2 Poems  

By William Charles Delman  

Sometime I think Iíd like to ride out on the crest

Sometimes I think Iíd like to ride out on the crest
Where the universe is expanding, as I used to ride
The waves in Jersey as a boy.

And I would bring a book to read, for when I grew bored,
Because letís face it, after all is said and done,
One can only stomach so much space before longing
For a crowd of faces, or a street sign never seen before.

And I would bring a fishing pole, the one my father
Used to catch the bass he wanted so desperately
To hang on our living room wall, and a bobber, and Iíd

Dip the line down gravityís well with singular attention
After finding a nice little dock near the center of it all, or barring that
Iíd plunk down
And sit content in the vacuum at the edge waiting for a bite.
I might grow hungry while I wait, after a long day

Of surfing at the edge, and fishing on the bank.  Iíll need
A sandwich too.  I see that now.  Maybe Iíll pack
An umbrella, just for show, to keep my Mother happy.
I know how she worries about UV rays, as mothers do.

Recalling that, Iím forced to admit that fishing has always
Failed to hold my attention in the long run, unlike rambling,
And since my bookís already done, I might want to bring
Some company, or at least to be sure Iíve good directions

So that I wonít get lost on my way back home.
After a long day of imposed silence, Iíll need a break
From the sonorous nothing.  But packing a friend might be tough.
Most people donít like being shut up in sacks

While someone else does all the surfing, reading, fishing,
Not to mention eating.  I forgot about that.  And the excretory
Necessities, and  . . .maybe this is just too complex,
A farfetched plan, it wouldnít be the first.

Maybe Iíll just jump in my car, drive to the oceans edge.
Maybe if I can reach my friends, tell them to bring sandwiches,
Weíll surf, and fish, and read, and eat.
That sounds like a good time.  Still

I think I might like to ride out on the crest
One of these days, when I find myself feeling a little
Bent out of shape, when nothing becomes the only thing I need

A man, A stone, and A tree The stone is gray, cold, rough in size, so hard On the fingers when lifted it sits alone On a hillside near a tree that could be Budding. There is a sound. A crack as if Of lightning. The sky is clear. The sound is A chisel straining against a mass, brown With rust, tainting the hands of a man with Time. He is the one that brings the hammer Down. And now the stone is mobbed by masks. The Air reeks of lemon like a hospital. The eyes are winter. Not a hair is out Of place, not a bootlace is left untied. The surface is covered. Each hand lifts and Each face frowns as a child might before the Struggling sound of a grunt reminds and they Turn to watch him bring the hammer down once More. A cry goes out. The wind picks itself up Out of desolation and lifts each lagging shard That has not been pounded into dust. Howl A chorus seems to whisper. Remember this That we have left behind: A healthy tree. But each imperfect stroke is still a stone, And lifted by the wind as the masks seethe The wind carries each to an ear to drone Uncomfortably.

William Charles Delman lives in Boston, and is currently finishing his first collection "A Book of Poetry With No Unifying Theme." His work has appeared in a number of journals, and he is a founding member of CoelacanthMagazine.com.

Contact William Delman at: redbrickwriters@hotmail.com

July 30, 2002
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