Of all hundreds of poems he wrote, these are the ones he wanted shared as part of his memorial.
THE DANCING MASTER
If watching Suzanne dance
gave my feet wings,
The way it did my fluttering heart,
Why, I'd show all those hoofers
A fine thing or two.
My pirouettes would make Pavlova blush;
Baryshny-cough...and Fred A-stare.
They'd hang their slippers up in shame;
Make way for a new dancing master----
Me.
But, I said if.
And it's-a funny little word.
As things are now...without the if...
My feet are mostly thumbs;
And my gyrations on the floor,
Make dance a comedy, or farce.
Provide a belly-laugh for those
Who see,
A most non-rhythmic, uncoordinated
Me.
April 22, 1991
RASPBERRY MAIDEN
Rare and wonderful as a
Secret raspberry patch.
Alluring with a barely hidden ripeness.
Inviting touch and scented taste,
You signal me across the now
Too-vacant miles,
With word and subtle hint.
A special promise in every coded
gesture.
Delicious suggestion of contact
yet unfelt.
My tart-sweet Lady of the Thorns,
You lead me on and draw me out.
Call me to stand beyond myself,
And become better than I've been,
When anger-locked and ego-bound.
The summons clear you are to me;
A firm demand from Self you stand.
Conscience incarnate.
Yet all-tempting, too.
You represent the lure of known and
Unexplored.
Of the familiar and the ever-strange.
The pull of old and also new.
All these you are,
And myriads more besides.
My sweet-tart berry lady.
Symbolic fruit, with special
Succulence.
Not for crude palates were you ever
Meant;
But for those who savor Life's
Full mysteries.
Are drawn by charm and bonded to
Your depth,
As I have been,
Am now,
And will be,
While I still have courage
To respond.
September, 1986
RESTRAINT REBUFFED
If I were now to exercise restraint,
Hold back the flood within my heart,
Of love and yearning's surging tide,
My entire frame would buckle
Like a wind-blown paper sack.
Implode upon its undulating self;
And swept in currents of dead air,
Fall back to earth,
A limp and empty thing.
1984
MODERN METHODS
This time,
they did
not bother
with nails.
They used a chain of beads
and finished Him off with a
heavy brass crucifix and
buried Him
in a secret
grave, out
behind the
church, where
He could hear
the Sunday
sermon.
February, 1959
SWEET DESTROYER
Into my neat,
Dull, but well-ordered,
Well, but dull-ordered world,
She walked.
Or rather--stormed.
And chaos ruled supreme,
While old plans fell about my ears,
And resolutions curled in flames
At her soft touch or lingering gaze.
Desire to distance fell away,
Along with well-devised defense.
And feeling, bursting reason's bonds, Escaped, and stormed the citadel,
Until at last, it stood supreme.
Poor prudence prostrate at its feet.
No more shall gnawing fears impinge; Nor doubting thoughts
Hold back my will,
From sweet commitment's glad embrace.
My hands reach out,
Symbolic act,
And draw her close,
That sweet destroyer, R.
December, 1970
