fast.

The milling mass, now cued, at last, but unaware of what had passed, resolved, in tasks,

That sound so vast, now brought so near, took flight, at last, from doors cracked in the blast.

The ash, the stones that fell so fast, my sandwich lost, forgotten half, lost for all, and all to lost,

The running, falling, graying throngs, escaping all that could belong, at perilous, bodied cost.

The times gone by, the sorrowed fray, the empty space still sits, today, memories forever,

A sentinel, yet to be built, deep passion left for those with guilt, no heart can sever.

I call those images back, to when my eyes reviewed the towers' waste,

And see the falling whitish rain, and in my mouth I taste the choking grain,

A flavor, fast, which I am failed to other tastes regain, and see false clouds deeply spread, again.

I see the covered forms in flight, through strangely whitish night, and hold this view, forever formed,

In darkness, too, with ghost filled brightened light.

On Spiders' Ways

Have you ever seen two spiders mating

On a silvery night?

Translucent lines of net creating

Dappled sparks of light,

The wind increasing lovers' motioned plight.

The edge, an anchor strand vibrating

Gentle steps, a message sent.

Cushioned, centered, quietly waiting,

Sensors on for prey, full bent,

She waits and calculates intent.

And here, the male from corner routing

Moving, stopping, tapping taps,

Presents soliloquies refuting

Impure aims, avoiding traps,

Calming female thrust synapse.

Ghostly shade, yet wind web-bowing,

Swinging wildly, legs held fast,

Target centered, gliding, slowing,

Listening for transmitted pass,

Ferocious need to finish task.

Close approach, the plan: diverting

Deadly fangs from hairspring tense,

Stroking long leg, softly flirting

Female form in stilled suspense,

It reaches under body dense.

Eyes unmoved, emotions heating,

Twice his size, but instinct seized,

Allows the puny male its seeding,

Still denying senses pleased,

And suddenly the freeze unfreezed.

Palps unloaded, male retreating,

Female wakened, eyes, ice cold,

Reflect her hunger, distant feeding

Long forgotten. Motions bold,

Her spinarettes now spun to hold.

Quickly twisting, male past pleading,

Berthed in cushion held so fast,

Thoughts not recalled, need receding,

Passions quickly passed to past,

It rests awaiting broken fast.

All in stillness, body shining,

Lighting stirred by moonlit scene,

Gently piercing silken binding,

Contacts form and thrusts begin

The final sacrifice within.

Juices transfer, gentle sapping

Recognized as merely flow,

Some fodder caught in timeless napping,

Slowly losing need to go,

A body's life in undertow.

Lives in pocket slowly forming,

Transferred to a silken ball,

The mix creating creatures storming,

Fleeing from the stranded hall

In haste to taste new harvests, all.

Stillness reaches center webbing,

Wind and seasons come and fall,

Age and creatures flow to ebbing,

Answering the ancient call

Of tangled web in net of life

That speaks in final words for all.

Ode To A Pigeon

I saw a pigeon dead today,

Crushed beyond belief,

Its feathers strangely sticking up,

Its body past all grief.

It must have blazed a trail too low,

This swooping soaring beast,

Its dive into the traffic lanes

Became some truck grill's feast.

Yet how, I wondered, could it be,

This full fledged power flier, he,

Unable to brake and climb out free

To blue skied heights and wing safely?

But road shows markings, clearly proved,

Spread feathers marked by tire's grooves.

To dust, the cars press, grind and trim,

The pigeon's shadow glows so dim.

I saw a pigeon dead today

And looked up at the lined up flock

So nonchalantly clutching wire,

Cooing softly, taking stock.

Not mourning doves, whose glory turns

To hidden shadows feared concerns,

But upward, skyward, wings all earned

In perilous air, so tightly learned.

And all took flight, a clapping heard,

A dip, an angled dive, absurd,

It lives again, that poor dust, dried,

In flashing colors, death belied.

I Know My Chickens Very Well

I know my chickens very well.

From a childhood past

I watched the swell of blood rise up,

Assuming passage to the dim, lit brain,

The bird, in flightless fright, still flapping,

Insane for yardage, to drain.

Yet, had head not been severed,

and maybe, watching the aimless

Scatter of others been able to convey 

a certain calmness to its and their

Soon coming plight,

A dignity toward the soon coming night

For all its kind,

I would have turned away and 

Marveled at a chicken's right

to sacrifice for me

What might become my dinner.

Take the hen.

A force so powerful to populate,

To reach a level that would negate

The hunger of a crowded state,

It suffers the pressure, forcing slow flow of

Hardened shell, to emerge from that 

Narrow necked well, to drop and roll

Onto a spring-loaded, moving cell.

Monumental!

And yet, nary a squawk.

It lives covered and uncovered,

Some mysterious sake commanding.

Then, there's the rooster.

Majestic plumes, an aura to the pack,

A coxcomb swagger from the missions

Done and yet to come,

A blind ambition, reason lacks,

To mount the multitudinous backs.

Insatiable!

The strut of power, passing hens,

That cluck a welcome as he bends

Forward to gauge the leap

To one more quarry for his ends.

I know my chickens very well.

Scattered, they move their circles in a 

Pecking swell, unaware of what befell

The worn out layers of a life,

On which we dwell,

Convened in a fryer's hell. 

 

The Fig

The wasp,

In total genes accord,

Seeks out, in flight, the magic hoard

Of bulbs on covered trees' reward.

Mysterious paths guide wings aboard

The virgin flower's open gap,

Inviting proof, a syrupy sap,

To press on deep 

To entrance steeped

In juices yearning to combine

With stamens, pistols, intertwined.

Moving forward, brushing deep, 

The insect's thrusting wakens sleep

Of the darkened, reddened keep

Of life.

In darkness, swaying stations, murmered wavings,

Maddened movements, insect cravings

Transfer savings, mixing for a future full.

And soon the color of the fruit, just blushed,

Begins a turning, flowers crushed,

Evolves to meat, a sweetness neat,

For autumn's turning, rare figged treat. 

Little Bird (The fastest cat in the world)

Little Bird (the fastest cat in the world) waits,

A definite sparkle in her eyes,

Most close to Ninjin, the carrot cat.

Although a cat catch away,

Still Little Bird is unlikely, I say,

To suffer the anguish of becoming caught prey.

Even with Little Bird's four legs off their pads,

Her twisted body, in a forward leaning way, 

As if to say, I can be had for just a reach

Of a swiping claw and brought to main fangs.

Ninjin, the carrot cat, though eyes dimmed down,

Muscles tense, measures ground

To leap and snatch

Tormentor in a final grasp, 

Slowly bares his claws to grip the carpet fast.

Little Bird, at last, his chance to add to past success,

Leans even more over to her side.

But unbeknown to her foe

A hind paw hidden low, unseen, but bent below

The twisted body fur, has turned to hook the cloth,

All muscles trained to focus power in one leg, 

To spring the turn and turn the tables, instead, 

On Ninjin, strained to spring, glory in its head.

Ninjin, the carrot cat, sinews strained

Waits for the error that will detain

In claw-locked grip his greatest claim

And then to regain his old domain

From Little Bird's audacious gains.

The tension grows, the search for signs,

Both locked in spring mode, eyes aligned,

Milliseconds played, Ninjin's claws splayed,

A grasping swipe, a sweeping wipe,

And Ninjin's body falls,

With Little Bird's loud meow, meow, meowing

Heard down the hall.