Wednesday, June 24, 2009


For Rebecca, 6/24/09

Burnt Siena fingers
Turned Sepia by the sun
Pressed into cracks in
Outer Space Manatee schist.
Your flesh, where you squeeze-
Macaroni and Cheese.

Magenta White canvas
Rendered Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown
Through play, your only job.
Your foot flexes, blocks the sun,
Shoes creased Eggplant.

Your Apricot onesie,
Painted Atomic Tangerine with clay dust,
Suspended on Asparagus thorns from
Tropical Rain Forest branches,
Breaks free, silhouetted
Against the Yellow Green understory.

Standing on the Shadow schist,
In the glow of triumph,
Your radiant Copper face turns upwarde to follow
Dandelion sunrays off tiny hands
Raised in victory.
How many fingers would fill
A one hundred twenty color
Crayola box?

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Thought for the Morning

May 26, 2009

Gently naked form
rises on stairs; anklets call
Your lover follows.
Breath from lungs and skin answers
Invitation to be one.

Six Haiku for Hiking

June 5, 2009

1) Cool gust of spring breeze
Doffs the last blanket cover.
My thighs call your name.

2) Not quite yet asleep,
Babbling, chicks, moonbeams invite
Beachhead, built for two.

3) One tent closed for now.
Hands, Feet, Hair, who's you? That's Me!
Balled against the storm.

4) Blueberries for wake-up.
Breakfast in bed, sleepyhead,
Why don't you join up picking?

5) Just like Avalon,
The trail where you learned excellence;
Bigger rocks this time.

6) Children carry kids.
The blessing of their making,
The grass recalls.


This word was new to me; the NY Times had an LTE with it as the title. It means utilizing a description of a part to capture the essence of the whole.


After "The Hands of a Ball Bearing Worker" -

The huge hands of a stevedore
are not your hands.
No thick boundary.
Fingertips touch like silken filigee
I see them folding, brushing.
Ineffable, fragile softness.

Worn jeans cling to the great
muscle of your thigh.
No blue boundary.
Rather, they caress what they retain.
Fabric, warmed by skin, suffused by soul.
Is the matrix fragile to the touch?

The dirty boots of winter
are not your shoes.
No leather boundary.
Black floral slippers caress nylon feet.
My ankles feel the embrace of your flesh.

Shoulder-length golden cowl
is not your hair.
No silken boundary.
Not content to cover,
It plays and dances across unseen nape.
I feel the animating energy.

In the crepuscule of the dawn,
When all is still as the


of the spaces

between words,

I wake to the synecdoche.
Images touch and tremble my soul.
The whole is unknowably greater.

Tall Tales for Small People

Created for, and partially by, Erez (7), who is writing a book by this title.

Chapter 1.

"I wrote a play the other day,"
I though I heard my young son say,
"We're going out of Egypt,
And I'm God, the Director."

"I have some lines, I speak sometimes
But mostly all the kids are mimes."
My mother never was the wiser;
Nothing he could do surprised her.

Chapter 2.

We lost a handball down the grate -
I didn't want the game to end -
We broke a pillar off the gate
and tossed the manhole cover.

While underground I met a snake
And told what I was seeking.
He tongued my hand and quickly landed
Scooped the toy, not thinking.

Chapter 3.

A blown out tire in our yard
My daddy sent it soaring
Atop the dumpster, 'cross the street -
Bounced back - his blood was pouring.

Before he's done with 911
The front door I had busted,
The sewing kit and alcohol
And hands that could be trusted.

I dripped the bottle on the blood
And knit his scalp together.
The EMT's said "Kid, you're good!"
Dad said, "love you forever."

Chapter 4.

It's hard to have to ride the bus
Because we don't have money,
So once to get to Toys R Us,
I started my toy Bentley.

I breathed its fumes and felt a change.
I'd shrank 'til I was tiny,
I took the wheel and started down
Chew Ave down to Mt. Airy.

At the light I had a thought.
I hadn't any money.
And even if I did, you'd think
A dino, towed, looks funny.

So I switched gases with the hot rod,
Blowing it up bigger.
I gave the Bentley to my dad.
First SEPTA, now, go figger!

Chapter 5.

"I wrote a play the other day,"
I thought I heard my young son say.
"We're crossing through the straits of Life
With honeysuckle nectar.

"Cause I'm the one who's got the pen.
I'll make my daddy smile again.
We're getting to the Promised Land
and I'm God, the Director!"

The Rose


The rose will die,
The play forgotten,
We will breath the spiced aromatics
Surfing over the gentle
Swells of the blossom
Like sand and foam at seashore,
Themselves in transition.

The evening will end
Arm in arm,
Body in body or alone.
The yellow fluted crystal
Directs its perfume upward
To be a permanent memory
Or dissipating
Into never

...Or Not to Be

With apologies to Dylan Thomas and William Shakespeare, and gratitude to the hip-hop universitude

Refrain: Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
You come into the world in a puddle of goo.
Your eyes are shut, your cecum seald,
You can't even breathe 'til they start paddlin' you.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
You enter screaming from that good night.

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
You Can't Get out of your own mess.
It's years to walk, ages to talk,
And the meaning of your babble I can't even guess.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Rage against the dying of the bedroom light.

Refrain: Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
You earn your keep by the sweet of your brow,
Your incubator crafted of your mama's sweat,
It's a con you get away with but you don't know how.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
You don't know the difference between day and night.

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
The focus of attention of a marketer's lust.
A child in need, a commercial deed,
Your need for them to give a f^&* betrays your trust.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
You cry yourself to sleep against the dying of the light.

Refrain: Do not go gentle...

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
The chem lab in your head creates an accident.
Touchy-touch and kissy-kisy in mind or flesh,
What other mammals do is your predicament.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
The fires that consume your heart can roil the night.

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Your bodies wracked with the desire to mate.
Needing you, needing me, always needing more,
Natural selection leads to love - and hate.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Your need for lovin' generates more heat than light.

Refrain: Do not go gentle...

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Marriage quickly turns into the death of sex,
The needs of kids jobs chores and TV,
The passions of your skin and heart a smouldering wreck.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Together in your bed but you're alone at night.

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Your thoughts are for another long before the split,
It's teenhood once again inside an aging bod,
Desire and attractiveness no longer fit.
Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Impending darkness revels in the dying light.

Refrain: Do not go gentle...

Pitiful humans, loved and lost,
Aging, lonely, when your hopes are few,
Too cold for friends, to frail for love,
Life and death have all become the same for you.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Pray, pray for the remaking of the light.

Refrain: Do not go gentle..

To Be...

We be
You explain it
Hebrew ignores it
Spanish divides it
(?) Ser o Estar?
Spirit wind or ghosts?
I feel - estar
I change - ser
I love - ser en equivocado.
The moon is full - estar
The moon is new - estar
Round, doe-brown, full moon eyes - ser
Pixie dust twinkles - Puede ser?
"(!)Papi, te amo!"
The words are new - estar
My heart is full - ser


Crystalline sparkle from twin blue sapphires
Skates glistening figures on my icy soul.
An unweighted plumb line in a wind storm of self doubt
I dreamed of an hourglass taking its sand from Sea Isle City.

One date in March, one date, the music critic from Rolling Stone
Told her friend how to play his guitar.
She loved him anyway.
A sandcastle half as big as the beach
Queues up to fill the hourglass.

A serpent coils dreamily, deep in his abdomen.
Bright, orange flame shadows the deep ruby scales.
Her breath whistles through his soul, making the snake
Alive and happy.
His, hers, whispering, knowing.

To all things (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
Orderly and with patience, the grains of sand begin
Their inexorable crawl downward;

One, two, three grains of life;
One, two, three grains of love.
Happiness felt in the soul cannot be held in the hand.

First maintaining two separate forms
The fields under our feet furrow as we pass, and pass, and pass again.
Some stroll by oblique to the congruent rows we plough.
The day is done.

The equipment sleeps, the drivers vanish.
We climb from our furrows.
His words, her words, his breath, her breath,
Dazzling orange heat, endless ruby scales,
One cannot be distinguished from the other.
One grain of sand squeezes through the hourglass, then another…

The autumn winds reach to Sea Isle City
A sandcastle dances in the Indian summer breeze,
Spread between the toes of children enjoying one last weekend.
Sun beats on the hourglass, now dripping naked.
The sunshine teaches the sand,
Once stoically guarding the hourglass behind castle walls,
To dance, flexible and free.

Two rivers become one.
Why is this metaphor a lie?
Why does the Ohio swirl so much harder?
Why does the sand flow faster as each crystal
Becomes a more practiced dancer?

Cruel words train the dancers.
We destroy.
They pirouette, always downward.
The finely honed edges of lovers’
Words draw blood on impact.
I can almost see through the hourglass.

It all depends on you, final grain of sand.
Flow through as every skillful dancer before you.
The hourglass is empty.
Contort, spread, resist.
Claim the stage. Do not yield.
The performance has not ended
Until the final dancer struts and frets across the stage,
Signifying nothing - nothing remaining.
Two lives, begun in grace, are all but over.

February 2008, revised June 28, 2009

What's in a name?

The name of this blog is personal, really, being the Fisch with a C, not the fish in a sea, I didn't have to make it water-related. It feels right. Poetry is by nature fluid. It is buoyant (Archimedes' Principle), the faster it moves, the more you are uplifted (Bernoulli's Principle), and when something strikes you by triggering one image, your whole soul is affected (Pascal's Principle). Also, when you are riding a wave of poetry, the particle (you) doesn't move, but the energy is transmitter through you - especially when you share it.

I will be posting my poems here, starting from when I became active in writing them after the failure of my marriage to the things I am doing now. If you are looking for meta-analyses of the human condition, you'll probably have to look to Goethe. I'll just document my little place in it.