Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 15
                                   
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GUESSING GAME POEM #3

It’s talkative as a broken tape-recorder. Essential as a fresh breath of air inside a vacuum. It’s incapable of being condensed or abridged or red-penciled to oblivion. Something thrown together in a knitting circle. Roped together by a happy-go-lucky cowboy. Richocheted off the walls of a handball court. It’s the sum of all things. The reverberation inside a piano. It’s touchy feely. Green as Courbert’s ocean or Whistler’s Thames. Take it up your nose and sniff it. Inhale its aroma deep in your mind like hope or faith or charity. Cling to it in winter. In the dark uncertainty of its fall from grace. It’s pas de deux with love beauty death and decay. Hold it tightly. Never let it stroll farther than an infant’s first steps. Draw it into the folds of your existence like water wind and the wobbly path we walk down to Judgment Day among boulders bees barking dogs and the twinkling of faraway stars.

  bruce weber __
_________________________

           WHERE ARE THE ANTS RUNNING TO?

where are the ants running to? under the beams of the house? within the electrical wiring? into the internal secrets of the plumbing? are they in quest of the house's secret hiding place? where mice, insects and bees gather for communal dinners under the nose of the burghers who think their lives are in perfectly respectable order? poets debate such things. splitting hairs across the marvelous terrain of the universe. gears sputtering. the sun spreading its warmth like butter on freshly baked bread. philosophizing about the secrets laying under the surface of everything. the disgust gathering for years under the thick shag carpet/the dust of the withered rose shattering like so many pieces of crushed glass under the ballerina's slippers/the booming of shotguns in the distance snagging a gaggle of geese. sit. be patient. watch the ants collecting crumbs. measuring up the moral dilemna of us all. carrying off the small infinitesimal things we shake off our shoulders like water splattering everywhere.

  bruce weber __

YOU

You are the joy at the end of the rainbow.
The sniff of something callifragilistic
At the crossroads of love and hate.
The pure reason
That feeds the dark heart of the engine
On impossible missions
To recover beauty for beauty’s sake.
You are the tumult
In the washing machine’s engine
Spewing madness
Among the blossoming cherry blossoms.
The remembrance of a golden walk
In springtime along the banks of the River Zu.
You are the passion
Spilling out like a ripe coconut.
The congealing that lingers
Between star-crossed lovers
In that film down at the mall.
The promise that flies in the face of the sun.
The serpent that leaps into the unknown.
The parabola that breaks down enroute to Brooklyn.
The hair raising antics of a juggler
Hell bent on throwing a dozen
Switchblades in the air.
The optimum temperature of survival.
The broken dish mended by a wish and a prayer.
You are all that and so much more.
I can’t deal with it.
Much less define it.
Explicate it.
Reason with it.
Break it down into phonemes.
You rock.
You fern.
You tree.
You lip.
You frog.
You toy.
You tot.
You imp.
You submarine.
You aircraft carrier.
You intimate whisper.
You long lasting kiss.
You implication that left the room.
You left turn at the light.
You rumination that spins
Around in endless swirls
Before ascending
To your great heights.
Your towering stories.
Your great plains.
Your warm bed
At the end of a very long day.


  bruce weber__
KEEPING BUSY

1

i dance in the road when i’m listless.
i jump rope when i’m bored.
i drive off in the red car with the brown dog.
i demand penance from dolls and plastic toys.
i talk back to creepy crawling things.
i gyrate like a top across newly turned fields.
i pursue the irrational and blue skies.
i keep to myself in floods and high seas.
i pursue quiet storms and the healing of strong hands.
i shove everything into a crowded drawer
and surprise you with a loud meow.

2

when afternoon nods its contentment
i shove everything into a crowded drawer
and surprise you with a loud meow.
i drive off in the red car with the brown dog.
i demand penance from dolls and plastic toys.
i talk back to creepy crawling things.
i gyrate like a top across newly turned fields.
these are the things i chase in quest of an answer
to the pearl before swine of so many lugubrious hands
and the makeshift desires of an unmade bed.
i pursue the irrational and blue skies.
i keep to myself in floods and high seas.
i pursue quiet storms and the healing of strong hands.

3
when afternoon nods its contentment
i shove everything into a crowded drawer
and surprise you with a loud meow.
i drive off in the red car with the brown dog.
i pursue the irrational and blue skies.
i keep to myself in floods and high seas.
i pursue quiet storms and the healing of strong hands.
these are the things i chase in quest of an answer
to the pearl before swine of so many lugubrious hands
and the makeshift desires of an unmade bed.
tonight i will wait for you under the dome of st. peters
and pray below the baldacchino filled with cherubic delight
and echoes of the cross reverberating in the dark sky
where there is no end to shadows and the strange
silent commingling of the moon and stars.

  bruce weber__