Joseph Farley, Us

 

 

Free Verse   Moving Forward, Not Looking Back   Mistakes were made. The proof is all about. Now everyone walks barefoot on eggshells careful of cutting a foot. The eloquent have grown quiescent. The silent rabble rouse. Those with money hide their gold. Those in power simply hide, or point the finger far and wide at anyone but them     To Be Is To Go   the light was green so you kept going driving through city streets farmer's fields, forests, over mountains from sea to gulf to ocean if someone were to holler “stop” would you?     Together   never a word she says not that I would listen. we have woven a cage of lies. now we live in it. none can escape the silence, nor the screams never ending in our heads.     Dispute Resolution   geese gather where the Pennypack bends, flotillas sail by ducks. mallards bob and quack, the geese honk back. there are no collisions in this feathered traffic, none stay angry long. green water ripples as webbed feet paddle. calm grows with distance. peace is a matter of travel from here to there. it is easier to flow with the current than argue in place.     Dome Poem   bald men rule the world behind the scenes behind desks behind glasses bald men call the shots at the ball game and on tv bald men shine with an inner light blinding at times bald men are sexy baby churchill's women need to feed and hug. bald men are the best. shave your head, be like the rest.     Hero   We joke about the cousin the only one to die in war in three generations, the man with the misfortune to be stationed on a blimp over the Gulf of Mexico. The wind lashes the balloon, the storm gnaws a man's dreams, robs him of his name, preserves only the laughter a bullet would not bring.     Atomic Site   the scorpions were still alive hidden under day©rocks they came out to sting air hunt the remaining deathless roaches never paused to wonder where the flowering cactus the stickly pear the voiceless birds had gone the desert is not the same its clay hardened to rock remembers water remembers the cloud that broke the sky     Balloons   We saw the balloons from our backyard, watched them race, distant spots between tree branches, saw them safely through spider webs and reaching hands of magic children who shouted spells to bring them down or urge them on, watched them disappear from the horizon into hidden lands.     Bridges   I'm always afraid on bridges that I'll fall over. The railing seems ancient, waiting to snap. The log in the river is my broken body on its way to sea. But I always stop on bridges to watch the water drown my shadow.     Barges   at night along the river with slow sad paddles in the water, somber eddies in their wake, the barges go with glint of gold, across the water from the darkness into the fog.     2nd Street Station   Echoes of the river cannot deter mice from searching among the ties. Gray, they scurry into drain pipes and under the eaves of the platform. Staring people miss their movements, in hope of lights from a distant train. But the mice know long before, and leap back from hidden wheels.     The Making   Heat the ingots in the fire, See them blaze red©white. Seize them with the tongs, on the anvil, Force the metal into shapes. Or split the wood with an axe, Carve the fragments into birds So lifelike they take flight. there is no autumn winter has moved north this year only spring spring rain swells the creek. green water flows over the dam, churns white haired foam.     After The Fire   Strands of purple across the blue of your hair, sky at twilight blessed with the stars of your eyes, phantom in my bed, who are you? A body I have sometimes known, a voice I have heard raised in anger as well as softer tones. Who are you, hiding beneath tangerine sheets? Who are you? What are your desires, needs? What makes your mind work? What is it that you see?     Once   the questions were unimportant. the heat of passion was enough to melt us into one being. Now those fires have cooled, and we are left with each other, rings on our fingers, questions in our minds. Who are you in my bed?     long grass   no need to mow watch it wave in the wind pollen makes eyes itch no matter the wind is talking with the grass and I want to listen at the keyboard the piano keys talk to me even when your voice is silent I can hear you while you play and see your heart and mind with well worn ears     Kiso Gorge   the river runs under small bridges fit only for foot traffic. from the hills a waterfall sends its cascade. trees green in spring turn white in winter. a traveler stamps his feet to fight off the cold.     skyscraper   a man harvests what he sows, if the lord be willing and the soil kind we sow bricks and up sprout buildings everywhere cramping the sky     A Farewell To April   She shudders with pain or longing, a toothache or the need to press against a warm body. A blue jay singing in the lilac tree, soils a car, freshly washed and waxed. The faded scent of berries mixed with guano disappears in the last rain, a farewell from April. Her face in the window of a cliché pulls away as rapid as memory, forgotten as the sun evaporates the last puddle, But later returns, fresh and unknown, resurrected by a passing storm.     Summer Night, Summer City   Dogs bark in the middle of the night. Sirens call for backup with blue flashing lights. The streets glow from a million illuminated moons Suspended from poles every sixty feet or so. Old sneakers dangle on shoestrings from the wires, Maybe marking the location of a crack house, Or just a remnant of an old tradition Passed on from father to son Like alcoholism or syphilis. It's hard to sleep in the humid summer. An open window lets in the air and the car exhaust. A man stands in his sweat soaked undershirt, Leaning elbows on the windowsill, looking out At the night and all its splendor. He listens to the music of cats in the alley, Metal trash can lids rattling against asphalt, The sirens and the dogs and the distant motors Humming like a river on the highway. A television is still yakking in the apartment above. The man suspects the tenants fell asleep long ago. The program sounds like an infomercial. No reason to watch, even if you're bored. It would take more than insomnia and loneliness To get him to view. He'd rather see A rugby match on ESPN beamed from far off Sydney , Or an old black and white movie with cracked footage And squeaky sound, the kind that used to play late or never. Dawn will eventually break across the tenements, Turning gray brick and shadows into red brick and shadows. The hookers and would be tricks will head for home, Stumbling over addicts and the homeless nodding in dreamland. The street sweepers might come by if its and election year, And the ghosts of horse drawn wagons and vendors Shouting out the names of their wares, voices lost In the swirl of newspapers and candy wrappers Dancing in the vortex created by passing cars. Yesterday is gone. Bleary eyed tomorrow has arrived. The sun will melt a dozen dropped snow cones On the sidewalk before it sets again. The stores Will open and close. The subway will rumble Under ground. Radios will blast from cars and homes. Workers will walk or run or ride to offices and factories To do that work thing for eight tired hours or more, Constantly looking at the clock and longing for freedom, Or a cigarette break outside in the smoking sun. Tonight, on the way home, you will pick up an oscillating fan, Maybe a window air conditioner if you can find one on sale. Tonight you wouldn't mind a thunderstorm to cool things down For life, for love, for money but mostly for sleep. You can't rest if your sheets are a puddle and so are you. You can't watch the street or the television every night. You can't, you won't, or so you say now while the humid air Rolls off of the river and gets pressed down by the smog, A warm blanket for another evening of watching summer pass by.     The Illusion Of Motion   The spot on the ceiling that seems to crawl may be a spider, or it may be the mind that wanders, a particle drifting through space while galaxies of memory churn and mix sight and sound, past and present. The spot moves, or it stays in one place while the ceiling moves, shifting against the motion of the moon as do the stars at night, leaving the fixed star in heaven for its season to focus attention until another spot (the fleck of a bird passing by the window, the shadow of a car on the wall, the crack in the door that lets the light in) beckons and the mind follows where it leads down roads of mystery and revelation, over distance and time, until all things blend as one streak of motion, a single line of thought that becomes a point when viewed head on, a spot on the ceiling, a point to begin again.