erfurt

the gifts

she brought gifts
wrapped in her beautiful hands

she opened them
and there was nothing there

she held my face in them
and kissed me
softly
sweetly
lovingly

she placed them on my chest
and leaned on me
and spoke to me
and breathed close to me

she put her arms around me
and pressed me close
with her beautiful hands
and I was happy

once again
she held her hands out to me

now I could see
what was there

the beautiful gifts
wrapped in her beautiful hands:

magic

and love

What is My Poetry About?
"What is my poetry about," I ask myself.
"The me," the answer comes.
It is about the me I want to touch,
to reach inside when none else can. or will.
I touch me
and the loneliness abates somewhat.

"The I," the answer also says.
It is about the I that wants to be.
Cogito ergo ars poetica!!
(to coin a latinistically ungrammatical phrase).
My shouting drowns the sorrow,
the rancid whisperings of doubt
that the I fears,
that say the I is not enough,
is not good enough,
is not making enough money,
is not giving enough of what
others want from me.

My poetry means that I
am enough for me to be,
and I can go on.

Rhyme Us
"Rhyme us," said my random thoughts,
"Or at least forge order from our chaos."
But I could not tie the rhyming knots,
And the moment of promise was lost.

Why do I seek this elusive rhyme?
What drives me to such poetic pain?
What power compels me time after time
To complete just one more sweet quatrain?

Why do the words erupt in my head
And compel me with a need so keen
To capture their essence on paper, instead
Of letting them die unheard and unseen?

The question is mute. My joy is sublime
When the poem's creation gives my thoughts their rhyme.

root beer float
ah, sweet root beer float,
how well you soothe my thirsty throat,
and the icysmooth ice cream
is just like eating a heavenly dream.

oh, how much you resemble life
except for pain and woe and strife,
and grief, unhappiness, and gloom
i guess are all different, too.

and poverty and illness, yes,
and bad times, too, i guess.
and death can be a bummer, too,
so those things aren't quite like you.

and AIDS is a real problem today,
and ugly women make me pay.
and there's always a war somewhere
yes, sometimes life is just not fair.

and car insurance costs are high,
and city shootings when cars go by,
and racism still ain't dead yet,
and nuclear weapons make me fret.

and students who wear bad shirts
and how i miss those miniskirts!
and now they tell me John Wayne's dead.
and there ain't no re-runs of Mr. Ed!

and so, dear root beer float,
there are some things that get my goat.
and you are not like them at all,
'cause eating you is such a ball.

even though, when at its best,
life can pass the "root beer test."
except that love does have you beat,
that is, making it is pretty neat.

and driving fast is better, too,
but that says nothing bad of you.
and when our wrestlers are kicking a**,
you are just a bit outclassed.

but root beer float, my chilly friend,
i need to make this poem end.
so let me praise you just once more,
as down my throat i let you pour.

you are a taste delight, it's true,
though life may not be at all like you.
so let's just let the simile die
and have a piece of apple pie.

oh, apple pie, i love you so,
you are just like life, you know...............

thoughts during a county-wide in-service or, a teacher's lament
the crawling clock moves on
while daylight streams away
my mind is stale and numb
within this darkling day

my thoughts drift aimlessly
in formless dreamy swells
they seek a place to rest
far from these cold schoolbells

alas, they're born in gloom
and doomed
to die an early death

bring forth your miracles, my lord
and prance them by this weary place
where faceless forms entrance
my own sad forlorn face

and what is this?
the question asks itself
but answers hide with the evergrowing darkness,
ashamed to show their pointlessness
within the light of truth

stray not from worlds of light
upon this darkening hill
i struggle with myself
my unbidden thoughts of mischief
the preaching and teaching of my nominal superiors
whose greater accumulation of academic hours
creates an "alternate plan B"
within the department of redundancy department
i know not why this drudgery should bless me
whose darkness touches me
and drives the poetry from my mind
to places where it shall never again
gain the blank pages of real time

i will not let my soul
expire in mires of theory
when young minds are begging to be challenged
release me from this prison
of A's and B's and attendance policies
did Plato ask Socrates,
"Will this be on the test?"

let us flee the rigors of academe
and free young people's minds to roam
the universe of inquiry
and earn their place within the adult world
seeking truth and accepting not
the dribbling honeyed platitudes
from small minds reinforced with higher degrees
and saddled with unreasoning urges of power

and free my soul as well
to touch those eager to ask why
rather than ask what one must do
to earn the almighty A

among the skysea isles
(a poem for erfurt's friends)
the sun is high and hot
rich clouds bedeck the sky
their huge and misty forms
parade like giants by

and each an airy island
and we, within the deep,
wonder what sort of creatures
bestride that cloudy sweep

we walk our earthy depths
spellbound by the skies
a universe of blue and white
and worlds beyond our eyes

no wonder men see angels
upon those snow-like heights
their bright and shining forms
enchant our earth-bound sights

what joy these isles impart
to those who dwell above
while mortals of the earth
find joy in thoughts of love

thus thy angelic soul
lifts mine on high with thee
till clouds support my feet
above the airy sea

the bright blue orb of earth
gleams distantly below
my soul communes with thine
in heavens of our own

so now angelic joys
are also mine to share
for you have brought my soul
to islands in the air

to close, dear lady friend,
as thanks i write these lines
to touch your heart, i hope,
as you have so touched mine

you are an island
you are an island in this sea of chaos
a towering pine in a desert of small minds

hold me close so i don't lose myself
keep my soul from dissolving in this great emptiness

the world clutches at me, tearing me
it seeks to ground my spirit in its tawdry soil

you free me to soar with the stars
your touch expands my mind in joy

i feel whole when i'm with you
life's blessings return in your presence

let us forever keep a quiet place for us
a world only we share in peace and contentment

there i may go when darkness threatens
to find an anchor of healing and light

and i, too, will be there for you
in our cyberhaven of pristine beauty

and this place-which-is-not-a-place
is inviolable within in our hearts and minds

my eternal gratitude is yours without question
confirm me with your smile and sparkling eyes

and when the tears blind my world-weary sight
i'll close my eyes and see the island that is you

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or
erfurt,hedden@odebolt-arthur.k12.ia.us

Page Copyright © 1996 tara
Poems Copyright © 1996 & 1997 erfurt