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ANOTHER TIME

In another time, I followed the lights of the towers

Down through the empty streets of a Wednesday midnight.

In another time, I walked by the lights of the towers

Hand in hand, and kissed a girl on the summer plaza.

In another time, I ran by the lights of the towers

Briefcase beside me, running for the early train.

In another time, I sailed past the lights of the towers

Rounding the Battery in a stiff October breeze.

In another time, I watched the lights of the towers

Reaching up they called to me.

In another time, I loved the lights of the towers

Trying to remember now exactly how they looked.

--Tom Healey

WEST STREET BEATITUDES

I was hungry

And you came to me with food.

I was thirsty

And you gave me a bottle of water.

I was crying

And your arm came around me.

I was scared

And you told me it was all right to be scared.

I was lonely

And you came to sit with me.

I was lost

And you helped me find my way.

I was angry

And you helped me see the light.

You were my neighbor.

All of you.

--Tom Healey

Six Quatrains Recalling a Wound

Manhattan morning comes, the streets are bright.

A yellow cab, its turbaned driver from

the Punjab, picks me up. We go downtown

to Cortland Street where I emerge to see

the voids, two sepulchres. The voices of

the dead cry out, their hands are supplicant.

The scribblings on the framing of the fence:

“We love you all, and wish that none of you

were gone.” “Fire Fighter Paul De Kush, went in

where others fled.” One scribble states, “Life is

not always fun. Signed, Gail.” I turn away,

my soul is shrived, the mid-day streets now dark.

A bus arrives and shudders to a stop

beside the broken curb. The door gapes wide,

I climb aboard, not caring where it goes,

and through its windows see the flagellants,

the hawkers in the deeply shadowed streets.

In carts and trays they hold their souvenirs,

photos of hell. Do they believe that I’d

forget? They cry, “these valued splinters of

the apodictic cross, the tree on which

your one true god was crucified, are yours,

four dollars each.” The towers are no more.

and god is gone, if he was ever here.

--John R. Guthrie

Castle Island

Where the Causeway crosses rip-tide tow

Strong winds drive the racing white-ribbed waves.

Below the hill and fort newspapers blow

Across the monument, the pier, the staves

Of fishing lines they catch. An old man climbs

Up behind a wall that hugs the tide.

Past the bronze young soldier's face, his frowns,

Sad stare, the plaque, the Irish names--they died

In North Korea, frozen in their boots--

An old woman swings, slapping the wind

In cherry shirt and flapping sea-green pants.

Her one eye shoots blue sparks struck by her mind.

A young girl, running, points her arm raised high,

"Dear green wings, flying home! dad, dad! the sky!"

--Marilyn Bentov

The Chickasaw Plum - Volume I - Number 1 - September 2004

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