Dybbuk out of Dreams 2.0
January 2018- This will still keep walking long past you’re done talking-
January Letters 2012
So soon the light struggles to return
to fill the new year wolf ticket sky
in a lingering tentative twilight
towards some vague promise of Spring
merely a rumor of rejuvenation
left in a hand written note
taped to a bus shelter on the corner
of 33rd St. and Lexington
asking you in rhyme by name
What did all the years mean….. …… ?
I recall writing those January letters
imploring you to reconsider
that annual ritual of tossing
the poet out of your life.
Now as you have finally succeeded
you still read this in stubborn justification
safe in the distance from these words afar
telling you exactly
what you never had the heart
to tell me
to my face.
Mute the voice
Blind the eye
drain the last pool
of affection dry.
What is written here now
has a place beyond words
where language is the
shallowest of vehicles
for sequestered emotions
scattered to the four corners
of isolation, exile
estrangement and banishment.
after you have left another
in so very deep
that the hope of a journey back
to all the lost moments are everything
that you can no longer keep.
Better Get Abstract 2015
The Dybbuk Dreams
It was in the first few nights of the New Year
when all promise and disaster were as unopened mail
that the past had a walk in his sleep.
The Dybbuk’s hands opened old draws
shuffled through forgotten pages
Pausing to repeat a line of a letter
here and there.
Ashes were stirred and long dormant old flames set free
to flicker. Then the night faces could dance once more.
Night faces coming back to visit shining
eyes to glow back into.
Another year rolling itself out like an immense black wing .
Your sleeping form swept along in this night flight,
those waking hours, now the specter, this was the soul
strolling hand in hand with the eternal freedom of
She walked once more upon the mores, in a chilly thick fog.
Here where she had always known that he waited for her
In between anger and consequences,
in this dreamscape of quicksand recall where mushroomed
marsh islands of what might have been.
They both returned to this shadow realm of still photographs
hung and propped in the endless stark arms of winter.
Here where the past stood naked and true.
Both came with small hands grasping deep into the heart’s
pocket. Each visited at different points
along the dream curve, with separate dependencies and
versions of the same story.
They left messages here for each other.
The last word over and over. The promises of reconciliation
and forgiveness. The sensation they shared of never being
able to meet face to face again, outside of this place
of half light sand deep grey pools. Always to return to
the same beaten path, in the corner of the dream.
This place where the images of each other’s faces
in those frozen photos snared arrested looks
and eyes of love and delight that once were shared.
They both returned to this place, every so often
to get a face full and
look down at the other’s footprints
left in the path
from the night before.
Another Rubber Eden 1997