Collected Poems (1987 – 1989)

By John Henry Carrozza

Listen to the Sound

… of a thousand drums –

deep in the heart

of a mesmeric

jungle …

enchanting,

rhythmic,

drifting closer, then

of laughter –

disguised as the roar

of a Bengal tiger …

basking in unconscious

fear of itself,

stalking no prey, but then

of your gentle voice –

calling my name, but

it’s only a mockingbird

perched on a limb …

roaring and

laughing and

musing of drums –

its playful call

becomes piercing, until

I reach

to silence the alarm –

too late,

for I am already

awake.

Somnambulist

Sleepy wintry breeze

Through a half-open window flows;

Wispy curtains cloak the wind,

As myriad eyes peer blinking within.

Stepping spritely to the jig,

Floorboards creak like violins,

Minuet in several keys,

Tripping light fantastically.

Cat beneath a Victorian chair

Watches the dance in horror,

As the night air’s tentacles sweep into the room,

Slithering in from the shadowy gloom,

Wrapping about her arm like a skein

And swirling ‘neath her gown;

Carrying her body like the arms of a groom

And setting her gently down.

She pirouettes once inside the door,

Her beauty vespertine,

Then passamezzos from her dream

And waltzes into mine.

Meanwhile, in the compartment I ride

Idly over the rails

Of some vast exotic tramway

I have fashioned in my mind –

Trees are bending in the wake of the train;

Mollusks fill the skies.

Meandering in from the buffet car,

She hovers, and I stare

Hypnotically, without my eyes

And see inside of her;

Entrancingly she moves along the corridor

To where I stand,

But fear instills –

I must not touch or brush against her gown

And risk that she awaken …

While slow without a sound

An evening mist beyond the window stirs,

The cat, its peaceful slumber found,

Re-stokes the coal and purrs.

Pancakes & Satin (Love Awakes)

The warm light of morning caresses my neck

As I sit in my favorite chair …

Her soft shoulder is rippling

With shadows cast by Venetian blinds,

And then suddenly her arm

Sways along her side –

She reaches to her forehead

As her slender leg is folded,

Accordion-like towards her thigh,

And yawns and rubs her eyes.

Satin sheets evolve with ease,

Like mountain ranges crawling from the sea;

“She must be a god,” I think, as I smile,

Unable to avert my eyes;

“She must, or else there is no god …”

And when she moves again,

Her knee reclines once more,

Her shoulders slant towards the door,

Her arms begin to stretch,

She blinks and sighs –

A thousand angels light into the air;

My mind becomes a fountain …

“All my cares and all my fears

Are true,”

And when she smiles, she smiles for me,

And when she wakes –

I cease to be.

Time Doth Rarely Speak

Time doth rarely speak to me

Of moments when from oft my lips

There sprung the words I wished to say

Nor words I’ve longed to utter since.

Yet, oft the conversation turns

To precious seconds I would stare

Out through my eyes and into yours

And slip away from consciousness –

I’ve seen my gaze reflected back

And passed around the room like wine

Which I would swallow feverishly,

Then mutter something not divine

By no one standard, save by mine.

So, if again our eyes shall meet

I will so strain to look away,

For only when my mind’s awake

Might those long words I chance to say.

Inner Groove

Turn the pillow over;

Your dream’s reached the inner groove:

Deepest in repose, your heart –

It trembles ‘neath the quake

Of that popping, scratching, swirling disk

Each noise assuming form (and limb)

Which hastens the motor

Which turns thy bed

And brings thee nearer waking thoughts

To banish demons of thy fierce id –

Those which moan

And those which howl –

Snarling, barking hounds of war;

(Oh, could such visions as these reflect

The plagues of Samuel Taylor’s ode?)

Yet, ne’er within thine grasp

Did that forbidden blossom wander? No;

It is the absence of that soul

Has made the heart grow fodder.

Aurora (Goddess of the Morning)

Her eyes are dyed wisteria blue,

Her lips are lobster red;

Her walls are the color of advent wax,

Of hyacinth sings her bed.

And every morning at five o’clock

She’s swimming in the pool;

Her towel, basking on a bench,

Would lick its chops and drool.

The percolator would on at dawn

And, seething like a spring,

Would fill the pot and hiss and scream

In senseless suffering.

But meanwhile, ‘side the water,

She reclines upon the stones;

The willow, hovering o’er her skin,

Just hangs its paws and moans.

And every morning at twelve o’clock

She climbs back into bed;

Her eyes are dyed wisteria blue,

Her lips are lobster red.

Her Favorite Stars

We used to descend upon the city

And visit her favorite bars;

But now along the beach I stroll

And gaze at her favorite stars.

Vesper, through the evening haze,

Would always catch her eye –

And “twinkle, twinkle” she would sing,

A whisper towards the sky.

And when the summer solstice dawned,

The north start would arise;

Polaris bright, Oh beauteous sight,

Reflected in her eyes.

She like the one called Sirius,

“Because it’s so demure,”

And though the Pleaides be but myth,

She’s now the eighth sister.

And lo! It seems her eyes did sparkle,

Like a Lucifer;

Tonight, I’ll draw a constellation

And name it after her.

Coastal Epiphany

Wading the tidal pools of my mind,

I trod upon a thousand creatures,

Slimy and oozing like gelatin,

Yet fractal, as the punchbowl where

The ladle stirs a brew –

An elixir of mottled hues;

And, like the other party guests,

‘Tween idle conversations, I

Refill my cup and quietly sip

The concoction, spitting out the seeds.

Soon, the room which light

Contains the astral tea party starts to fade,

Photons dispersing as do the guests.

And then I hear the swell of nature,

Loud as though inside a conch;

Waves appear, a sandy shore,

Encroaching rocks on either side,

Where bathe the sirens of my mind.

And there she stands, but only

For an instant on the patio,

Calling me to dinner,

Dog barking at her feet –

New England in the fall …

And I tumble endless in her arms,

Beside the bay.

Lampshade Memories

Feet will not move beneath covers iron shell constricting and then I’m

free and spinning into the void all is void what is not void does not exist but

is full of life and death and sex and television and someone other than the

man stapled to the prison wall asks “Is that the face of God?” a faceless face

and so it maybe cannot see but if it could then only void and so nothing

would be perceived but that face is me because I am a mirror of existence of

myself a reflection of a thought and God I wish I could stop that lampshade

from spinning it makes me dizzy.

Without a door he enters unaware into a starless city street or is it an

alley but anyway he sighs and kicks a pile of dung and his boot remains

stuck and the flies they keep it warm but soon his feet become cold and

freeze beneath his socks which is bad because it is not yet dawn or evening

which are the same and he aches as he falls to his knees in mercy and he

turns to stone and quietly erodes after a million and twenty years ironically

in April which is the only month in which he was not born and so much for

saving the world his soul recalls and if it could talk it would say “I only

want to make you happy.”

When the bulb explodes the lampshade will burn and if I could sear my

soul in the flame it would burn away and for you and my eyes would crack

but I would not cry or if I cried it would be a silent cry like the drowning

sun in a sea of endless memories and I would hold the iron in the fire and I

would watch you walk away and say “turn the light off when you leave.”

Wardrobe Envy

Sometimes, I wish I were your closet;

No – not your closet – your clothes.

Particularly that silk paisley skirt

Or that blouse … no, the one with without the bows

And frilly collars … the plain one

That buttons in the front;

To serve no duty but to cover your skin

And keep unwanted eyes from peering within.

I would not like to be your scarf or your hat,

Though elegant they may be;

Nor your brassiere – that would be too much work,

But that cardigan sweater is keen.

That’s a life … to lay there

And feel your every breath;

To follow your journey throughout the day

To cradle your shape wherever you lay.

Pajamas are cozy, and slippers are warm

Upon your tiny feet;

Perhaps your robe would be sublime

To dissipate the heat

That radiates from your heart

And keeps me feeling useful.

But, all through the night, the thought I can’t bear

Is the dismal despair of the clothes you don’t wear.

Holding On

Holding on -

to lifelong dreams

Is the hardest part of living,

In a world that stands beside itself

There is no time forgiving.

But dream

and live

and never lose the touch

Holding on -

believing myths

Is part of what is missing,

In lands of mystery, all that lives

Are mirages grand and glistening.

But believe

and share

and pass along the story.

Holding on -

to icy chains

That bar and push the shaper

Only takes away from man

His hot and futile saber.

But chain

and save

the memories which feed us.

For life without darkness is blinding light

Which penetrates the furnace;

Sacrificing every night

Leaves days to scar and burn us;

Entrapping forces to enslave,

For benefit of man,

Entitles justice to be sold

For any price it can.

But dream, believe, and chain the love

That offers forth its hand

And hold on to the only part

Of life that is so grand.

For wooden temples burn and rot

And stone embankments crumble;

But strongholds built inside the heart

Can make a tyrant humble.

Holding on -

in spite of who

May ostracize your speeches

Reinvents the cradle

And the lessons that it teaches.

Holding on -

remaining sane

Indeed is lifelong toil,

When all of those whom each we trust

In turn become our foils.

Holding on -

to sentimental

Dreams and sacred wishes

Is only ferrous, blinding bliss

Which tarnishes the dishes.

But speak

and fight

for each and every hope;

Believe

and never

snare upon the rope.

For yesterday's solutions are only means to follow

Paths which first were laid by men

Infernal, dark, and hollow.