Bob Schwartz

Category: Poetry

Shapes

Circle Triangle Square - Sengai Gibon

As day begins
I sketch
Circle
Triangle
Square.
They are everywhere
I look.
Appearing
Disappearing
Reappearing.

Illustration: Circle, Triangle, Square by Sengai Gibon (1750 – 1837)

Demon

The demon in my dream
Had no name or number
Big and terrible
It was safe to sleep in my dream
Only when it slept at its night
In dreamed night
In my night of dream.
An unpredictable terror
Of size with no measure
Chasing me in daytime
Dreamed daytime
In my night of dream.
In the dim waking room
It lingers like fog
Though its power is gone.
Does it have a dream
Where I am the terror
And it hopes that I am asleep
To escape me
For a moment of peace?
Does it know hope or fear?
Do I close my eyes
In the frightened fog
To see?

“Because the mind has no beginning or end, you can’t use the mind to put an end to the mind. Because there’s no inside, outside, or in between, if you look for the mind, there’s no place to find it. If there’s no place to find it, then you can’t find it. Therefore, you should realize there is no mind at all. And because there is no mind at all, demon realms can’t affect you. And because you can’t be affected, you subdue all demons.”
Hui-ching (578-650)

Life Story

Life Story

How many life stories
Count.
Plain and fancy
Good and plenty
One
Million
Billion
Worthy of a biopic
Or a headstone.
Breathless and amazed
At what it has come to
In the pages
Or paragraphs
Or words
That sum it all.

Actor’s Nightmare, Actor’s Dream

Actor’s Nightmare, Actor’s Dream

I wake up to find everything
In the place it was left.
Props on the stage
For another performance
Moved an inch or two
Back or forth
But more or less
The same.

Is this the day
I try to speak the first line
But don’t remember
The words and actions
Or even which play?

It’s called
The actor’s nightmare
Entry to an unbidden hell.
But to me it is a dream
A heaven of unscripted silence
Where everything
Including me
Are newly born.
No different
Unpredictable
Ready and
Right where we belong.

Something is happening here but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mister Jones?

Ballad of a Thin Man

When I look at the current political scene, or listen to analysis and prognostication by dozens of clueless paid or partisan political “experts”, I keep hearing a song from Bob Dylan.

Poetic word salad? Sure. Fitting message? Absolutely.

Ballad Of A Thin Man

You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you say, “What’s mine?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone?”

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak?”
And you say, “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks

You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, “Here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan”

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “NOW”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says, “How?”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home”

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin’ around
You should be made
To wear earphones

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Mirror

Mirror

What is heavier
Than the weight
Of a mirror?

Valentine’s Day

Love is
The boldest embrace
A stroke of the brow
A symphony
A single note
Distance in miles
As close as skin to skin.
Yesterday remembered
Tomorrow imagined
Meeting here now.
Confusion and clarity.
Intoxicated and sober.
Treasure found
Never found
Misvalued or lost.
Glad to sleep
To awake knowing
Or hoping.

Match

Match

A bit of paper
A sliver of wood
Tipped in red.
A flick of a wrist
Against a strip of grit.
A stick of incense.
A candle
Lighting the dark
Sparking romance
Marking a birth
Calling to heaven.
Fire igniting
The bed
The room
The house
The world
The next world.
What miracle
Do you have
To match it?

Round Trip to Heaven or Hell

If you had a round trip ticket
To heaven or hell,
Bliss or madness,
Sure you would return,
Would have to,
Which would you choose?
Tour over,
Now the common surroundings
Might seem shabby and disappointing or
Simple comfort and sanity a relief.
Conscripted for travel
Or volunteering,
This is what you learned
Gladly or sadly
For the next inevitable journey.

Babel On

Babel On

What is the point and price of
The tower of words and thoughts?

High and fine
To reach higher and finer.

Was God protective,
Jealous even,
Of the secret word
That would reveal all
And make him redundant,
Obsolete, inferior?

Or was it a sign
We couldn’t read
That in the clouds,
On the moon,
Mars, the stars
We would find nothing but ourselves
Still babbling
Traveling
Going nowhere?