Larry's Blog

still no stone for Janice
gunned down a day past Christmas
there is a marker by her grave

still no stone for Janice
gunned down a day past Christmas
there is a marker by her grave

but how quickly they forget
a gentle voice is not heard
six months to the day
butterflies and blackberry blossoms
are alive but Janice sleeps

the cruel caliber of steel
has silenced her name
brief notoriety – a day’s fame

the perpetrator’s trial
has been delayed
insanity prevails
in a universe of meteors
and crashing comets

final silence will prevail
a stone that could proclaim
the etching of her name
has not appeared
and Janice sleeps

Note – in September a heart-shaped
rose marble stone was put in place.

allegro (matter of fact)

I have been indoctrinated in days and litanies,
and yellow autumn afternoons when childhood
was warned that a calling from the Lord
allegro (matter of fact)

I have been indoctrinated in days and litanies,
and yellow autumn afternoons when childhood
was warned that a calling from the Lord
(as leaves fell in a long white buzz of breeze)
could not easily be ignored without
the danger subsequent after years
of losing grace, perhaps to fall, perhaps
to call down attonement in unending
penitential fires – but not to worry -
as winter sunlight after snow
filtered in between the classroom
shades, and sister’s soothing voice
(perhaps replacing mother’s) had us read
“The First Snowfall” by James Russell Lowell.

lento (lower voice)

The lady in blue
can rest a bit perhaps.
The litanies in her
behalf have slowed.
Mother of Sorrows.
Queen of the Sea.
Gate of Heaven.
As dust gathers on
the organ top
and stained glass
light falls into
a silent church
in Maryland
perhaps she can
find some quiet
in October.
The “pray for us”,
the “save us”,
the “we beseech thee”s
have almost ended.

andante (relaxed voice)

The perfume of spring flowers
surrounds me.
I walk through a small wood (but
like King Arthur’s realm to me).
Heavy Jim and Dominic bring jars
to mix secret potions and construct
a laboratory in the forest shade.
Last fall – ages ago – we gathered
hickory nuts,
brought them as prizes to display
proudly in the dining hall.

The incense of the heart
still lingers, and smoke
rises like painful
memories – sort of -
from Sunday afternoons.
Altar boy surplice,
unending strains
of “Tantum Ergo”s, a
chorus of nuns
and now it seems
the whole world
suffers, for one
reason or another,
from Sunday afternoons.

dramatic (full sound)

Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
It is my voice that echoes
in the apse of the stone church.
Today is the twelth Sunday
after Pentecost (somewhere
in the unending nowhere
in the year of liturgy).
I like the sound of my
deep voice speaking
slowly – and cautiously -
(the topic designated
by the Bishop is the Trinity).
I will never utter
words I cannot believe.

lyrical (female voice?)

O the bells ring
the organ thunders
the Pascal candle
in symbolic glory
burns. Red-robed,
the celebrants parade
from the vestibule
of church to high
altar, a censor
swinging, its golden
chain ringing, the
smoke of Resurrection
rising.

philosophical (pensive)

They have trained me from infancy
in the telling of the beads,
midday visits to the most
blessed sacrament, Mary’s
supplication. I have often
walked out feeling clean
from the box of the confessional
with the sun seeming brighter
and the wind crisp through
my hair

andante (matter of fact – reflective)

What can I save
from this house of God?
The organ sounds -
Mozart, Bach – this
was their noblest theme.
The statues still stand
silent in the clerestory
light – men and women
parading endlessly
in our dreams
through centuries
of whatever this was.
Icons of mosaic
with rainbow colors
and gold, gazing
down on me through
my steps as a child
till now – when, I suppose -
I am old. The language
of Latin and Greek
in great red-leather
colored books -
bibles with poetry
of Ecclesiastes and Job,
Psalms sung by
choirs while bells
thunder, carol and
chime in all the
cathedrals of the
world.

agitated (intense)

An old nun smiles.
I walk by graveyards
with names that surprise
me – my heart squirms -
as I remember them.
There is a book opened
to a page where
November sunlight falls.
I gaze upon the words.
Like a bird, I have learned to fly.
I say goodbye.

LAWRENCE TOWER, SEVEN SIERRA GULF
REPORTING 2 MILE RIGHT BASE
FOR TWO THREE

LAWRENCE TOWER, SEVEN SIERRA GULF
REPORTING 2 MILE RIGHT BASE
FOR TWO THREE

SEVEN SIERRA GULF
CLEARED TO LAND

CLEARED TO LAND
SEVEN SIERRA GULF

Even bishops have a chair.
Here I am floating in the air
four parts nitrogen, one part oxygen.
But everybody thinks
there’s nothing there.

LAWRENCE TOWER. WIND CHECK
FOR SEVEN SIERRA GULF.

WIND IS ZERO TWO ZERO
AT ONE FOUR

Roy’s grandma was blown down
at Hancock Towers.
Should have held onto a lamp post.
Could she walk on my wing?
(Air speed is 78 miles per hour.)

LAWRENCE TOWER. CHEROKEE
THREE NINE FOUR FOXTROT LIMA,
OVER ROCKINGHAM WITH
INFORMATION ECHO.

FOUR FOXTROT LIMA. REPORT 2 MILES
RIGHT DOWNWIND FOR TWO THREE.
TRAFFIC IS A SKYHAWK DEPARTING
TO THE NORTHEAST

RIGHT DOWNWIND TWO THREE.
TRAFFIC NOT IN SIGHT.
FOUR FOXTROT LIMA.

Awhile ago I circled slowly
over a lake watching the wake
of small pleasure boats.
Most people don’t know
how you make a plane fly slow.
(Even with no power, a plane
can fly very fast.)

Medium power, pull back on the yoke,
flaps on full. At 50 miles per hour,
still flying. But after that
she would fall like a box.

LAWRENCE TOWER. MOONEY
NINE ZERO SEVEN SEVEN KILO
READY FOR TAKEOFF. REQUEST
STRAIGHT OUT DEPARTURE.

MOONEY SEVEN SEVEN KILO.
HOLD SHORT, LANDING TRAFFIC.

HOLDING SHORT, SEVEN SEVEN KILO.

Engine quiet. Feathers curved
for slow flight. Wings spread.
For a moment, I am not like
the people down there, driving
in trucks, walking along sidewalks,
standing in fields.

I do not know, really,
where I am. Somewhere in the air.
We say “over Lowell”, but really,
who knows where we are?

MOONEY SEVEN SEVEN KILO
TAKE POSITION AND HOLD.

POSITION AND HOLD
SEVEN SEVEN KILO.

At takeoff I saw a red-tailed hawk
curve arrow-like beyond
my left wing. ( It was a hawk.)
All my life I’ve watched them.
Never seen them furl their wings
and dive. I do not dive, but soar,
waiting for the sound when
wheels hit ground. Then
to put wings away, until
another day of playing in clouds.

CESSNA SEVEN SIERRA GULF
NEXT LEFT TURN WHEN POSSIBLE.
CONTACT GROUND
ONE TWO FOUR POINT THREE.

one and two and three….
goes on to infinity
you don’t want to
hear this from me

I look into your eye
the circumference
is diameter times pi
one and two and three….
goes on to infinity
you don’t want to
hear this from me

I look into your eye
the circumference
is diameter times pi

the limit of the series
one half, one fourth, one eigth
is zero

the derivative of the maximum
is zero. The curves
of your body

form a continuum
from A to B
with a maximum at C

tangere is the Latin word
to touch. The slope of the function
where x equals two

a tangent – one point where
like a kiss
the slope is the the measure

the trouble with hills ?
when you get up close
they become trees.
the trouble with trees?
there are too many.
one or two
at the end of an open field
would be enough

you don’t think of hills
as having roads
but I remember a hill
where two roads crossed
at the summit
where there were open fields

I wondered why roads
would come to the summit
and then go down again.
there was a farmhouse
where they crossed.

I want to find the place again
but can’t. it’s somewhere
in Pennsylvania. two roads
cross on the summit of a hill

Se movere is the definition of life.
In the world of philosophy
no test tubes or measurements
are needed. Only a chess board
with a bishop and a king.

(more…)

a stranger walks on Highland Avenue
and you? and you? and you?
where are you going this day in your life?
to sharpen a knife? to find a wife?

(more…)