B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

IN THE PARISIAN SUN

In the Parisian sun

with a hopeful sun

through my French

jealousy window

reading a Modiano novel

"Missing Person"

about the Occupation

nervously alone

by the shadowy memorials

awakened by these lives

like my courageous cousin

Mendes- France

who fought in the Resistance

in thanking you

by furtive corners

transfixed by your images

from my tearful eyes

melted by own loneliness

about the poisonous informers 

and generous heroes

as echoes of the struggle,

now from your geography grave

where humanity spills

its locution

from a grieving time of fascism

you bring memory to life.

JACK KEROUAC'S TIME

Your Beat language 

follows me spinning poems

when all time pieces come alive

up the watching stairs of a gig

you share your verses

in hollow coffee houses

where poisonous gossip

of rivals do not have your back

as you try to survive lust

on the dusty road

drinking cups of ale

in the 1950's cafes

like here at the Red Drum

where your grief fills

huge beer mugs joined

in the sublime smooth jazz

with your riff of notes

by sailing on landscapes

on pockets of wavering verse

in a kayak near the open seas

of our likely correspondence

offering us uneasy poems

when your shirt

is taken off on the road

and you fall near a mountain

on your motorcycle

between life and departure

yet remaining the same body

from the century's dust

as visionary flavors

at your wake

crowd forty candles

of a murdered birthday cake.

BY THE HOTEL ELEVATOR

By the hotel elevator in Paris

on an impalpable holiday

is the loneliest scene in May

as sleep walkers

hearing the AM. Muzak

as a voice speaks of raging war

ethnic cleansing

final solutions

as tranquilized survivors

by half -open faced sagas

of oblivious tourists

sandwiched between

bar and lobby

provide and divide space

to these seasoned travelers

reaching for teapots

or glasses of white wine

doled out with napkins

under doubled chins

from slow kitchen helpers

because it is always cold

on a long trip

even from another's hands

like my lost girlfriend Kate

looking up to the balcony

at the latest fashion show

losing herself in mirrors

of soft lights moving 

now stumbling up the steps

while I'm in my inner sanctum

singing the words of psalms

to celebrate joyful sounds

of those who love the Lord

even lost appearances

sauntering in lost thoughts

by inhabitable towels

undressed by the sink

my Messianic mind intact

or awakened by the rush

heavenly birds

of blinded window last light

from Kate's secret location

in a clock's late panic attack

from a glance's view

of new gossip information

as yet unknown saga

about Kate's romances

yet may be true,

my vetted apology

to atone only to you, Lord

from any regretted vocation

or out of heaven's pardon

here among the sea rocks

thinking of childhood days

in my English garden.