Two Chairs and other poems

 

Copyright 2006

 

by

 

David H. Roche

 

A small book of poems written to celebrate the love of a man and a woman.

 

Dedicated to Lisa and the future.

 

Oregon

 

 

On the way to Oregon again;

below there are patchwork quadrants and squiggles.

Up here the horizon is forever.

 

I'm wondering when I will come here

for the last time to stay by the Pacific

in the shadow of the mountains.

 

I am at home with you in Oregon

where your heart has welcomed me

and your flesh has warmed me.

 

Tonight we will enjoy the repast of our love

and we will sleep; waking hungry

in the morning.

 

 

Redemption

 

 

Before I knew you

I was dying.

 

But then you came and

took me into yourself,

 

opening to me

the physical love

 

that twenty years of marriage

had destroyed;

 

in your arms I

was nurtured,

 

and between your thighs

I was redeemed.

 

 

The Trout Stream

 

 

My heart is bubbling today,

like an allegorical trout stream;

 

and you are swimming in it,

like an allegorical trout.

 

I'm casting allegorical

flies on the water

 

and hoping you are

allegorically hungry.

 

 

 There's A Woman

 

There's a woman on the banks

of the John Day River who

 

has chosen me for reasons

I do not understand. 

 

But I'm willing to pack up and leave,

to live and die in Oregon

 

by the river

where the otters play

 

and the salmon make their way

to where she waits for me ...

 

by the rivers side

next to the mountains.

 

 

The Opened Door

 

 

The door that she shut

and sealed when she left,

leaving me inside like a spirit

trapped in the nether gloom

where there are shapes but no form,

sounds but no voices,

life but no joy...

 

that door you opened.

 

 

You Have Shown Me

 

 

 

You

have shown me

what a woman is;

 

desire

I did not know

existed.

 

Tenderness expressed

while distant

and near,

 

having opened the door,

and bidding me

to enter.

 

 

The Orange Tree Has Died

 

 

The orange tree has died.

The one she planted from seed

 

twenty years ago and which has

sat on the windowsill since then.

 

I have cared for it all this time since

she left making sure I kept it alive.

 

I stopped watering it last September

when I met you,

 

and now it is nothing but spines

and dried leaves.

 

They are both gone now

and I'm so glad because you are in my life.

 

 

A Woman in Manzanita

 

 

The second morning at Manzanita

the ocean is dark, slate green, ever

rolling into shore.  The sound is soft

and continuous.

 

I'm thinking about death and beginning

life again.  I'm thinking about the woman

asleep inside who has made me fall in love

in my old age.

 

Random patterns

brought about by the disparate confluences

of time and events

have brought the moment to fruition this

particular morning in Manzanita.

 

I would take her to have and to hold

until matter and consciousness are one,

until our atoms mingle together in the dust

and reassemble.  We have the time,

we have today.  We are part

of the process.

Embedded in days, hours and years

we have found a shelter in each other.

The days may be cold but the shelter remains

and we are keeping the fire burning.

 

Her smile makes me alive.

She threads her fingers through my hair

and holds my face against her breasts:

"I don't want you to leave." she murmurs.

I feel her breathing and sense her desire.

A tear seeps from my eye.  My cheek is wet.

I have never felt so good. Never.

 

 

Memories

 

 

Memories are the woodpile

we stack in the mind

against the coming winter.

 

Much of ours have burned;

but we have begun

to stack them once again;

 

working with care

as the winter approaches

to be certain it will last.

 

Two Chairs and other poems

 

Copyright 2006

 

by

 

David H. Roche

 

Part Two

 

The Midnight Hours

 

 

I lie awake listening

to your breath

and turn to watch

your body

rise and fall.

 

Pensive thoughts

of years wasted and

love denied.  Icy

memories now

banished.

 

Slipping my arm

across your hips

I feel the heat

of your flesh

against mine.

 

In the muted light

I see the desire

in your eyes

as you awake

and draw me

 

 

Ashes

 

 

I can sense your heat.

It seems to always smolder

just under the surface.

 

I want to fan it out of control

tonight. I want to burn the

bed right down to the ground.

 

Come on honey,

let's start a conflagration

and turn ourselves to ashes

 

that will keep the coals

that remain.

Lead me.  I'll gladly follow.

 

 

Pacific Mysteries

 

 

The Pacific has its hooks in me;

and Oregon possesses my mind

the way my lover does

with her fingers wrapped around my cock.

 

You are there, and I can't think of anything else

but your sea green eyes and the mysterious depths

to which you have lead me.

 

 

Pastoral for Lovers

 

 

We're easy together:

friends who have become lovers,

lovers without fear.

 

We're summer afternoons,

the long shadows of September,

a meandering brook in the woods.

 

We're quiet times when

face to face the warmth of our breath

and tactile sensations of flesh

against flesh define us.

 

We're so easy together.

 

 

Eyes

 

 

My eyes draw you in,

filling me;

 

your eyes capture me

and we are safe.

 

Two reflections merge;

we dissolve.

 

 

Saying Goodbye

 

 

It is still bright here -

soon I'll be flying east, into the darkness.

 

You should be nearing home by now:

by Astoria, by the river, by the sea.

 

I am leaving, but not for home.

Home is where you have taken my heart;

 

it is somewhere on the highway snaking through the hills

and warmed by the tears burning in your eyes.

 

 

East Coast Blues

 

 

Four a.m.

I have a sense of disembodiment.

 

My brain remains active, lively

with the sparking electricity of neurons

and synapses; but my body is reduced to trembling.

 

It's been a hard night

but the load is up; the last truck

has rolled in; now we're out front waiting.

 

In the parking lot a teenager stumbles

and continues shambling toward the store:

hands jammed into his pockets, head bent.

 

I'm headed home.

I wonder where he's off to,

or coming from, this time in the morning.

 

Stepping from the car

my body vibrates from exhaustion

and fatigue projects me into the stars.

 

In the chill of the morning air

I wish I was coming home to you in Oregon

where you would rock me in your arms

and take me to sleep.

 

 

 

Home at Last

 

 

The passing of the late August rain

calls me out into the silence

of the cool night air.

 

In the darkness I am thinking

that I have been here on this hill

for more than thirty years

 

and that next year I will be gone

to be with you where I am loved...

home at last.

 

 

 

Two Chairs

 

 

Two chairs on the lawn, side by side

under a canopy of drooping

willow boughs.

 

The setting sun is in their eyes;

but the two that sit have made a choice

and they are satisfied.

 

The Selected Poems of David H. Roche

 

copyright 2006 by David H. Roche

 

chapter one

 

 

Distant Kisses

 

It is nine o'clock and you are there sleeping.

Three hours ago it was nine o'clock here

and I was stepping into the shower

thinking of your there at 6 o'clock

full of dreams.

 

Did you feel me there by your bed?

Were you dreaming of me as I sat

and touched your shoulder;

moving your hair to kiss your neck?

 

You were not dreaming.

 

 

 

Buddhist Winter

When I was forty

I dreaded winter:

the wind and cold

and the metaphor.

 

Now when the cold

winds blow at sixty

I see winter differently.

 

I see past

into the spring.

 

 

 

Fire

 

Our stolen fire

kindled from embers

long covered with ashes

now blazes.

 

Together

we warm ourselves

around our primeval flame.

 

 

 

Lovers In The Stars

 

Death is a temporary interruption,

love continues on.

We are traveling through the stars.

 

I may have to go ahead but I will wait for you,

and further on we will meet

as we have done before;

then I will take your hand again.

 

 

 

Saying Goodbye

 

 

It is still bright here -

soon I'll be flying east, into the darkness.

 

You should be nearing home by now:

by Astoria, by the river, by the sea.

 

I am leaving, but not for home.

Home is where you have taken my heart;

 

it is somewhere on the highway snaking through the hills

and warmed by the tears burning in your eyes.

 

 

 

The Late Night Lowdown

 

The late night lowdown:

"I wonder who will sell the last bullet?"

 

They don't ask things like that

on the daytime radio.

 

People aren't prepared to deal

with that kind of input during daylight

 

when the swarm is focused

on rippling papers and commerce;

 

shuffling from desk to desk,

thinking of things that have nothing to do

 

with where they are, who they are,

why they are.

 

Dreading that late night lowdown

when the last voice in the house has ceased

 

and they are forced to concede once again

that they're caught in a trap.

 

 

Night Walk Meditation:  Zen Star Talk

 

I have disappeared into the company

of the stars.

 

'You are out here with us';

Your sense of isolation is an illusion.

 

Now you are but a shadow cast by moonlight;

not yet knowing who you are.'

 

That is what I heard them say

in the silence.

 

 

December

 

The cats curl like caterpillars

in front of the stove.

 

Spring

is a long ways off.

 

 

 

Reflecting on Hepatitis C

 

I said today:

 

"I want 20 more years

before I say good night."

 

Upon reflection:

fuck that 20 years shit.

I want forever with you

 

 

The Little Box

 

I was raised in a little box

in which there was a God

who spent his time reading my thoughts

and threatening me with death

if he and I did not agree.

 

I was taught

to fear this God

and hate my life

to which I readily complied;

because heaven was real,

I had been told,

and all else is just a lie.

 

I was told time and time again:

'Pray to God, when times are tough',

and pray and pray I did;

but all I heard was just my voice

and life itself was rough.

 

Finally I had enough and cried:

'there is no God inside the box',

so I kicked the jams,

and picked the locks.

 

Stepping out, to my surprise,

it wasn't bad at all.

There were horizons far,

and pleasures too,

and once outside I burned that box

and turned my thoughts

to you.

 

 

 

Together Into The Night

 

For Lisa, the best friend and best lover a man could ever want.

 

The first days of winter have arrived;

you have swept the snow from the steps

and invited me in to be warmed by your hearth.

 

We have set the table where we will eat and drink;

and afterwards we'll discover 

where the night will take us.

 

Listening To LA Woman:  Thinking Of You

 

The Shaman draws me back

to the moonlight and fire I knew

when I was young and hot.

 

Years later I am

feeling young and hot again...

you have uncovered the coals.

 

11/25/05 © David H. Roche   (First happy birthday poem ever.  59 years old today.)

 

 

On the Beach At Lincoln City 11/09/05

 

The heaving and rolling

continues ceaselessly.  The Pacific,

a Zen masters Koan.

 

Constantly breaking around my feet,

the ever-present rhythms of the guru

chanting the secret names of God.

 

A smile in the gray dawn at the recognition

that the universe both sings

and dances.

 

 

Spellbound

 

The sorcery,

that makes you a woman

holds me captive.

 

You are all I see,

all I know.

I am spellbound.

 

 

Now

 

Times becomes evident

in the stones on the beach;

jagged edges made smoother,

rounded, smaller; becoming atoms again.

 

Time has stopped now

in Oregon while I am here with you.

 

 

The Tide

 

On the beach:

there is the sequential

lapping of the waves.

 

They never stop;

they are evidence of the universe

stretching itself and sighing.

 

Motion.

The cause and effect,

in and out;

 

an eternal dialogue

between the sky and earth;

a never ending dance

in the moonlight. 

 

 

Tides and Wet Feet

 

The tide squeezes the ocean onto shore

and sucks it back.

It is the constantly

modulating rhythm

of the universe swishing

it's hand in a bucket of water

mixed with moonlight. 

 

Occasionally

it splashes over the sides.

 

 

 

 

OM

 

She said when it is really rough

the big waves will be further out.

Today they are small; eight feet.

 

It's the tide, she said;

an explanation needed

for an observer land locked all his life.

 

The tide is the evidence

that we are part

of the cosmos. 

 

Proof that we are all part

of the same stuff

throughout.

 

 

 

Lisa

 

She evokes

the greatest tenderness

in me.

 

She has a gentle power

by which she draws me close

and holds me.

 

 

 

Pacific Monologue

 

The sound of the Pacific is constant;

white noise modulated by its personal rhythms.

It never ends.

 

A ship,

a mark on the seam of the horizon

is so completely alone.

 

Sea birds skim the waves

while the constant voice of the Pacific

fills everything,

 

it does not falter;

it continues,

wave after wave.

...........

 

All at once

the yard is full of gulls

and shrill screeching.

 

Like the ocean there is constant motion.

The ever present dialogue

of the universe.

 

The mystic looks for the mover

behind the movement

and listens for the speaker.

 

Another ship appears at the seam;

the gulls leave in a flurry as suddenly as they arrived.

There is only the voice of the ocean that remains.

 

 

 

 

The Airport Lounge

 

A dark skinned woman next to me

nurses her child.  A breast,

a tiny mouth sucking,

the presence of undiluted contentment

in the hubbub of the airport lounge.

 

Nearby the father coddles another child

and bends to whisper to the woman.

She touches her lips to the small forehead

and covers herself.

 

 

Clouds

 

Snow capped peaks protrude

through the clouds

and sharp knife like ridges

divide the air.

 

Jagged ravines form conduits,

drawing them through.

At a glance it is impossible to tell

which is which - form or substance.

 

 

 

Oregon

 

On the way to Oregon again;

below there are patchwork quadrants and squiggles.

Up here the horizon is forever.

 

I'm wondering when I will come here

for the last time to stay by the Pacific

in the shadow of the mountains.

 

I am at home with you in Oregon;

your heart has welcomed me

and your flesh has warmed me.

 

Tonight we will enjoy the repast of our love

and we will sleep; waking hungry

in the morning.

 

 

 

Memories

 

Memories are the woodpile

we stack in the mind

against the coming winter.

 

Much of mine has burned;

but I have begun

to stack it once again;

 

working with care

as the winter approaches

to be certain it will last.

 

 

Machines

 

She's plain,

and tired beyond her years;

separated infinitely from the school girls

who arrive for physical therapy with makeup,

youth, and futures.

 

You can see in her face

the weariness from long shifts

and the pain from endless

repetitions of bending, reaching,

twisting and maintaining

the pace of the machines.

 

Now she resorts to another machine

that tirelessly moves her arm just so;

and then sits alone with ice on her shoulder

contemplating her circumstances.

 

 

 

She Has Shown Me

 

 

She

has shown me

what a woman is;

 

desire

I did not know

existed. 

 

Tenderness expressed,

while distant

and near, having

 

opened the door,

and bid me

to enter.

 

 

Night Shift

 

 

The conversation next to me

mingles with the sound of traffic

in an unintelligible buzz.

 

The only distinct vibration being

the steady splatter of rain

on the metal awning overhead;

 

light from the street lamps

stretches in long bright swatches

across the blacktop;

 

and consciousness seems to exist

without a body at 4.am;

transparent, bone weary, dog tired.

 

An hour to go.

 

 

October Rain

 

The October rain has come.

Drizzling all day

to no purpose

but gloom.

 

The cat balks at the door

after 'meowing'

and turns back

continuing to 'meow'

before settling down to sleep.

 

The muted light is collected

in the softly glowing kaleidoscope

of sumac and maple turned

in the hands of the wind.

 

 

The Selected Poems of David H. Roche

 

copyright 2006 by David H. Roche

 

chapter  two

 

 

 

 

October Mist:  Heron in Owasco Lake

 

 

Quietness.

The lapping

of ripples,

wind in the poplars.

 

Gray in gray,

dawn and mist

form a seclusion

enclosing me,

holding me.

 

A silhouette.

 

Gray in gray;

elegant neck cocked,

slender, turning,

disappearing

at ninety degrees

through his rotation

and reappearing:

gray enclosed in gray.

 

I think of his patience.

But patience is not in his world.

That is my world.

He is.

Simply is.

 

The neck darts,

straightens

and compresses,

folding down onto his body -

success -

 

and then stretches erect;

the familiar silhouette

gray in gray

at dawn.

 

 

 

Cleaning Out The Attic

Picking through a scattering
of old books and toys
in the murky clutter of
empty nuts and nests
of fiberglass -
a living room appears,

illuminated in the flickering light

of my synapses.

(A winter evening,
a mother reading aloud,
children listening,
a father feeding the fire
against the cold),

they disappear into a box
and down the stairs,
past the memories
into the dumpster.
Gone.

Eyes

 

My eyes draw you in,

filling me;

 

your eyes capture me

and we are safe.

 

Two reflections merge;

we dissolve.

 

 

 

Just this Moment:  Sunrise October 4, 2005

 

At sunrise

the colors of dawn

mixed with the stubble

in the fields become internalized

into a dreamy mellow mood.

 

The air is warm, the sky clear

with pastel marbling at the eastern edge. 

The dog at my side runs ahead

to sniff at the evidence of something

that has passed in the night, squatting

over it as if to say: 'I'm here too.' 

 

Nothing much going on.

Just presence in the moment,

complete and at home in my own skin

on the hill, at sunrise, with the dog.

 

 

Partitions at the Age of Seven

 

Last night

the house shook

with angry voices.

 

In the morning; silence.

 

Tonight in bed

I hear the whispering;

"What about the boy?"

 

My heart pounds.

 

I'm the boy!

They didn't realize then

that I had closed the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Changes of September

 

September passes

with gusting wind,

scattering leaves

across the highway.

 

Melancholy:

a dreary October

of another kind arrives

taking up residence inside

like crows in their roost.

 

 

 

Ashes to Ashes

 

The contents of one life

removed from the attic

to the burn pit ... still flickering

turning to ashes.

 

The past

that was at one time

the present;

 

toys belonging to children

having become men

who have traveled on from this place

to their own places

with children and lives

of their own.

 

The ashes are all that remain;

but I have kept the memories to recall

on this melancholy September day

dappled with shadows

and the chill of winter at the door.

 

I have a few years left 

and more memories to make

before the next pyre is set alight.

 

 

 

Quite a Pair

 

She is sunshine

I am sky,

she is moon,

I am stars,

she is ocean,

I am fish,

she is breeze,

I am air.

 

Quite a pair

aren't we?

 

The Opened Door

 

The door that she shut

and sealed when she left,

leaving me inside like a spirit

trapped in the nether gloom

where there are shapes but no form,

sounds but no voices,

life but no joy...

 

that door you opened.

 

 

Pastoral for Lovers

 

We're easy together:

friends who have become lovers,

lovers without fear.

 

We're summer afternoons,

the long shadows of September,

a meandering brook in the woods.

 

We're quiet times when

face to face the warmth of our breath

and tactile sensations of flesh

against flesh define us.

 

We're so easy together.

 

 

For Helen:  The Poet

 

She goes into the abattoir

and picks from the floor

the choice pieces;

organs and torn flesh

still warm, some still palpitating

and rushes back outside gagging, blood stained, sticky,

sickened with the stench and horror

to try and reassemble them in the way they were

before the slaughtering began.

 

 

note you can read Helen here.      http://www.criticalpoet.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=7204 

 

And Then The Spring

 

She is like a sparrow

in the biting rain of March.

Bare branches offer little shelter.

Still she sings.

 

 

 

 

Dreams On Orchard Street

 

Sitting on the steps against the wall

in the early autumn sun;

legs stretched and bent

at careless angles

on the sidewalk.

 

Her chocolate skin,

a contrast to the painted white brick behind her

where in years past an Italian shop keeper

had sold garlic, basil, bubble gum and strings of sausage

in a neighborhood long since

bereft of neighbors and now populated

 

by displaced wives

and the children of felons

in the prison two blocks over;

having come from New York City

to live in destitute apartments down state

and sell crack to make ends meet

as they wait for visiting day. 

 

Beyond it all she sits with dreams;

leafing through the papers

that will get her into school

and away from Orchard street

to a life she can call her own.

 

 

 

The Waitress

 

Her hair tied back,

the color of ripened wheat at dusk,

falls below her shoulders.

 

Girlish hips not yet sweetened

sway with an unintentional sexuality

as she bends into the freezer

 

to scoop ice cream; and turning

with her offering, to blush upon

finding eyes fixed on her.

 

 

Two Chairs

 

 

Two chairs on the lawn side by side

under a canopy of drooping

willow boughs.

 

The setting sun is in their eyes;

but the two that sit have made a choice

and they are satisfied.

 

 

 

Orchard Street

Orchard Street in the summer -
the police are there
several times a day.

Tonight, a crowd gathers
in the light of the strobe atop cars,
faces garish
in the spectral laser-edged illumination
that leaps
into the darkness.

The tension is high.  

Having heard it all before,
the cops standing in the middle
of the shouting and pointing give
the same warning again.
 
Two scrawny dogs,
ribs outlined, begin to fight
in the midst of it all.  
Someone gives a vicious kick and shouts,
sending one yelping down the street,
its tail between its legs.

The cops know it is all due to crack
the summer heat,
and that there is nothing they can do.  
So they pick out one they know from the crowd,
and tell him to keep it cool
and get back into their cars,
strobes still slashing at the darkness
as they drive away.

They'll be back.

 

 

Home at Last

 

The passing of the late August rain

calls me out into the silence

of the cool night air.

 

In the darkness I am thinking

that I have been here on the hill

for more than thirty years

 

and that next year I will be gone

to be with you where I am loved...

 

home at last.

 

 

 

Pacific Mysteries

 

The Pacific has its hooks in me;

and Oregon possesses my mind

the way my lover does

with her fingers around my cock.

 

You are there, and I can't think of anything else

but the light in your eyes and the mysterious depths

to which you have lead me.

 

 

Photo Album: 4/21/05 - 4/25/ 05

 

Now having been there

on the farthest coast

I don't know how I have ever lived

without the ocean.

 

I can see how it has filled your life

with the presence of its endless rhythms,

scent and constant ebb and flow.

 

I don't know how I have lived

without you either. You too have

filled my life with constancy

and presence.

 

 

Solitude

 

The first drenching rain

since early June came

in the middle of August

 

causing the earth to release

its fragrance into

the night air.

 

A delightful, aromatic

freshness passes

through the screened door

 

along with the staccato beat

of rain drops on the deck

revealing the rhythm of the moment.

 

 

Resurrection

 

Coming into the first day of August

yellow leaves have appeared

on the locust trees

and bright orange berries

on the Mountain Ash.

It's part of the ongoing process,

but happens all at once, or so it seems,

to my eye.

 

I'm reminded of time.

Immutable, inscrutable, eternal.

Our day under the sun is soon over

but there will always be time.

 

We are here now,

passing away soon to decay,

to become dust and return to atoms

that will continue to glimmer and dance to the rhythm

of that endless spirit that animated them at first,

to be collected, reformed, and according to the myth,

to rise again.

 

 

There's a Woman

 

There's a woman on the banks

of the John Day River who

 

has chosen me for reasons

I do not understand. 

 

But I'm willing to pack up and leave,

to live and die in Oregon

 

by the river

where the otters play

 

and the salmon make their way

to where she waits for me...

 

by the rivers side

next to the mountains.

 

You Make Me Know That I'm A Man

 

I feel so easy with you babe.

You're like a summer afternoon

from long ago that I remember

with a smile.

 

You are the breeze on my skin,

the shade under the tree.

You're like a summer afternoon

to me.

 

But the best is when the night time comes

and the heat closes in around;

when you take me by the hand

and lead me in and lay me down.

 

 

Saturdays in Summer

 

Summer days,

lazy contentment;

breezes in the shade.

 

Clothes on the line

imitations of activity

in the doldrums under the sun.

 

Another Saturday to do nothing.

I'm doing it well.

The Selected Poems of David H. Roche

 

copyright 2006 by David H. Roche

 

chapter three

 

  

 

 

An Itinerant Faith

 

Common sense tells us we die and its over.

I don't believe this.

 

I believe we change, travel on

and that what there is now is an illusion;

 

real enough to enjoy and savor,

genuine enough to be significant;

 

but illusory in that it obscures the knowledge

that the journey never ends.

 

 

Peaches

 

The colors of sunrise cloaked in mist

find their residence in a bowl on

the kitchen table.

 

A fragrance, subtle but enticing,

catches my attention as I pass;

causing me to stop and take

 

one in my hand.  Mmmmm, soft

and fleshy. The juice runs in rivulets

through my beard onto the floor.

 

The sweetness satisfies

and makes me smile.

 

 

 

 

Prayer for Night

 

The night is mind expanding, psychedelic;

unbounded like dreams.

 

The day, a cloistered familiarity hedged

by horizons and limited by descriptions.

 

Let me travel a highway through the night

with no destination in mind.

 

 

 

 

Moonshine

 

 

At the end of July

the buckwheat glows white

under the moonlight.

 

I love this solitude;

the dog and I at three a.m.

each with our thoughts,

 

hers tending toward discerning

the nature of skin and bones

on the roadside,

 

mine a rushing stream

seeking to find a quiet pool

where the moonshine can glimmer.

 

 

 

Two a.m.

 

 

At two a.m. the fields are bright

with the light of the moon.

Large soft shadows lie on the road.

The moon itself looks like an illuminated pearl.

 

The air is cool and clear. 

There is the incandescent glimmer

of wispy clouds against the

spackled sky.

 

 

The Dead of Summer

 

Blue skies doldrums, monotony and heat:

In the morning newspaper a downtown merchant

fries an egg on the sidewalk.  No customers.

 

Some things keep moving:

the grass continues inching up.

A feathered vortex of turkey vultures

spirals higher and higher becoming

distant specks.

 

Time:

all we have is here now.

I have siphoned off this minute

over coffee and the morning paper

and collected it in these words.

 

 

 

 

Afterwards

 

I never feel so good as afterwards;

Her head against my shoulder

face to face.

 

I love to look at her as she lies next to me

with eyes closed, softly breathing;

the calm after the storm.

 

I wonder if she senses what I feel.

Does she know I have the deepest respect for her

and regard her as a sanctuary; a refuge?

 

I am always overwhelmed

at the places to which she takes me

and the ways by which we go.

 

 

 

Auditory Interlude

 

A lazy late July afternoon on the back porch;

the air is pulsating with the modulated ringing

of insects in the grass. 

 

Far off the shsssh of tires on the highway;

closer the groan of a tractor laboring in low gear

up the hill.

 

The Mennonite boy from down the road

is hauling a load of hay that will be milk tomorrow

and fertilizer the day after.  Still a mile to go

 

and lots of daylight left.  Watching him pass

I see him singing to himself.  A song he can hear

which I am not privy to.

 

 

Interlude at Seward Park on William Street

 

 

In the waning hours of the night

a pair of teenagers, probably fifteen,

cling to each other along William street.

 

He clutches a skateboard under one arm. 

Her legs are bare, delicate, child like;

a free arm encircles her waist.

 

Stopping to kiss,

his hand glides over her hips

drawing her tightly against him.

 

Entering the park, the darkness;

disturbed only by the surreal illumination

of the streetlamps, conceals them.

 

Lying down; the dampness of the grass on their skin

and cool air of the approaching dawn

are a prelude to the release of their heat.

 

 

 

Psychedelic Illusion on a Summer Afternoon with a Cat.

 

A cat enters my
field of vision
at an angle,
taking a few steps

one way before
choosing
another direction
where in the magic of light refracted
through the visible, tangible,
summer mist that hangs in the air like a scrim
transforming scattered particles or waves
of spectrums into shadow forms
among the dappled patches
of sunlight on the lawn;

he diffuses around my ankles
feeling like warm air
moving over
bare skin;
purring.

 

 

 

Until The Night Is Over

 

 

The thunder is muffled

in the distance and there are sporadic

bursts of incandescence hinting at faint outlines

implying shape and substance in the sky.

 

I count the seconds between flashes;

losing count.  There are many,

like the fourth of July finale at the lake.

 

Under the canopy of trees,

fire flies blink green luminescence

through soft bodies;

thousands of them, maybe more.

 

On balmy nights in June they congregate;

The males above, every few seconds,

turning on and turning off their light.

That which fulfils the meaning of their existence

lies in the grass blinking in return.

 

This is an ancient ritualized dance;

one generation making sure

that there will be another:

 

We have been brought together as well,

in this, our personal night.  Somewhat more complex,

but that same ancient flicker in your eyes answers 'yes'. 

And we will dance until the night is over

 

 

 

Interlude: A Summer Rain at Evening

 

All day it had hung in the air

and then came all at once

in a drenching downpour.

 

A middle aged blonde

in a short skirt and high heels

holds a paper over her head and hurries to her car.

 

A group of teenagers pass by laughing, bare-chested,

shirts slung over their shoulders, unconcerned;

obviously savoring the tactile coolness on their skin.

 

The lone girl in the group joins in their levity,

nipples delightfully outlined

through her tee shirt. 

 

The blonde backs out into traffic;

the kids, still laughing and carrying on,

disappear up the street in the rain.

 

 

 

The Guardian

 

It's one of those quiet moments.

My son and I having coffee

and conversation on the front steps.

 

Across the street a woman is on her knees digging

in the earth; unaware, in the cloister of her solitude,

that she is being watched. She pauses

and with a dirty hand brushes

a strand of hair from her eyes

and returns to her task.

 

Her german shepherd lies in the grass

in front of her,

his body heaving uncomfortably

in the morning heat.

 

He tenses and becomes alert

as a couple strolls by.  His head turns

and follows the intruders into his space

with intense interest.  Once certain the

threat is past he turns his head back

and continues to pant.

 

 

 

Ashes

 

I can sense your heat.

It seems to always smolder

just under the surface.

 

I want to fan it out of control

tonight. I want to burn the

bed right down to the ground.

 

Come on honey,

let's start a conflagration

and turn ourselves to ashes

 

which we will leave as a blanket

to preserve the coals that remain.

Lead me.  I'll gladly follow.

 

 

 

East Coast Blues

 

Four a.m.

I have a sense of disembodiment.

 

My brain remains active, lively

with the sparking electricity of neurons

and synapses; but my body is reduced to trembling.

 

It's been a hard night

but the load is up; the last truck

has rolled in; now we're out front waiting.

 

In the parking lot a teenager stumbles

and continues shambling toward the store.

Hands jammed into his pockets, head bent.

 

I'm headed home.

I wonder where he's off to,

or coming from, this time in the morning.

 

Stepping from the car

my body vibrates from exhaustion

and fatigue projects me into the stars.

 

In the chill of the morning air

I wish I was coming home to you in Oregon

where you would rock me in your arms

and take me to sleep. 

 

 

 

We Will Plant Forget-me Nots

 

We will plant forget-me nots

in the yard when

you arrive.

 

Blue ones, pink ones

white ones;

 

a testimony

to our commitment

 

and the emerging of

our love.

 

We are keeping the seeds

in our hearts;

 

moist and fertile

until the day

of planting

 

 

Sanctuary

 

Lying awake

in the wee hours;

listening intently

to your breath

 

I turn and look to

contemplate your

body rise and fall.

 

Filled with pensive

thoughts of wasted

years and love denied;

 

icy rivers now thawing

to become a spring

freshet as I feel the

reviving heat of your

body on mine

 

and see the flicker

of desire in your eyes

drawing me inside

 

to be dissolved

in the hallucinatory

mingling of our flesh.

 

 

Faces

 

 

I saw their faces

bleeding and dismayed

full of shock and awe.

 

I saw the other faces too;

lying, smirking mouthing

saccharine platitudes.

 

And still the body count

continues, and still they say:

'They're better off,

better off than

yesterday.'

 

5/09/05 © David H. Roche

 

link to video that inspired poem.

 

http://www.bushflash.com/y2.html

 

 

Transmutation

 

From the apex of the sky

he dropped straight down

like a stone into the field,

becoming transformed

into a flurry of violence

and slashing talons.

 

In the end is

the futile anguish

of rodent fading away

and emerging

into hawk.

 

The Selected Poems of David H. Roche

 

copyright 2006 by David H. Roche

 

chapter four

 

 

 

 

Manzanita:  Part One

 

I find myself waking up with coffee

and fresh bud from British Columbia

A perfect day to sit

and watch the ocean roll.

 

Morning sky, transparent blue,

whiffs of white cloud, infinitesimal

aggregates of water on its

random journey - perhaps to LA

or further down.  Somewhere

along the way a droplet will condense

and spread out on the earth.  It will be

repeated billions of times over and streams

and lakes will continue to flow -

the continual visible processes

of the Universe, of God, or 'Intelligence',

will fall on the good and bad alike:

they will drink and be revived.

 

Closer, and not so subtly, a sparrow

in the rhododendron vocalizes

a chromatic passage disturbing

my thoughts of the woman sleeping

inside. Smiling, I wonder at the grace

that life has provided.

 

The process is the gospel, the

revelation:  all things continue

and move on but NOW they

are HERE.  Take note:  it is an

immanent divinity that discloses

herself so subtly.  Intimate,

touching us all. 

 

 

 

A Woman in Manzanita:  Part Two

 

The second morning at Manzanita

the ocean is dark slate green, ever

rolling into shore.  The sound is soft

and continuous. 

 

I'm thinking about death and beginning

life again.  I'm thinking about the woman

asleep inside who has made me fall in love

in my old age. 

 

Random patterns

brought about by the confluences of

disparate time and events have

brought this moment to fruition this

particular morning in Manzanita.

 

I would take her to have and to hold

until matter and consciousness are one,

until our atoms mingle together in the dust

and reassemble.  We have the time,

we have today.  We are part

of the process.  

 

Embedded in days, hours and years

we have found a shelter in each other.

The days may be cold but the shelter

remains and we are warm because

we are keeping the fire burning.

 

Her smile makes me alive.

She threads her fingers through my hair

and holds my face against her breasts:

"I don't want you to leave." she murmurs.

I feel her breathing and sense her desire.

A tear seeps from my eye.  My cheek is wet.

I have never felt so good.

Never.

 

 

 

 

Broken Pieces

 

Broken pieces on

the shore.

 

The two of us,

flotsam

 

of disparate wrecks,

together side

 

by side at sunrise

on the sand.

 

Lovers now, indebted

to the tide.

 

 

Sacrament

 

In her eyes there is

a light,

 

and in her heart a

sanctuary

 

beckons me to leave

my cares.

 

I become the supplicant

to her divinity;

 

hungering to receive

the offering

 

of her sacramental

flesh;

 

a baptism, a renewal,

a resurrection.

 

In repose, the softness

in her eyes

 

reveals the breadth of her

undying love.

 

I feel secure,

redeemed.

 

 

 

 

 

She Doesn't Believe In God

 

"I don't believe in God."

That's what she told me.

 

"I don't need a bible. I

have a voice I listen to."

 

She volunteers for 'loaves

and fishes;' people who have

 

no money eat because of her

and children know there is a

 

place to dry their tears

in the folds of her skirt.

 

"I didn't do anything bad

enough to be put to death,

 

and only scoundrels are

happy when the guilty get off

 

and the innocent are punished."

As we undressed she said:  "You

 

can believe if you want to.  I know

it's important to you.  Just don't

 

try and convert me." As we

laid down together she took

 

my face in her hands and said: 

"I love you." She doesn't

 

believe in God, but she's

a good woman. She knows

 

what is right and there is a

voice she hears and the

 

world is better because

she listens.

 

 

 

 

The Rules She Lives By

 

These are the

rules she lives by:

 

If it runs,

she chases it.

 

If it burrows,

she digs it up.

 

If it is rotten,

if it has decayed,

if it stinks to the point

of making me sick, she rolls

in it until its essence has been

transferred completely like some

fine French fragrance on the skin

of a delicate woman and then lies down

behind my chair to sleep; completely at peace.

 

 

 

 

The Bitter and the Sweet: a poem of love

 

Up again in

the wee hours;

 

with Willie's broken

tenor singing 'Precious Memories'

 

to keep me company.

There's a photo album in my mind;

 

the pages turning by some

unseen hand; and I am unable to

 

turn my gaze away.

There's the faint glimmer of dawn

 

on the hills beyond

the lake; meaning that I've been

 

up for hours with

these images that have appeared

 

and won't go away. 

Voices shrill, faces familiar,

 

young and tender.

Tell me, where did you go?

 

How is it I can still

hear your footsteps leaving?

 

Why did you return tonight

while the barrelhouse piano is playing

 

these old gospel blues?

Having lost that simple faith and the

 

security of discarded stories

I no longer believe; I taste my tears

 

at dawn.  But I have

also found the courage to put

 

on my shoes and let

them be; taking her hand in mine

 

to face our approaching

sunset: certain only that I love her

 

and that this world is cold;

but she is warm and will lie down with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Purpose in Walking

I have taken up walking.
I do it often now

that I have discerned
its purpose.

I walk until my perceptions have
been displaced

and in their former location
there is nothing but

the scuffing of gravel
under my feet.

I walk until the sound of my
foot steps is gone.

 

Walking until I have finally

disappeared;

until there is nothing
but the hawk,

wings stretched out, tips
dipping, then

pirouetting dizzily on
the thermals

in the air; nothing but
the hawk

in the sky. I walk on until
there is a robin

on the lawn. Breast
bulging;

nothing but the robin
hopping across

the lawn and the hawk
in the sky.

I walk until there is nothing
but the stream

by the road; rippling, glistening
in the sun,

nothing but the
stream by the road

and the gurgling it makes: nothing
but the hawk in the sky,

and the robin on the lawn

and the gurgling.

Further on a farmer has spread the

load of his honey wagon

and the air has assumed the awkward
sweetness of manure;

I am suffused in the strange pleasure
of this ambiance.

Now when I have become empty
and full again, when

I can hear and perceive; my
walk is complete.

The purpose in walking then
is to empty and fill,

empty and fill,
empty and

fill.

 

 

 

Quaker Service

 

Someone placed a vase

of fresh daffodils

on the table in front

of the congregation.

 

There was no sermon.

I sat and listened;

and having heard the speaker

I went home refreshed.

 

 

 

The Climbing Tree

 

There it was.  A makeshift

ladder propped up to the

first crotch in the tree.

 

It was a climbing tree to be

sure.  It was never going

to bear a nut or fruit or

 

be used for lumber; but its 

haphazard placement of

branches made it just right

 

for a boy to while away his hours

on a summer afternoon with a

daydream and idle foolishness.

 

I knew a little boy who had such

a tree.  He used a rusty old

pail to reach the lower branches. 

 

Once there he would sit quietly

doing nothing in the dappled

sunlight until prompted into

 

action by being twelve years

old and all the opportunities

offered by a summer day.

 

I still have that tree in my mind;

and sometimes I will climb up

and talk with that little boy again.

 

 

 

A Moment of Moonshine and Stars

 

Sleepless at 2:30:

listening to the Grateful

Dead, thinking of the summer

tour when I can shake my bones.

 

The dog for some reason

has 'out' on her mind.  I step

out with her.  There's a chill in

the air but the moon is oh so nice

 

and the stars draw me close.

The refrain coming through the

screen door remains in my ears: "Sing

me away... sing me back home before I die."

 

It's quiet at 2:30 in

the morning. There is

just the song and the pensive

swish of the breeze across my skin

 

while the moon shines

and calls melancholy from the

night sky: and the stars ...  the softness of

existence in this moment all speak so clearly.

 

 

Mennonites:  They're Good People

 

Good people alright,

hard working and honest

but they aren't much fun.

 

Ever go to a Mennonite

party?  Hope you brought

your hammer.

 

Passed one on the road today

driving a blue car.  Real dark

blue but it wasn't black.

 

A liberal Mennonite I guess.

Even so, they're for peace

when the Baptists are for war.

 

So who cares if they buy a

farm with cash and fill the

swimming pool with dirt

 

or that their daughters in long

cotton dresses drive the tractors

and bring in the hay.

 

They're damn good people; they

pay their taxes and take care of

their own.  Something un-American

 

in all that I think.  Some kind of

organic socialism that the rest

of us are told can't work.

 

So we just struggle by ourselves

and if we can't make ends meet

we fall on our face and if we can't          

get up nobody cares.  The Mennonites;

they're good people.  But if they invite

you to a party bring a hammer.