W.C.W. "Many A Door" Book / samples
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Many A door
I don’t remember being astonished by my first breath,
or, the impact when I opened my eyes.
I don’t remember the pain of circumcision,
nor the separating sensation as an umbilicus dries.
I don’t remember what it felt like, learning to crawl,
nor when I was let go, and I could walk.
I don’t remember thinking I was advancing,
the first time someone said I could talk.
I don’t actually remember being little
while looking up at all but the floor.
Yet I recall starting to recognize my tiny little world,
and wondering at every door.
I was carted through some, and hand held through,
till eventually I could pass as I please.
Except when the doors were not to be opened,
for reasons, or for lack of the keys.
Then I did get to realize, some doors led to nowhere,
and some doors are strictly forbidden.
I found that nowhere was something that wasn’t for me,
yet I wanted those things that were hidden.
Put a sign on that says “stay out”.
What is in there? Is what I want to know.
Put a sign on that says “You can’t leave”,
and most certainly, I’ll want to go.
Tell me there’s a door that I can’t see,
an invisible passage to find,
and I’ll search in the darkness, search in the light,
and search through the halls in my mind.
To naught, is to wither. To go, is to gain.
Even though there may be a price.
There’s beauty in truth. Doors block the visions.
Still, for seekers, their secrets entice.
But ever and always, some things must wait,
though we grow, as grow can.
I continue to wonder at many a door.
Like the child, like an advancing man.
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The Fray
Why would anybody want to be president of America?
It hardly makes any sense at a glance.
It makes less sense than trying to be a poet in this day and age
of superficiality and short attention spans.
First of all, they will never be able to do what they promised,
even with best of intentions,
but worst of all, every private thing they ever said, or did,
will be held against them,
and their families will be tormented for their ambitions.
But a poet will only be appreciated the more for having crossed
dangerous, legal, or moral borders, in the learning process,
even though their life ends up in a
dubious debacle or twisted decadent mess.
A presidential candidate will be held accountable for
odd pronunciation, bad spelling, or a slip of the tongue.
Vast masses of people will condemn their souls for things
the founding fathers did to obtain strength and wisdom,
while a poet will only be damned if they
have not experienced the taboo and forbidden,
and don’t give of their real soul,
or keep the truth they’ve seen hidden.
A presidential candidate will live to regret
crazy things done in the line of fun,
while a poet will live and work by calling on them for inspiration.
The more every detail of every person is
available for every other person to see,
the more curious it is that anyone would decide to run the gauntlet
between mediocrity and presidency.
At least a poet can wade into the deep dark daily fracas and the fray,
and dream, that by bleeding out onto the pages,
and reading out into the wind,
they will shine some day.
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Yes, Those ones…
I found those old pictures of you. Yes, those ones…
Really got me going for a while.
Finally kicking back, with a big smile,
I remembered you, better than ever.
We used to love to go driving, with you, my passenger sider,
watching the road, checking our flight path, my shotgun rider,
all excited to keep on going, until we wanted to stop the rumble,
for a taste of each other, some time eye to eye, rough and tumble.
Taking a picture at some tourist attraction, monument, or statue,
playing our favorite game, of you show yours, and I’ll match you.
Pix of you over there, me over here, stopping for a roll.
And that hungry look on your young face, baring your soul.
You couldn’t tell, it mattered to me, just how much you cared,
though I was giving so much, for the return of the little you shared.
You had the kind of nonchalance, that mentally wrecks,
just about everything, but the sex.
The exciting sense of adventure, and of imminent danger.
The distant intimacy with practically a stranger,
caught with a camera, in sort of graphic recollections.
Mostly the good times, in triple X selections.
On a slim chance, we would dance, and take more snaps for the box.
Future memories, well hidden, with secret combination locks.
You and me, before our prime of life, going and growing,
just trying in our own fantastic way, to show up knowing.
That made me want to write, poems about my good luck,
and about us, and how we would fight, and we would f~~k.
And we would drive again, hell bent for better days,
which meant, even then, going our separate ways.
I found those old pictures of you. Yes, those ones…
Really got me going for a while.
Finally kicking back, with a big smile,
I remembered you, better than ever……….
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