The Man (Working Draft)

Did he smile when he heard the roar?
or when he felt the faintest breeze?
Did he mount the dunes on all fours?
or stumble just upon his knees?

Did he dance when he smelled the salt -
did it speed his quickened pace?
and how long did he stay sprawled,
on that sandy far white space?

Did he hide his eyes from sunlight -
or stare at the horizon set,
like the children from the village site,
at the stars the moon beget?

And how long did he choose to wait,
to build his boat by trees and cord?
And did he sail just by the coast, or straight -
into waters deep and warm?

I care not if you pray on knees,
whether you sit, or are proud –
speak English, or Cantonese,
or read this poem now.

For we are blood, and we are kin,
and inside of you and me,
will always be a part of him,
who first went out to sea.

————————————-

The origin of this poem was spawned when I was flying from Istanbul to Tel Aviv this past May. As the landscape of the Mediterranean was passing under me, I began to realize just how beautiful the sea is.

There came a point when Cyprus was in the left of my window, and Turkey was receding to the right, when I realized this small distance was still far – far enough so that Cyprus could not be seen from Anatolia.

I began to think in a dreamlike state of the first person to stand on that shore, and how he couldn’t have seen the beauty I was seeing now.

I rewound time even more and began to think of the first person to ever come to a shore.

Can you imagine seeing a sand dune for the first time? Or hearing the roar of an ocean wave?

Well, let me tell you, it was amazing.

And then I thought, the first thought I would have had was to build a boat to see what was on the other side of that horizon.

I’m sure this was what he thought too.

And then I thought the fear the man must have had. After all, he had no idea he would find land.

With this in mind, I looked at the sea once more. By this time Cyprus, too, had faded from my window and I was left to view the Lebanese and Israeli coastline.

And I realized the truth was, the man didn’t care. The beauty and freedom were worth the risk.

We haven’t changed much.

Of the Singer

I’ve asked the midday morn,
to describe her voice to me,
and asked the garden thorns,
to sprout words as a reprieve.

I’ve begged the moonlit glow,
to paint her sound upon the earth,
just as I, twenty years ago,
searched for beauty in short verse.

Now, I am old and much do know -
and many lines I have amassed,
But how could one describe a rose,
to a rose, if ever it should ask?

There are no words, just a soft deed -
to show the rose itself.

For even roses could not find the words,
to describe the words they felt.

Hope (Working Draft)

Today I walked again outside,

though the cold was hard to bear.

I walked to where the snow can rise,

and said a solemn prayer.

And whispered to a bird a song,

and taught it notes to sing.

I know he’ll pass this song along,

when the lilies rise with spring.

Ladybugs in Dreams (Working Draft)

When I stare at your red back,

and your little legs which move,

at your dots, so black, and black,

and your wings, whispering their tune,

I marvel at the master’s touch,

and reflect on my high school,

when I sat in class, just after lunch,

and heard science teachers rue,

that we cannot dream in color,

but I say, we can and do –

for there never was a color,

as beautiful as you.

Deletions

Dear friends,

I just wanted to let you know that I have decided to take a great deal of my poems off the site. Encouraged by some of my friends, I am planning on submitting some for publication in a number of literary journals.

I don’t know what to expect, but I do know most of the journals require the poems to have never been published.

And since journals consider blog posts as published, I have decided to take them down.

So I’m sorry if you like some of the poems I am removing. If you want to read them again, just send me an email.

hope all is well.

Matt