On the Platform

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

On the platform, The CTA platform

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

And it was the north/south line
And it was the Chicago Avenue Station

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

And as she talked, All listened,

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

And as she sang, A few drunks laughed,

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

(and everyone pretended she wasn't even there)

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

And with the rolling of the trains

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

All sounds turn

into a dull rumble

anyway.

Care

          And then,
            when left to chance
       I think things move
           (in a way)
               not unlike
             water...

    [Each] Going,
                  but not knowing
             Where it must to
               fill the
                     gaps.
              And never quite
              understanding form.

            Or at least
                  leading us to
              believe it doesn't
                        Care.
                            .
                            .

Reflection

?         R 
 ?        E 
  ?       F 
   ?      L 
    ?     E 
     ?    C 
      ?   T 
       ?  I 
        ? O 
         ?N 
          ?R E F L E C T I O N
T H I N G S?
           T?      L
           H ?    O
           I  ?  V
           N   ?E
           G    ?L O V E
           S     ?    T
                  ?  A
            H A T E?H
                   E?H A T E
                  T  ?
                 A    ?
                H      ?
                        ?    D
                  L I F E?   E
                         D?  A
                         E ? T
                         A  ?H
                         T   ?M O R E D E A T H
                         H    ?
                               ?
                           Y O U?
                                Y?
                                O ? M
                                U  ?E
                                R   ?      N
                                S    ? M   O
                                E     ?E   W
                                L      ?   H
                                F       ?  E
                                         ? R
                                          ?E
                                           ?E V E R Y W H E R E
                                            ?
                            Y E S T E R D A Y?        T
                                             Y?      O
                                             E ?    D
                                             S  ?  A
                                             T   ?Y
                                             E    ?N O W
                                             R     ?
                                             A      ?
                                             Y       ?
                                                      ?
                                                    M E? M
                                                        ?E

This Room

This room,
three outside walls;

Rain,
and not the gentle sort;

Windows,
cracked for the breeze;

Thunder
cracks through the air;

Flashes,
Through curtained glass;

Sounds
of cracks and waves;

Silence
In-between it all.

Pay Phone

Stovepipe

---

(c) 2012, Norman Dziedzic Jr.

As I Count My Years

What will you see
     When your sight is lost

What will you feel
     Without feelings

How will I sound
    To your deafened ears

How will I hear
    What you're saying

Will you taste:
        My bitterness
        My anger
        My confusion
        My sadness

Will you understand;
     I cannot, right now
Will you smile at me;
     I cannot, right now

Would you watch me now;
     I could use that now

Could you teach me now;
     Would you show me how

When I think of you
     Will you touch me, friend
When I close my eyes
     Will you hug me then

In the dark of night
     Will you stop the cold
At the break of dawn
     Will you wake my soul

During quiet times
     Will you come and stay
When the dusk first falls
     You could light my way

You can count your days
     As I count my years
You can hold me tight
     As I count my tears

As the months go by
        And time presses on
You will see:
        My struggles
        My resolutions
        My perseverance
        My reckonings

When my step first slows
    You will be my cane
When I ache to move
    You will ease my pain
When my light falls dim
    You will lead me on
When my thoughts all fade
    You will bring me home

What will I see
    When my sight is lost
What will I feel
    Without feelings
How will you sound
    To my deafened ears
How will you hear
    What I'm saying

As you lift me up
       And I raise my head
We will feel:
       Our souls
       Our joy
       Our peace
       Our love

---

(c) Norman Dziedzic Jr.

van Gogh Sneeze

This poem was inspired by this picture.

van Gogh, Gauguin
Gauguin, van Gogh
In the south they painted don’t you know.

Gauguin, van Gogh
van Gogh, Gauguin
It was Vincent’s Arles studio plan.

Paint and easels
Easels and paint
At first the project seemed so quaint.

Easels and paint
Paint and easels
Good intentions sometimes hide evils

Art and disease
Disease and art
Can drive the best of friends apart.

Disease and art
Art and disease
Shaving is dangerous when you sneeze.

(c) 2012, Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Cicada Serenade

 The long days of summer 
           allow me time
   To cut the grass late
        into the evening.

I am accompanied now by
This orchestra of
Insects.  My own cicada
Serenade.

 To many an annoying din
          Of white noise.
     To be shut out with
          Closed windows.

5, 13 maybe 17 years
Waiting to
Sing out loud, called
To the sunset.

   Every tree around me
       Its own ensemble
     Rising and falling
          Almost as one.

It starts in the elm.
Then fading,
The ash takes up the
Rolling line.

   Patience reveals the
               Patterns.
     Not of seconds but
      Minutes and hours.

By the honey locust's
Encore, the grass
Is done and the song
Fades into the night.

---

(c) 2012, Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Like a Simile, not Similar

Like a river
         not a stream
Like an Illusion
         not a dream
Like a car
         not boat or plane
Like going crazy
         but not insane

Like a wanderer
         never home
Like a hermit
         always alone
Like a mute
         never heard
Like a clown
         always absurd

Like knowing
         all that's messed up here
But having to speak
         to a deafened ear
Like doing all
         receiving none
And sweating
         just to get it done

Like having bosses
         so confused
When things get tough
         they think they're used
Like being blamed
         by everyone
For things
         you haven't even done

Like trying so hard
         you just can't sleep
With no reward
         you have to weep
Like going back
         time and again
And hoping that
         this all will end

But likenesses
         they aren't what's real
The truth
         is what they will conceal
I hope you see
         and most will claim
It's all just part
         of playing the game

Endothermic

99 Degrees, just wait.
Leaving the A/C of the office I
Close the door and start the car.

Breathing deep the hot air, windows closed
Fan off, I am endothermic.
I am sweating now.  Dripping.

Letters ooze out of
pores. My shirt is stuck
To me, stuck to this image.

Turning North the sun
Irradiates my left arm
I know the signs of heat stroke.

Words drip, formed from
Sweat condensed across
My back.

I should cool down but,
She will be sweating too
When I pick her up.

Demi-plié, assemblé,
Pirouettes will ooze grace
From her feet.

The steering wheel
Pirouettes in my hands,
Almost too hot to touch.

Now all the stanzas cling
To my jeans and my
T-shirt and matted hair.

This fire, this
Energy has run its
course, entropy flows.

Closer to the studio
I give in and hit the button
That brings cooling air.


(c) 2012, Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Lift Up

This poem was written for the July 4th Challenge at the site 20 Words a Day

---

Li e

Lif      e

                      Pur              e 

Life

                         suit

 if

                d          i           e

              and the    s           in s

              and the P           a  in  s

Lif        t           u           p

      Li   t        e                in

        b     a         rs     f     ine s

      L       and     Pursuit

 if                              Happiness

            y       e    s

Life          and the Pursuit

Life          and                Happiness

      Liberty

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

---

(c) 2012, Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Poetry on Prose

The writers of prose
The thinkers of things
The keepers of time
The scribes for the kings

They write not in verse
But their hand isn't lost
For their meaning is seen
Their symbols aren't crossed

And their place is as true
As a great laureate
Their message as valid
As anyone's yet

Though their feelings aren't clear
The facts they stand tall
And their purpose is served
When they answer the call

They work not in meter
Or neatly trimmed feet
But perfect every sentence
And make paragraphs neat

Where I would call rain
Tears from angels on high
They say, "precipitation"
From clouds in the sky

As I grapple for adverbs
Or fight with a phrase
They just say, "this is it"
And erase all the haze

No matter how different
Our tactics might be
Our goal is the same
To get people to see

As the facts they make known
And my feelings I show
We walk side by side
Making known what we know

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Caviar

Click for Larger Image

On Words

If you have seen my other stuff you will know I don't normally do traditional rhyming patterns.  This is an old poem from when I did.  I will follow "On Words" up with two others which are On Prose and On Poetry when time permits.

---

The equality of words I think
Is perfect most agree
For one word isn't more a word
Than other words you see

In other words a word's a word
That is as words I mean to say
Just standing there all by itself
A word's just that in every way

Now groups of words I've heard have weight
That is some think some sum up more
Than other groups of equal words
As if they give each one a score

But words of heart they have no weight
I mean their weight we cannot see
Heart's words can move your feelings much
And leave your brain without the key

When words and groups and feelings mix
The weight is there but can't be found
And endless sayings are all said
Without a single talking sound

---

(c) Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Old Brown Shoes

---

     
           I don't know why  I put them on
           The old brown    worn out shoes I
                  Found      discarded
         Along the side       of the road

           So very tight       my baby toes wailed
            But the laces      held a while
         And the old brown      worn out shoes
              Held a while       onto my feet
 
                    I begin       walking backwards
          Along the side of       the road
    But not really walking       more searching
          For the history       of leather

           Following the       rumble strip
 Feeling for impressions       of dusty footprints 
            Of worn out       black soles
           Of worn out       souls

          As I walk        I listen
          For echos       of your steps
              Echos      of your breaths
       From nearby        walls

        Slowing now       I scan the scene
    For impressions        of reflections
           Of light         bounced off you
       I am hunting         hidden daguerreotypes

     I shuffle toward        familiar visions
           From almost        thin air
           Almost solid        they hold a while
           Onto my mind        this history of leather
     
               Déjá vu         approaches        
              Askew and      without warning   
         And I am frozen   in time
              Frozen in old brown shoes

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Prelude to “Old Brown Shoes”

The old brown shoes have taunted me for weeks now.

Quickly I put them on, a fury of image and meter.

Easy marks of leather and sole and history,

They laid like lambs at my feet.

But they have turned stubborn and cold and visionless.

Stuck in the gutter
Stuck in the verse
Stuck in reverse

Perhaps I shall cut their laces
cut their ties, their
ability to hold
me

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Homesick at Home (Betrayed)

I wrote this poem for the weekly challenge at 20 Lines A Day.  Check them out for a vibrant blog of poets and writers and photographers.

---

They have all left - kids, wife, dogs.
Not for good or very long for that matter
But I am alone, 
                homesick at home.

Oh how I wish this house were haunted.
At least by more than the spiders and 
                     occasional mouse.

Instead, I am haunted

   By silence the TV cannot drown out.
   By empty bedrooms 
            and chairs
            and couches.

   The normal routines dead end
            in meaninglessness.

But in fact
            this house is haunted.

   By the laundry
   And forgotten library books.
   Even dog's chew toys
   Mock and reproach me.

The anticipation of freedom
      Has betrayed me!

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Breathless

This poem can be read three ways.  You can read the bold lines only, the italics lines only or straight through.

---

Dawn, and across the plains: mountains


Eyes, through warm air, and darkness: night


Rising, from seemingly nowhere


Giving almost no clue to what's beyond


     Majestic to the point of awe.


     Delicate, not to the point of weakness.


And knowing


And seeing


       no cause to be so,


       no reason to shy away,


          it leaves one breathless.


          I breath without resistance.

---

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr./>

Gillson Park Playground

Dreamless

 Sleeping,
          dreams elude me.
I know they are there
        waiting
 always waiting
                just outside
my unconscious drift

Waking,
       I am awash with 
 layers of visions
        pushing
 always pushing
                just outside
my periphery
                just outside
my reach

Dreams taunting my pen
       haunting my keyboard

Fleeting wisps
    hoping to be caught
    longing to be inked
               or typed
               or spied

And sometimes
              only sometimes
      touching paper.

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Lectern Accent

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Saturday

This poem was written for a web page asking for Saturday poems this last weekend.  You can find that site at this link.

---

Sleepover leftovers
washing syrup and bacon grease and utensils
egg shells down the disposal
down the drain
down

Driving here and there and back for
Art fairs and dance recitals and coffee
and Father’s Day cards
(don’t forget the coffee)
driving away and
driving home
driving
me

Eating out with friends
and strangers
and we are all eating
salad mostly
mostly
eating
mostly
driving
down the drain
with the egg shells
with the syrup
with
me

Sleeping over
again and again
sleeping bags
splayed about
about sleeping
and driving
home is here
is sleeping
again
home is
me

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Vastness

The other night

    I looked skyward to see

        Ten million starry worlds

And it made me sad
                   To think

         "How small I really am"


          But thinking more,
              I realized
  
  How great I am

            To be so small
  
  And to perceive

               Such vastness

---

(c) 1995 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

The Song

The notes are changed

And the tune's not the same

But the song goes on

After the band's gone

All the speakers torn down

The song goes on

And the crowd still cheers

And the hypocrite jeers

But this song has played

For the last million years

Now this one single note

Screams out over space

But the thousands of ears

Refuse to hear

Nobody cares

The staff is fading

All the treble clefs bleed

The whole scene most degrading

The time signature

No more regarded

The tempo

Grossly retarded

Fortissimo dead and gone

Pianissimo lives on

Soft and long ... the song

No more can it measure

To the once sterling bars

Of the antiquated fanfare

The song goes on

And the song goes on

In hope of an ear

Somewhere down the line

But like fairy-tales

The child is grown

The dream is gone

---

(c) 1983 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Egghead

(c) 2008 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Bad Haiku

     Haiku is not good

at least this one stinks on ice

              Brr, it's cold in here
 

---

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Black Thread (Tour Rut)

For 11 years of my youth I spent summers touring as a member of The Cavaliers Drum & Bugle Corps (first in the Cadet Corps, then in the 'A' Corps).  This poem was written in my last, "age out" year with the corps.  While outwardly it may seem depressing, I have always found that writing something sombre takes those feelings away from me and makes me feel better.  May it do the same for any who read it.  My favorite words in the poem are "-We belong-".

---

Here on a curb
     (some truck stop in Missouri)
   Sound of Drums
            Horns
     Diesel Engines

Waiting for parts to fix
            Some piece of
            Some bus
That we reluctantly call
                    Home

Practice is sincere, yet
           All minds long
  To return to the road, to
               Motion
   Somewhere, maybe hundreds
     Of miles away
               We don't care
       Just not here:
              Where the loneliness
         Of truck drivers
              Does not diminish with
   Their numbers but multiplies
        With every empty face
                       Sucking down
                               Coffee

It is now, my summer
       Wails
    For a better place
     To be spent

It is now, I can only
       Dream
    Of afternoons at
      Oak Street Beach
         A family
  So far our of reach

   One can't help
       But wonder why?
       And yet it seems
       -We belong- nowhere
                     Else...

...And coming back
        To a familiar
   School (no one knows what houses
             are anymore)
          It could be six states
                   From home
           For I have forgotten

   It all seems blurred
      Into one barely cohesive
      Line: black thread,
      Tied in a loop,
      Removing beginnings
      And ends to stumble
      Over

   Finding a spot near the wall
          I pass
A dollar dropped on the floor
      Too lazy to
      Pick it up; or maybe
          Its promise is of no
             Value to me
                 Anymore

      So many promises
                   All found fake
        It's difficult to see
                Where home is because
             You cannot break
                Black thread,,,

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

intellect

(c) 1988 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

See the triptych here.

The Triangle

THE TRIANGLE RESTS ON A TRAY NEXT TO THE 

TYMPANIST, BEHIND TROMBONE

STRINGS, AND

TUBAS

GUSTAV HOLST MIGHT FIND

IT WEIRD TO PLACE

ATTENTION

HERE

"MERCURY"

FROM THE PLANETS,

LIKE DANCING SOUNDS THROUGH-

OUT THE HALL; TRIANGLE DOESN'T MOVE.

THE FINAL NOTE - UNDER

MIX OF STRINGS AND

KEYS: ONE

PING

---

(c) 1986 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

yesterday

(c) 1988 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

See the triptych here.

Zombie Garden

Whenever I hear this poem in my head, it is always in the voice of Andrei Codrescu.

---

Tomatoes and peppers 
     Planted by moonlight
          Next to the driveway.

An awful place really.
Too open, too visible;
     Requiring incantations to ward off
          Rabbits and neighbors and zombies.

I sprinkle soil, with its rotting 
    Wood chip smell on the pavement;
          A feeble talisman against
               Vegetable thieves.

Once I stake the tomatoes,
     Vampires will be easy quarry.
But what I really need are worms.

Worms so that after the battle  of the rutabagas;
              After the crusade of the cucumbers,
When my tomato flesh pieces fall in this,
                          My loamy mound,
I am composted quickly;
     
Out of the reach of the neighbors
     And rabbits
     And zombies
To feed the next army.

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

establishment

(c) 1988 Norman Dziedzic Jr.
See the triptych here.

Never Again

          In the forest walking
          Walking home I stopped
          To watch a toad
                          jump
                Across a rotting log.

Lizards grabbing
                       passing flies.
Instinctively led inside their heads.
Not a
      thought
              amongst the lot.

                  And even now I hear
                  I hear the freeway
      passing
                  Way too near


   My solitude.

                  It's gone.

(c) 1984 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Patients

     Hello.

     I am here ... patient.
     I am here and I - am - patience.
     I am as patient as bedrock and black and silence.
I.   I am here... and you are not very patient.
     You are life.
     You are motion and energy and noise.

     You are life and you - are - oblivious.

     I am growing ... my patient.
     I am growing so slowly.
     Slowly like trees and canyons and space.
II.  I am growing...and you are slowing.
     You are still life but...
     You are wondering and wheezing and denying.

     You are wondering and you - are - fear. 

     I have exploded ... patient.
     I have exploded and I - am - rapacious.
     I am operating and gorging and mutating.
III. I am exploding ... and you are fighting.
     You are hope.
     You are chemicals and beams and invocations.

     You are hope and we - are - patients.

     We are tired ... fellow patient.
     We are tired and we - are - waiting.
     Waiting for relief and peace and closure.
IV.  I am here ... and we are inseverable.
     We linger.
     We are silence and acquiescence and patience.

     We linger and we - are - gone.

     Goodbye.

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Philosophers

In high school they had us read Shakespeare and Hemingway etc.,  and even Descartes and Wittgenstein in a "Philosophy/Religion" class.  That was all fine except when they started to tell me what old dead white guys were thinking when they were writing.  This did not sit well with me and this poem is what came out of my brain after that.

---

                        PHILOSOPHERS
                        
   An iron leg walks the plank of chalk-dust but the balloon
pulls down the wave.  Opening my eyes  :  only pencil cases.
Still chicken little yells, "The sky is falling!"

   Soundless noises  pierce  empty microphones.   And a wall
knocks over the  form of the now forgotten worth  of it all.
Wrapped in (rapped with) ideas of this and concepts of that.

                          I am here
                        You are there
                       He is everywhere
                       
   And  yet all  is lost without  sight  of  the  invisible.
Without hearing the mute they  leave their houses.   Falling
to ashes they  stand deforming.   Without their  key,  their
house, its corners:  a meaningless store of space.

   Up-side-down I can sing a  song.   In-side-out  underwear
can still be worn without anyone knowing.   The shaven beard
grows even in death.

                          I am here
                        You are there
                       He is everywhere
                     nothing more needed
                  Yet too much more expected

(c) 1984 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Crying

Click picture for larger image

(c) Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Good Night

The mirror I have
  is never nice
 the pictures shown
(though seldom seen twice)
 never fade: I always see
     staring back
       the real me

The mirror I look to
  uses only truth
 I hide the facts
(though full of proof)
I try to run away from there
  from something
   that is everywhere

   the things I thought
   I'd never be
   confront my face
   they're inside me
   nowhere to hide, when from my mind
   no hole so deep
   I cannot find
   me cowering there
   from whom I've seen
   how old he is
   unjust and mean

   A face with
cracked and callous brow
   from hiding pain
  of others; how
    he lives with knowing;
   with all his faults
    showing
    puzzles even him.
 I hate him staring back
    and laughing so...
    so hard, so long
   "so what" he says
 I hate him knowing what's inside
    I hate knowing I can't hide.
       The hardest thing I see:
     the mirror
  for I know the one I hate the most
       is me, it's me

 If I should die before I wake
     you'll see him
   just the same as me.
     We are one mind
   though not one blood.
     One mind like taffy
      pulled between
ungrateful hands of greed


 If i should die before I wake
     break my mirror
      on my grave
   for truth is deadly
    when it can't save
   one from one's self

 If I should die before I wake
     don't pray for me
   but for yourselves:
alone, the single both of you


     Afraid to sleep
   I must beware
      one self might kill
    the other there,
     in darkness


       I hate it so
     it must hate me
      ...or, can it love
       so openly?
      Or can't it feel,
       could it be so cold
     not to care
     and leave me
   crying here with no more
   than my rightful due:
sitting in the hole I've dug


   If I should die before I wake
     don't cry for me
                 I drove the stake
   right through the good
         I used to feel
         right through a life
         that wasn't real

(c) 1985 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Dichotomy

I am the other
However I find that
The other's not me
Which is interesting

And while the other
(That is, that which
is not me and
which I am)
Uses me much like a book
I use the other much like money

So I am it
While it's not me
I spend it while it studies me
And this raises thought

As if I'm in a box
And it's never there (for it's not me)
Except when I am it
Which is always

I guess that when I want it there
It's there
And when I don't it's not
But if I'm it
               it wants itself
I'm starting to get the picture

And as I struggle with self
As all selfs do
It feels it not yet still
                           fights back
Which I must feel
Even if I don't respond

Being divorce from me
It can be objective
While I, being of it,
Lay slave to the subjective

And in-between subject and object
A verb of dreams
Builds the framework
Of my dichotomy

(c) 1985 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

The Closet

In my closet are many things
A list of five-hundred forgotten kings
An old black book of unplayed songs
A list from God of rights and wrongs

In the closet an old pair of vampire fangs
In the back an unfinished picture hangs
Clothes obsolete and never worn
An old English paper crumpled and torn

On the left on the shelf a red shoe box
Inside a half dozen unpaired sox
Six baseball cards without the names
A rack with all our childhood games

Five posters that glow in fluorescent black light
Three feet of string and a tailless kite
A white telescope with a lens with a crack
An old locomotive and some dusty bent track

Behind an old traffic sign reading "merge"
Three roads to nowhere all converge
(And with my pencil, paper and mind
I can see though I am blind
Can sing and can whistle without using a note
Can travel the seas without raft or a boat
Can learn without ever a teacher near
Can get real drunk without any beer
Can feel though I am locked in a shell
Experience heaven, experience hell
Can run and can fall and without wings can fly
Without ever living can know how to die
With a few well placed phrases and maybe a rhyme
I can solve the world's problems, can travel through time
Never speaking a word I know how to converse
The meaning of life I can give in a verse)
I can travel these roads when I feel real blue
When there's nothing else left, they know what to do

In front of the sign an old sleeping bag lays
Now downstairs I hear that our stereo plays
Picking up all the things that I've strewn on the floor
I exit the closet, close behind me the door

(c) 1984 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Haze Outside

Haze outside
     the picture falters.
 here between day and dark
 as night
       a sketch
             lacking color

   depth or
          feeling maybe

 fading...

       When dark the
 lights will form
an outline
        sharp.

  When now the
 shapes loose def-
 inition
       the city falters.

Haze outside

(c) 1986 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

After Roses

    The Rose
                  from thorn to petal
           shows,
                  that never was
                         there found
                                 a smile
                         without a tear.

And thus I know
                   that every face
                                  of joy
                                  has seen a time
                          of harder lines;
                          (about the eyes,
                                         the mouth;
                                 maybe in the brow)

                   {And yet
                    there never was a time
                                 at which
                          on looking at your face
                            I didn't see
                                    a smile}

      And    so    [a rose],
                   from bud to blossom
            grows,
                   without the need
                                 to separate
                          the tears and smiles.

      And yet
            there never was a time of years
                   (or space of miles)
             I could have placed
                 between two,
                    joined as such,
                        to satisfy a want
                              I knew
                                   to be too much.
 
                         a
                       petal
                      a thorn
                   and yet a rose
           and yet there never was a time
                      at which
                on looking at a face
                      I didn't
                    see a smile
                       a tear

---

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

a rose

a

rose

a rose

and yet

a rose

and yet there never was a time

at which

on looking at a rose

I didn't

see a smile, a...

face

a face

and yet there never was a time

at which

on looking at your face

I didn't see a smile, a...

rose

---

(c) 1986, Norman Dziedzic

City Lights

   City lights
         from darkness
       show; in night
    to make me
             know
A man has walked before me.

      And wondering
         what will be known
             of me,
   I think -
             not the name.

        With no face,
                no words,
          one is left to
              make a stand
      upon ability alone;
         however grand or
       pathetically drone; to
              be exalted or
           thrown away with
               cares from
                yesterday.

          And coming to
         the break of day,
    I will walk before the sun
          that I may know
        I walk alone;
     And they may know
  A man has walked before them.

(c) 1985 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Momentary Distraction

  Those walking by
       Dressed for warmer air,
Force smiles
            To the wind.
However,
        This is only a
   Momentary distraction
                        Dear.

  Walking by you,
         It's difficult,
Not to smile;
    But sometimes
       Your face says -
   Not to look.
         Yet
         It never says,
             To look away.

  Even though I should not,
      I worry.
          Your bare arms and
Legs, to fight the day
  - And not to call
          You frail - 
                I think,
I want to
      Hold you close,
      To breath warm air
      Through your hair,
                 onto your
                     neck.

  Walking by
     I see your smile.
  And being dressed
        For warmer air,
    I long to feel your face
         Nested next to mine.

   However dear,
         I am only a
Momentary distraction.

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Showtime

 The lights go down
  a momentary blank,
       canvas black,
        empty space
            waiting
            waiting
 an endless instant ...
   a forever moment

The curtain goes up
   the book is open,
    parchment white,
      filling space
             moving
             moving
   an endless dream ...
   a moment forever

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Night Time

Night Time
       Wanting, Waiting, Longing.

Wanting sight            but
          more than seeing;

     Touching hands      but
           more than feeling,

        Holding maybe.

     Tightly.

         Wanting grasping -
               tightly longing -
         timely waiting -
               holding feelings.
         Wanting not
               for waiting longly,
         Only touching
               timely holding.

(c) Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Sendak Sendoff (Once)

... Of course
       I never knew where they were.

For I shut my eyes 
          when I thought I saw them
And I shut my ears
          when I though I heard them
And I shut my heart
          when I thought I felt them.

Was it the Wild Things?
     I suppose.
          But what are they?

"I don't write for children;
     I write, and somebody says,
          that's for children."

We should have known.
We should have known.

No one fears another that completely.
No one knows another that wholly.
No one wakes another that widely.

"I don't write for children."

I never knew where they were
     until I fell;
     until I left;
     until I stared without blinking...
                            once.

Once I conquered yellow eyes;
Once I conquered the sea;
Once I conquered the forest;
Once I conquered me.

Once.

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Tunnels
 

BLOCKS
OF WOR
DS HEL
D TOGE
THER W                             S EXCEEDING
ITH T U N N E L S ALL LEADING     L  BOUNDS OF
                  TO THE NEXT    E   NORMAL TH
                  .  WITHOUT    N    INGS.  US
                  A FEAR OF T  N     UALLY UNS
                  HE VOID ARO U      EEN.    T
                  UND THEM   T              U
                                           N
                                          N
                  E N N                  E
                 L     U                L
                I       T              S
               N         S             UNDER ALL
              G          L             THE WORKI
      SEEMINGLY          E             NGS OF TH
      TRANSCEND          N             E WORLD.U
      ING BOUND          N             NKNOWING.
      S.  DISSA          U             UNKNOWN T
      PEARING,           T             O THOSE O
      ONLY TO B           ;            UTSIDE.TH
      E FOUND E            S           ESE  T
      LSEWHERE                             U
                              L         N
                                 E   N  

(c) 1989 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Three Tomorrows

Eight rotations. Here I sit

     You'd think I'd learn
          To turn
away
          And not to burn
inside

Three weeks lately.  Movin' 'round
     You'd think I'd see
          How free
outside
          I'd be
outside

Only yesterday.  I'm still here
     You'd think I'd try
          To fly
home
          Or even die
to leave

Three turns left.  I guess I'll stay
     You'd think I'd know
          Not to show
my thoughts
          How very slow
it seems

One-million yesterdays.  Three tomorrows
   I think no more
      A bore
it is (and after this)
      No more
will it be there
why don't I care?

(c) 1984 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Near O'Hare
-----------  
...And in the blue
               with sound
                    no man alone
           can make.
  a jet passes across vision.
  Though at awesome speeds
             against the sky
      with ease and almost slow
       (but not without purpose)
                    it moves.


---


(c) 1987, Norman Dziedzic

Elephant Graveyard

Elephant Graveyard
------------------ 
Wouldn't it be
a combination of funny and sad
if the world just ended.
Not a bang:
             a large scale majestic exit,
but just stopped.
No flourish of trumpets,
red carpet or twenty-one gun salute
but one peaceful white elephant
walking toward the graveyard.
Not fighting back, knowing full its fate
                 and accepting...
Laying down one leg first, then the next
and in a calm,
             steady
                     motion
the other two.
Leaning to one side, not moving itself,
letting gravity pull it
                           over.
Stretching out the legs that will never again
have to support its weight.
It lets out a solitary sigh
unheard, un-echoing:
without a beginning or an end.
It closes its eyes.
It is gone.
 


---


by Norman Dziedzic
(c) 1989, Red Shoes Review
Originally published in Red Shoes Review
Volume 7 Number 1, Fall 1989