OCTOBER DAWN
Can anyone understand
one short October dawn
of counting the hours
before our cats are found
on cold pine branches
near the pine needled forest
within an auditory voice
of rumors,signs,suspicion
on every day's admittance
when belts of sun
beat on an earth-wise poet
in his half sleeve
of a James Dean sweat shirt
losing his specs
to locate Tiger and Lily
with a labor of sighs
through twin islands
along chimeras walls
of tall grass dunes
for a giant sorrow
from watchful eyes
not wanting to be bothered
by this crazy venture
when this poem
comes up as if spotted
out of the sea
and the cats
are nearly sighted
by togas of swallowtails
sunning themselves
on agate rock
by blushing fountains
being served milk
by Bay children
with yellow kites
preparing for a festival
to share the same sky.
LIFE'S BEAT POET
I carried in my back pack
scratched with poems
down half blind roads
pulsing against
Fall's branches
impoverished from the breeze
under a sunlit trek
trying to find answers
to a thousand riddles,
that a pack of playing cards
has fallen on the joker
that when a boy lifts his eyes
grandma is in serenity
father counting her pulse,
sister insists
on taking a sunbath,
I'm still breathing in
lost relations
mother expected the day
to turn inside out
expecting a random invasion
from my Beat poet friends
needing a meal
with jazz records of note
she puts on Louis Armstrong
with lightening speed
cooks Boston baked beans
now porch watches
gold butterflies
scaling above our windows
in our zig zag world
knowing at the last day
we will all be as the wind.
POET EXILE
Never feeling at home
but like an exile
made my voices low
in whispers
and longing gestures
with laughter's innocence
near a rock garden light
with my suitcases
always packed
all exile depends on you
filled with the tremor
of space and travel
you take another ride
on your leather hog,
a motorcycle madness
stifling all farewell answers
amid parental storms
clouds gather
your eyes now blood shot
nursing a nectar drink
of a former life
in padlocked expectations
which cannot hide you
in snapshots or tapes
even taken from yourself.
B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.
His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.
He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.
Can anyone understand
one short October dawn
of counting the hours
before our cats are found
on cold pine branches
near the pine needled forest
within an auditory voice
of rumors,signs,suspicion
on every day's admittance
when belts of sun
beat on an earth-wise poet
in his half sleeve
of a James Dean sweat shirt
losing his specs
to locate Tiger and Lily
with a labor of sighs
through twin islands
along chimeras walls
of tall grass dunes
for a giant sorrow
from watchful eyes
not wanting to be bothered
by this crazy venture
when this poem
comes up as if spotted
out of the sea
and the cats
are nearly sighted
by togas of swallowtails
sunning themselves
on agate rock
by blushing fountains
being served milk
by Bay children
with yellow kites
preparing for a festival
to share the same sky.
LIFE'S BEAT POET
I carried in my back pack
scratched with poems
down half blind roads
pulsing against
Fall's branches
impoverished from the breeze
under a sunlit trek
trying to find answers
to a thousand riddles,
that a pack of playing cards
has fallen on the joker
that when a boy lifts his eyes
grandma is in serenity
father counting her pulse,
sister insists
on taking a sunbath,
I'm still breathing in
lost relations
mother expected the day
to turn inside out
expecting a random invasion
from my Beat poet friends
needing a meal
with jazz records of note
she puts on Louis Armstrong
with lightening speed
cooks Boston baked beans
now porch watches
gold butterflies
scaling above our windows
in our zig zag world
knowing at the last day
we will all be as the wind.
POET EXILE
Never feeling at home
but like an exile
made my voices low
in whispers
and longing gestures
with laughter's innocence
near a rock garden light
with my suitcases
always packed
all exile depends on you
filled with the tremor
of space and travel
you take another ride
on your leather hog,
a motorcycle madness
stifling all farewell answers
amid parental storms
clouds gather
your eyes now blood shot
nursing a nectar drink
of a former life
in padlocked expectations
which cannot hide you
in snapshots or tapes
even taken from yourself.
B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.
His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.
He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.
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