I walk through Carl Schurz Park
along the East River
on a warm winter day
that has the birds conflicted.
Some sparrows claim: ‘Spring is here’.
Others insist: ‘It’s still winter.’
I stop at the yak tree
and listen to the debate
that reminds me of Congress
though not as clamorous,
but stubbornly divided
and I can only wish
the bird brains would agree
and solve the problems
of birds and our nation.
The guy in the cell next door
keeps telling me that Allah
if I let him in my heart
will help me find peace.
He’s no cheap preacher
like I had growing up
and a decent, well-meaning guy,
weird to meet in prison,
but he just don’t understand
I’ve been bad too long
to become someone else.
I made a choice long ago
to live a life doing crime.
I’m doing time in prison
cause someone messed me up.
My girl will still be waiting,
my boys will still do business,
I’ll live the good live again.
If I go away a while
it’s not too much to pay
to get what some guys dream of.
When things go from bad to worse
what comes after worse?
It is burden enough
for the most hated nation
since the Roman Empire
to survive enemy countries,
but when we’re our own worst foes
it’s difficult to determine
how to preserve the future
of our innocent children
completely dependent
on unreliable adults.
I sit by my bedside
and look out the window
all day and part of the night.
It’s all I can do.
My few possessions on the bureau,
photos of a previous life
when I commanded armies
and men and women obeyed,
risked or gave their lives
in response to my orders.
I used to swagger
the corridors of power.
Presidents and Senators
listened to my advice.
But that was long ago.
Now I can’t even command
the aide who cleans my room.
I am forgotten.
I sit on the hard chair
as I painfully await
an obscure, ignored demise
that I would resolve today,
but I no longer have
my service weapon,
the only way an old soldier
can leave his last duty station
with a little dignity.
There be monsters
in our confused land
who abduct children,
sexually abuse,
torture, murder them,
our most precious resource,
citizens of tomorrow
who would build our future.
We are so deluded
we treat the criminals
who violate our children
as if they were humans
with the same rights
as decent citizens
with fair trials,
legal sentences.
And we are so blind
we fool ourselves
into wrong thinking
that life in prison
is just punishment
for horrific crimes
beyond the imagining
of moral people.
And our system is content
delivering judgment
to vicious brutes
who will have libraries,
medical services,
other amenities
for the rest of their lives
at public expense.
So after we discover
the inconceivable anguish
inflicted on our children
we reward the beasts with comforts
that a sane society
would never tolerate
that should eliminate
enemies of humanity.
Many of us believe
we live in crazy times,
with some justification.
But in the fifth century
some citizens of Rome,
fearfully aware
the barbarian hordes
were coming closer,
knew the times were crazy.
In the ninth century
Viking hordes
descended on England
ravaging the country,
pillaging, looting, raping,
spreading destruction
on the simple way of life
in crazy times.
There were many eras
of terrible chaos,
but instant communication
in hi-tech society
makes everything seem worse
and the good things that happen
aren’t enough to console us
for living in crazy times.
I have seen the works of man
the most important
the utile
which meant survival,
progress,
more security,
comforts.
Our great cities
with wondrous buildings
may not outlast
pyramids,
but marvels of construction
along with ships, planes,
are endless innovation.
The pinnacle of creation
the arts
a recent addition
on the march of civilization
as diverse as humanity,
music, dance
common to all societies.
I have seen the best
of ingenious artists,
ballet, opera, painting,
Swan Lake, Cezanne,
The Ring Cycle,
the most beautiful,
Beethoven.
Yet all our achievements
do not compare
to sunrise,
a snow covered mountain,
fish swimming in a clear stream,
deer feeding in a meadow,
a bird yak tree at sunset.
As I near
the end of my days
confined in a city
I still go to the park,
see a Downy Woodpecker,
a brief pleasure
in the land of concrete.
When democracy committed crimes
it had been at the instigation,
under the guidance
and for the profit
of the upper classes.
Thucydides – 411B.C.
Strange to think
so long ago
someone knew
who always benefited
from the policy
of democracy,
the lords of profit
devouring the wealth
of the people,
always vulnerable
to the machinations
of the scheming few.
I can no longer endure
looking in the mirror
at this old sack of flesh.
I close my eyes
and I’m transported
into happy memories,
striding full of youth,
a great face and body,
into restaurants, nightclubs,
all the men’s eyes,
most of the women’s
clicked on me
with a flash of desire
because I was hot…
But that was then.
Now a saggy frame
no more a picture
attracts no one
and I wallow in pity
for what I used to be.
I didn’t hear the door burst open.
I was deep in my favorite hymn
‘Nearer My God to Thee’
and I woke up to the horror
when the gunfire started.
My friends and neighbors
were screaming, crying, praying
as the bullets hit them,
bodies flying, blood splashing,
everyone not shot was running,
desperately trying to escape
the mindless slaughter.
I lay down on the floor
under the pew
prayed he wouldn’t find me.
More shots rang out
and a man yelled:
“I got him. He’s down.
I’ll make sure he’s dead.”
A minute later the man said:
”You can come out now,
he won’t hurt anyone else.”
It took a few minutes
to gather my courage
and get up.
That nice Mr. Thomas
was standing there,
pistol in hand,
reassuring us
the threat was over.
My senses were coming back
and I heard him coming closer.
“Mr. Thomas,” I said.
“Thank you for saving us.
Now put the pistol down.
We don’t want the police
to shoot you.”
It took a while
until the police accepted
that Mr. Thomas was a hero.
They were so psyched
they wanted to shoot somebody.
But a few of us said:
“Mr. Thomas saved us.
He’s a hero.”
Finally the preacher came back.
He said he was helping folk outside.
Maybe he was.
Anyway. He told the police:
“Mr. Thomas is a good man
and he saved most of us
from a maniac.”
I went and sat with Mr. Thomas
who was shaking from what he did,
put my arms around him
and thanked him again.
They asked me a lot of questions,
but all I said was:
‘Mr. Thomas saved us.”
They finally let me go,
I went outside
and the media were there
asking questions,
demanding I tell what happened.
I just shook my head,
kept walking,
until they left me alone,
thinking terrible thoughts.
Should I go to church anymore?
The Eloquence of Distance is an unpublished poetry collection that looks at some of the anomalies in this strange life.