Conference quark::mennotes-v1

                    Distance

          A man leaves the lodge,
             Descends to the waiting boat.
          His pace is slow, measured.
             Drumbeats mark his steps.
          Sinewed arms hold a drum aloft, and
             Swing a mallet into the drumhead.
          Again.   Again.   The boat pulls away.

          Booming fills the air,
             Holds off the encircling storm.
          Grey mist thickens, greens
             Blur and run together.
          Small drops at first,
             Then more, then whips of water.
          The tent of sound collapses,
             The drummer races to a cabin,
          Hurls the drum up to a dry porch.
             The drum strikes a railing, hesitates,
          Falls back to the ground.

          The rain has steadied, settled in.
             He sits alone now on the porch,
          Cross-legged, a hand on the broken drum,
             His gaze on the empty dock.
          His eyes know the cold, quiet rain.
             Silence fills the air,
          Holds off the encircling grief.

          I watch him.  I am in him.
             He leans forward, head low,
          Waiting.  Waiting. A shudder.
             Another.  Then whip-like shudders,
          A rising wail from within.
             The tent of silence collapses.
          My blood pounds to cross to his cabin,
             To hurl myself onto the dry porch.
          I lean forward.   Hesitate.   Fall back.

          We sit alone on dry porches,
            Cross-legged, bowed,
          Our eyes know a warm, salty rain.

    
                 All Things Considered


Click.

"In Yerevan today...miraculous survival... 
  31 days in the cellar of a collapsed building...  
    six men...   soviet television...   a hospital bed..."

The man in the hospital bed says, 

"I kept up the spirits of my companions
 by singing songs to them and by telling 
 them stories from my life."

I explode into tears... cry out...  
  pound the steering wheel with my fist...  
    "stories from my life!"
      red lights blur in the stream of traffic...

Click.

Night...   Images...   tears...    dreams...

Click.

"The report that we brought you last night 
  appears to be a hoax...  other men cannot be found...  
    no cellar...  no survivors..."

Click.

    
               Caged Lion

     A lion roars in the cage of my heart,
     Having paced the night away.
     The smell of his pacing, his turning,
     Oozes through the confining bars.
     He sinks to the cold floor now,
     Smoldering eyes greet the gray dawn.

                   A Tribute to Shame

          You covered the young boy, gave him safety,
          Let him play his games within;
          A shell in the mud of a harbor of dreams.

          And when the youth swam free in the sea,
          Your curves gave shape to awkwardness,
          Your chambers bouyed a pulsing heart.

          And now as the man strides forth on the beach,
          You lend your coats to old discomforts,
          Opening his heart, as mother of pearls.
                 

    A love poem to Brenda, who is now my wife
    written in Feb. 1989
    *************************************
    
i love looking out on this world all around
with thoughts of you keeping me warm.
sharing each other, this distance between
while a barrier, is no more forlorn.

thoughts of you and your love...of the place where you are...
bring me peace and contentment n'er known.
and i long to be there, in the palm of your life
feeling lost in that love, heaven grown.

the clouds up above, drifting lazily by,
cast their shadows around, far and wide.
but their edges agleam with the light from your love
keep the path bright and clear by my side.

that color, so clear, silv'ry bright with the glow
that you cast from your heart and your voice,
guides my love to your side, with each step that i take
'till we meet again, breathless and close.

the moment is shared, the passions increase,
'till we're spent. Then our arms intertwine
and we walk down the pathway 'lumed by the glow 
from our love, found on earth, but devine.

eternity calls.  the years come and go.
yet i stand by your side, all the while.
lost in my love, impassioned by yours,
finding happiness, joy, in your smile!

    
    tony

    Uh, guess I should send my "Ars poetica" to a professional
    German-English translator....Paul
    
    
        some people just keep
            pouring water
          into an open fire,
    and when the flame finally dies
      all of a sudden they claim
      it was never ablaze enough.
                

    
    
	Somewhere between the chill of winter
	And the blazing heat of summer
	He walks a fine line

	Somewhere between the calculating whir of machinery
	And the whisper-soft breeze in the pines
	He skirts a thin edge

	Somewhere between abrasive, blunt irony
	And warm and welcome smiles
	He balances on the wall

	Somewhere between unknowing, unbound force
	And soft encouragement to grow
	He straddles the fence

	Somewhere between the depths of ire's oceans
	And the echelon of sunset-clouds' tranquil pastels
	He treads evenly

	Walking in unknowing confidence
	Unfaltering and secure
	Somewhere between the yin and yang
	There is a miracle in every step
	A boundless grace, a breathless waiting
	Guarding his paces, wishing I could make it easier
    	
    	Knowing the path he treads
    	Must be walked by him alone.....

    						jb
    

                                   COLD

                              by Wes Mallory

		As the season of the bitter winds approach
		And the chill creeps into my soul,
		I begin my desperate search for warmth.

		Yet I know the bite of the cruel wind
		Is warm when compared to the icy breath
		Of loneliness that will pervade the coming months.
		
		As my spirit clings to each haunting memory,
		Seeking respite from the arctic blasts,
		My heart cries out for the warmth of days past.

		But there is no fire nor sun to warm me,
		Only the darkness of the endless winter
		Stretching into an uncertain future of cold.

		The frigid void seems to blend into eternity
		As I pull my memories around my shivering shoulders
		And try to conjure up the relative warmth of hope.

		But hope is a harsh mistress who can turn her back
		To my plaintive cries, without warning or mercy,
		Leaving me naked in the icy, wintry blast.

		From the infinite reaches of despair,
		Waves of bitter cold consume my spirit
		As this never ending night goes on and on.

		Envious eyes contemplate the dead leaves
		Swirling at my feet in the dirt
		Beneath the apathetic light of the stars.

		Was it fate that doomed me to eternal sorrow?
		Or could I have been somehow to blame?
		Right now it doesn't matter, I'm just cold.

           Dark Dances

     Sometimes I think I'm dancing,
     Wildly and freely prancing,
     Sliding through the darkness
     With my dark electric person,
     My creative pulsing magic anima.

     She steers me in dark places
     Through the deadly beaten spaces
     'Til alas.. I lose her in the dust.

     Then I feel again that I am sliding
     Barely breathing, and perspiring
     Sliding down that "razor blade of life".

		mardy seavey 11/9/90

    
    A man's heart is a drum.
    The beat of the drum marks
    the steps of the god within.
    The dance of the god 
       warms the man's thoughts, 
        kindles the man's words, and
         fires the man's tongue.
    
    May no man be required to speak
    from a cold and silent heart.
    
       Wil

    I've been in a 6-man men's group that has met once
    a week for the past three and a half years.  Every
    now and then, we get out six pieces of paper, each
    of us starts a poem by writing a line or two and
    then passes the paper to the next man.  Each man 
    adds a couple of lines and passes the poem on.
    
    It's another way to communicate...
    
    We did it again a couple of weeks ago.  
    Here are two of the poems.  It must have been
    a rainy night.  I forget...
    
      Rain.  Wet leaves in the street.
      Coffee.  A blank pad of paper before me.
      How can the pen trace the dampness of
      regret, the decay of love, the steam of loss?
      Or is it forever to be wished of what was,
      what could be, what is not?
      It is as if I begin here something more than
      a sentence, and less than the rest of my life.
      The wind washes the rain against the side of the house,
      the steam from the coffee mug rises as I sink
      into thought -- or forgetfulness.
    
    
       The way the strong rain blankets the
       glistening driveway, recalls memories of
       my youth, long, long ago when I still
       enjoyed the feel, sound and wet of rain.
       I remember damp days in summer camp
       when we all lay on bunks talking.
       I learned to love talking then.
       And I remember the two places in the
       backyard, where the flagstones dipped.
       Water collected there making two puddles
       that remained long after the rain.
       I remember boots, raincoat and times
       alone, wading and splashing.
       The memories come one after another,
       relentlessly.  I am immersed in them
       like my boot-covered foot in the 
       puddles of my youth.
       There is no proceeding in this rain, 
       no going on.
    
    Wil

    There is another topic in this notesfile... feelings about our fathers. 
    Well, I replied to that string, and I've read many other replies.  They
    prompted me to write this poem about my dad.  I don't often write
    poetry, but, I enjoy doing it when the mood strikes.
    
    tony
    
				Memories of my Dad
    
        I remember my Dad.  He's been gone a long time.
        	But, my memories linger, they're etched in my mind.
        I'm reminded of when, lo that long time ago,
        	That he took me back home, "just for a year or so".

        His new lady was there, and she soon became "mom",
        	And, my brother and sister had come along, 
        To live with them, too, so our mother could rest,
        	And start a new life with her man in the West.

        Dad was a stern man, and full of resolve
        	That others might see him as being above
        Life's petty concerns, he's beyond all of that!
        	But inside of himself he's one pussycat.

        He was mean as could be, when the time was just right.
        	Or gentle and warm, when he told me "good night".
        His stature was looming, my memory serves.
        	Imposing by nature; strong, yet reserved.

        His face would show anger.  Then laugh with the best,
        	He expected us kids to stand over the rest,
        And surpass all our dreams, while reality rules,
        	And n'er settle for less than the best we could do.

        And when I grew up, I had learned from him well,
        	But, often life tricks us, and we're wont to tell
        What is wrong in our life, and to make the wrong choice.
        	And that's what I did.  And n'er did rejoice.

        Then years passed me by, with my Dad far away.
        	Joy eluded me, and less, day by day
        Was my life fulfilling, and lessons or yore
        	Were lost to my memory, I wanted much more!

        But, my father was gone, before that came to pass.
        	He gave up his life, to God; and alas
        He never saw happiness come to his son.  
        	He never saw joy in my life, now hard won.

        My children rebuke him, my sorrow is strong.
        	They wouldn't take time to learn it was wrong
        To push people aside, though others may tell
        	Them that dad was a bad man and now lives in hell.

        My father's not there!  You'll be wasting your time
        	If you look beyond heaven.  For you'll find him inside
        Where the Lord's stronger hands are helping him stand
        	And his life is now happier than ere any man.

        So, when I was there, when he died.  By his side,
        	I told him I loved him, and took him aside
        From the rest of the family, all gathered there,
        	And, quietly, silently we said a prayer.

        And then he was gone.  (He'd been ill for a time.)
        	And he left us with feelings of loss, yet sublime
        In the knowledge he'd touched us, and given the best
        	Of his life and his love to us.  May he rest!



    tony

    The first 30 lines of this poem are anonymous.. It's been floating
    around for years. 
    
    I was a Field Service Engineer for 25 years... and I've carried this
    poem around with me for a LONG time.  I ran across it again yesterday, 
    and thought I'd add a little to it, so the last few lines are my own.
    
    enjoy
    
    tony
    
       
    			THE CONDEMNED
    
    When the earth was created, the powers above
    Gave each man a job to work at and love,
    He made doctors and lawyers and plumbers and then,
    He made carpenters, singers, and confidence men.
    And when each had a job to work as he should
    He looked them all over and saw it was good.
    
    He then sat down to rest for a day
    When a horrible groan chanced to come to come up His way.
    The Lord then looked down and His eyes opened wide
    For a motley collection of bums stood outside.
    "Oh!  What can they want?"  The Creator asked then.
    "Help us," they cried out, "a job for us men!
    We have no profession."  They cried in dismay.
    "And even the jails have turned us away."

    Said the Lord, "I've seen many things without worth
    But here I find gathered the scum of the earth!"
    The Lord was perplexed, and then He was mad.
    For all the jobs, there was none to be had.
    Then He spake aloud in a deep, angry tone,
    "Forever and ever ye mongrels shall roam
    Ye shall freeze in the summer and sweat when it's cold;
    Ye shall work on equipment that's dirty and old;
    Ye shall crawl under raised floors, and there cables lay;
    Ye shall be called out at midnight and work through the day;
    Ye shall work on all holidays, and not make your worth;
    Ye shall be blamed for all downtime that occurs on the earth;
    Ye shall watch all the glory go to software and sales;
    Ye shall be blamed by them both if the system then fails;
    Ye shall be paid next to nothing from sorrow and tears;
    Ye shall be forever cursed, and called Field Engineers."
    
    *****************************
    
    When your system breaks, or you need to install
    That new disk drive, or tape, or place in a call,
    Remember to give your FE no help,
    Don't remind him, or tell him it's just a broke belt.
    Make him sweat, and turmoil, don't assist him a bit.
    Let his errors abound, and then throw a fit!
    Call him names!  Show him up!  And, then call his boss.
    And accuse him of malaise, and then, for a toss,
    Throw incompetence in, and every new sin
    You can think of.  Remember, the Lord did him in!
    He's the scum, so it's said, and he's worthy of this
    It's his Lot, saith the Lord, it's his calling to bliss!

    Remember, that God has condemned all FE's 
    And, remember, it's His Will you all try to please
    By trying to make life as bad as can be
    For the worst of them all, the lowly FE.

    And so it has been, 'till this very day.
    As in the beginning, so never dismay,
    All FE's, together, from this coast to that,
    Are lower than life, without even a hat
    To put over their heads, to shield them from rain
    And protect them from fallout from those with a brain.

    And when life is over, at last they can rest
    And recover some semblance of peace, or at best
    Look around, and discover, the place they are in
    Is a haven for all who fixed, or did in
    Those pieces of software, so sloppily wrote,
    That are in every program.  No wonder they broke!
    And those who were sellers, and some OEMs,
    Are present, accounted for, every last man.

    "Added Value", they said!  (want to bet? you proclaim!)
    They're all here!  In this place, where the FE's disdain.
    For it's hotter than Hell!  Why, there's no comfort there!
    It's worse than we thought, and it's full of dispair!

    But, the FE's new home?  It never gets hot.
    For the climate's controlled by a system that's not
    Going to break, or go down, or fail to run
    The one program that's written by one of their own.


tony
    	(who was an FE for 25 years)

This is the story of a former investor, the "former" status due to his having 
lost his fortune to his ex-wife, and his inability to reestablish working 
capital because of the alimony. 

	(To the tune of Fats Waller's "Ain't Misbehavin'")
	
        The Divorced Investor's Lament

	No one to talk to,
	    my broker won't call,
	No one to hawk to,
	    no assets that I could sell.
	
	I ain't been savin', just sendin' all my dough, to you!
	
	My downpayment.
	Buys your raiment.
	I go nowhere,
	so you get new wear.
	Your wardrobe keeps my net worth low,
	    and me looone-ly.
	
	I used to buy gold, 
	    and sell silver too.
	Now you got my gold,
	    and I drive a Suburu.
	
	I ain't been savin', just sendin' all my dough, to you!
	

	The Monastery

	High on arid plateau of barren hills,
	Stands tall a monastery of gray walls,
	Always aloof and never with a smile,
	A ragged face engraved with the wounds and scars 
	Of thousand years of wind and desert storms.
	Where a lonely solitary soul dwells,
	Desiring, yearning for a gust of rain,
	The long awaited ringing spring will bring.

	At the center, in the court, reign supreme
	The blind and deaf and austere statues of
	Solemnly dead poets and composers,
	In perfect shapes, forms, numbers and of laws.
	Carefully dusted; carefully preserved.
	Immersed in praises of eternal hymns,
	In the sacred Heiliger Dankgesang,
	Sheltered from the dust of ruin beyond.

	The desert echoes and murmurs under,
	Announce the tumultuous clashing thunders
	The imminent arrival of the rain.
	The foundation resonates and fractures
	And upon the shattered drenched ground, rises
	An infant flower trembling in triumph.
	Born in depth of heart where mind cannot reach,
	Dare to crush the walls and re-shape the core.

	The soul lingers blindly from hall to hall,
	Sensing the rugged rocks between wall and wall.
	The bleeding palms hold still the flowering--
	Fresh, fragile budding of life from within,
	"Shall I allow you to grow and blossom 
	 To wreck the statues and lay waste the walls?
	 Can you alone endure the winter frost?
	 Or should I, in the name of peace and peace,

	 Strangle you at once?"



					Eugene Xia,  Feb. 1991

    
    		And when he goes to Heaven
    		To St. Peter he'll tell:
    		Another Marine reporting, sir, 
    		I've served my time in Hell.
    
    				-From a grave marker,
    				-1st Marine Division Cemetary
    				-Guadalcanal, 1943