MY POEMS

Years ago when I was in the mood to write poems, I wrote these four poems while I was in the State of Michigan as an adult camper in an adult summer camp located midway between the City of Kalamazoo and Lake Michigan. I was a private investigator then and had been sent to that camp to get photographic evidence that my client’s wife was having sex with one of the other adult campers.I succeeded in that task but while I was in that camp, I chose to write some poetry. I am also an artist so I put the poems on the paintings I created which were then hung on the walls of the main building. Here are the poems. I am sorry that the poems in this article are out of alignment but the words haven't been changed. 

                                                   

                       THE PAINTING                 

His commission was due and well deserving

The instructions and conditions clear.

Paint the Last Supper and you will be preserving

A picture of which Mankind will hold dear.

Fifteen years he searched; his efforts unwavering

To find duplicates of Christ and His twelve.

His determination was unquavering;

This was a task he would continuously delve.

His search for the duplicates was astonishing

In temples, in hovels, in crowds he did look.

His efforts required no reasons for admonishing—

He searched in every cranny and nook.

Then Christ and Judas was all that was remaining

The others he painted the previous years.

His courage  surely kept him refraining

From breaking down in uncontrollable tears.

One day the Christ-like image he found wandering

Amidst a crowd of travelers walking on a road.

The man's face gave him no reason for pondering

in his mind, to paint the likeness of God was sowed.

                           

It was Judas whose image lacked capturing

For evil is hard to express in paint.

Nevertheless, the task was not enrapturing

For Escariot was hardly a saint.

Twenty more years passed, his search unending

Until finally he was ready to quit.

His fears, his failure was now bending

The last supports of his incredible wit.

Then one day when the sky was darkening

   He spotted a man who looked like his goal.

To lose him would be disheartening—

His face in the painting would be his role.

                           

It was descriptive of the evil lurking

Deep in his heart and in his mind.

The face of his subject was smirking

It was the one he knew he would find.

With the canvas complete, he began thinking.

He had seen the face somewhere in his past.

The model told his story, his eyes unblinking

Despite the fact that his story was vast.

Then the painter regretted his inquiring

As somehow he felt he'd been enticed.

To him, his work was now less inspiring                             

The man was the same who posed as Christ.

I have started writing a novel under the same title and have over a hundred pages written so far of that book.  The story takes place during the First Crusade to the Holy Land. And now, my second poem.      

              THE SECOND CHANCE

                    

 The warden of San Quentin had told me of  Bill

He was a lifer who was released after twenty years.

A promise he gave that never again would he kill—

A statement he gave the Board with his tears.

He hadn't seen his wife since forty-two

And he stopped writing her in forty-five.

He assumed her love diminished and was through,

In fact now he wasn't sure if she was even alive.

Nevertheless he wrote her about his undying love

And mailed the letter a week prior to his release.

Then on bended knees he prayed to his God above

Let his future be more than what was in his valise.

                 

   In his letter he he said without hesitation;

If you can forgive me and wish me to come home,

Place red bunting on the pole  at the station

 And I shall return to you, ne'er again to roam.

However if you have found love with another,

   I shall remain on the train and will pass on by

And when I pass that barren pole, I will smother

 My anguish, my pain and my remorse till I die.

The train trip to his home took less than a day.

 On the train he told a passenger of his dreams.

Soon everyone watched for red bunting on the way

  While avoiding Bill's tears flowing like streams.

Then five miles from his station there arose a cry—

 Every one cried from the depths of their souls.

Old Bill ran to the window to learn as to why—

 He too saw red bunting on two hundred poles.

         

In 1972, I was invited by the government of California to visit all of their prisons and the San Quentin Penitentiary was one of the prisons I visited,

                         THE SOLIPSIST

                                

A long time ago when the world was not too old

A man roamed its surface in search of power.

 He desired to be king of beasts and Man I'm told

  And to rule the fish and birds and tiniest flower.

  But he was rebuffed at everywhere he turned

  And subsequently was at a loss at what to do.

  His demands and overtures were  spurned

  So he ended up as a captain without a crew.

  To Man, he was pointed out in jest

  As one who would set himself up as God.

  To the beasts, he was regarded as a pest.

  Even the flowers refused to give him a nod.

  Finally in a fit of anger he condemned them all

 And commanded them to vanish before his eyes.

  Man and beast immediately answered his call

   And headed upwards into the deepening skies.

   Then the flowers and bees vanished out of sight

   Until the Earth was barren of life.

   He watched with awe at the force of his might.                                  

   His power was absolute like the point of a knife.

   All that was left was the Heavens and Earth

   And the latter went with a twitch of his nose.

   He used his power for all of its worth

   For when he can't rule—everything goes.

   A blink of his eye and Heaven was gone

   And nothing remained, not the stars or the sun.

   A void remained where the light had shone

   His anger was spent, his wishes were done.

  For eons he ruled the darkness alone

  Until boredom drove him from his mind.

  Finally he decided he must atone

  For the sin he had done to his own kind.

                 

 He planned a new beginning with his soul

 And in his happiness he bubbled with mirth.

  For at last he had recognized his proper role,

 On the first day, he created Heaven  and Earth.

 In the summer, the insects come   

Why is it that in every summer, the insects come?

I wish they would choose to appear in the winter.

But then I suppose my proposal is pretty dumb.

But their bites are very typical of a  cinder. 

And to be sure, black flies are the worse of the lot

As we humans and other beings fear their bite.

When I was a child, my mother said, don't be caught

Outside by black flies during the day or at night.

Mosquitoes are in abundance and are equally bad

But their bite is not as bad as the bite of a black fly.

Some of them carry diseases which makes us sad

When someone is bitten and lies down to die.

Despite the above, summer is a time of great fun.

I go hiking, swimming as a happy camper.

Oh my!  I see black flies in the direction of the sun.

I will go to my cottage and hide inside my hamper. 

         

Did you know that the shortest poem is called FLEAS? Here it is.

                                            

  FLEAS

  Adam had them             

In my mind, I am a poet. I know it.