For Charles

I rinsed an apple for
A child who came into the market,  

Thank you,
Sir, they said,
then,

The Apple, turned
Over in their hands revealing a face, which
Winked at me.

The child wasn't wearing shoes.

I wondered where their parents had run off to, smirking.

You're very welcome.

There were three customers behind him,
Irritated, all
wearing
Shoes.

Your feet are really sad, the child warned seriously,

They're sad, ya know? Like

                        Monsters; Monsters
                                          who 
                                   only become
                        Monsters 
                        because they're forced to hide.


The next customer,
Drowsy, and
In a hurry,
coughed a nasty nasty cough,
                                  and

The Apple hid its face again
  in the child's hands.


-JV

The Eolian Harp*

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, out Cot o'ergrown
With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of silence.
                   And that simplest Lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caressed,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!
O! the one Life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere- 
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so filled;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

   And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
And tranquil muse upon tranquility;
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained,
And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!
   And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic Harps diversely framed,
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of all?
   But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind;
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honored Maid!

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
       1796




* from Aeolus, Greek god of the winds; this was
an instrument of strings stretched across a sound
box; attached to an open window, it produced a 
quasi-music when the wind swept over it...

From: Jail Poems

30

I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread,
But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

-Bob Kaufman

Locusts and Wild Honey

 

Fat priest sweating,

stock-still in his vestments, gold.

christening of small child, chubby, and parents

fat.

Bone-thin Jesus head-hung vinegar-soaked sickly

photo-bombing.

-JV

From: Song Of Myself

7 

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I 

 know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd

 babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal 

 and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and 

 female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be 

 slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the 

 mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be 

 shaken away.

-Walt Whitman 

Untitled Haiku

The little worm
 lowers itself from the roof
By a self shat thread

- Jack Kerouac 
        1959

Remember?

[Author's Note: This poem should smell of leather, cigarettes, and Puerto Rican style rice and beans.]

Don't you?

Those

icicles hanging precarious winter on the
17^th floor terrace, and you must remember
The Bronx.

Right?

how
you were so proud you were the only borough with
the The. 

You used to winter
whatever would fall
like toy car springs would
kill things
like

mosquito larva

wriggling tiny waves

in        stagnant        summer.

You threw things over constantly
like dinosaurs you gave names,
pogs,
you threw
those
bloody-nose tissues out of
the window, you
had to! Or
Mommy'd see
you
were
fighting. Or



Wait!
wait...

Yellow dimpled hard-rubber batting-cage balls... Right?

.

.

.

Yo,

Remember we buried that dead bird and cried?

Oh, and

They could never convince you to go on rides, remember?

They'd be trying for weeks before you went, waving
hands at chu and gettin' mad pumped, to pump
you up
            but,

nothing. 

.                  
.     
.
Not
even

the log flume.

.



Hey



Remember

Waiting            for             a                tan                            Nissan?

   And
Papi's
shirt

down
to
your knees
 
 
       how it smelt like boardwalk floorboards

Oh.

Hot-asphalt recess smell! 

.

Definitely,
you remember
your first set of house keys,
                                                              cell phone,
Oh,

and always!
you would always end up adding "-ahh" to 

the end of every phrase when you were
whining-ahhh.
                          Right? and 

                                            Oh Yeah and

                                                    and the hallway,
                                                                        
On the 5th floor, where your aunt lived, just
                                                           constantly

constantly

smelled
just like your aunt.

JV

For Marc and Joey M.