and remember still . . .

               January, 1947, choking smell of coal, train to
               Lansing from Chicago, or bus to Bradley’s bar,
               Major Bob, Highland Avenue, and remember still
               Taft hotel where in the morning sweet Danny
               introduced me to raw egg in orange juice,

               remembering love as George Ditmar on the beach
               Cool April fog, baroque encounter at Point Dume
               and in his Valley home across from Adhor Milk Farm,
               listening to icon Claudia Muzio singing La Mama Morta,
               George scrambling eggs in the kitchen, shouts,
               “Flat! Unforgivably flat!”

               Search for love elsewhere—in conjured afternoons,
               Anne and Dean and Ditmar crowded into Bill’s room,
               Westwood, thrilled to hear Marian Anderson first time,
               Roland Hayes, Were you there when they crucified my Lord . . .
                       sometimes it causes me to tremble . . .
                             tremble . . . tremble . . .

               UCLA 170 on stage as drunken Dennis Dillon,
               “The White Steed” with Nora Fintry smashing cups.

               Sometimes I feel as if I have the taste of blood in me mouth,
               the taste of the blood of me enemies, the taste of the blood
               of the men who taught me to love their laws and hate life,
               I that have warm blood and the laugh of a giant!

               Chancing to meet Bucky outside the bull pen bar,
               through tears of joy, Bucky met outside the bull pen,
               ego driven not to know, this is not love.

               Hound dog Toby leapfrogging through tall grass,
               warm Thanksgiving Day, Effie Street, Echo Park,
               yellow Tillamook cheddar melted over corn tortillas,
               Bordeaux St. Emilion rich red wine, brother Bob
               throwing sticks for Toby bouncing through tall grass.

               Love is memory unfolding gray, Patchogue,
               chestnut colored land before first snow, with
               Julie Evergood, David, sketching Great South Bay,
               blown by southeast wind. David in summer
               beside Fahnestock ponds, angling sun fish,
               and this was love.

               For love is New York years, collecting dreams fulfilled,
               curtain rising on “Die Meistersinger” four-square chorale,
               Franco Zefferelli’s “Falstaff” premier, Leonard Bernstein
               conducts sizzling trumpets responding his baton.

               Old Met, 1963, Nureyev challenging Margot Fonteyn,
               Margot in her forties, defiant, poised in perfect balancé,
               beyond the possible in “Corsaire” pas de deux.

               again Old Met, 1965, Maria Callas returns in “Tosca,”

               placing candles haphazardly around murdered Scarpia,
               as Golden Curtain falls to thunderous applause.

               Moriches in May,
               white plaster Virgin Marys fronting red azalea bushes,
               Southampton beaches malingering lazy summer afternoons,
               dining six to eleven, Fleur d’Lis, with Marie Jaffrenou.

               Welcome to the Moors, Gentlemen!
               Discovering Provincetown, two pound lobsters,
               Lancer’s Rosé in pottery bottles, and in the afternoon,
               clam chowder, pitchers of beer prompting sing-a-longs,

               Well Hello Dolly! Hello Dolly!
               It’s so nice to have you back where you belong!

               Tall Canadian boys standing in a row
               waving Maple Leaf flags, singing lustily,
               O! Canada! O! Canada!

               Running with Toronto friends, Murray with
               his Bud-Miss Hooper, Ken and Black Alice,
               Jones’s Locker on Commercial Street, where

               artist Jamie lives without a door above
               the deck accessed by a wooden ladder.

               Jamie, aren’t you afraid you might get robbed?

               My dear, how do you lock a beaded curtain?

               Remembering still throwing sticks for Daiquiri,
               beneath the London planes in Central Park.

               Proud Daiquiri on small front stoop in Water Mill
               watching fidgeting rabbits on bright green lawn,
               far reaching woods grayed by late spring twilight,
               breathless sound of whippoorwills, never ceasing,
               ineffably never ceasing, Daiquiri curious,
               beyond belief—sounds of whippoorwills
               never heard before.

               And remember cold blue April afternoon
               filming “Where’s Poppa?” Westside Manhattan
               in abandoned police precinct building, crew,
               stars huddled in vendors’ shed, rushing out
               catching on film Ron Leibman in gorilla suit
               stumbling out of cab clutching red roses—see
               film to solve the riddle. When film wraps
               shouts of joy, applause, memories lingering
               in dreams, restless, lonely nights.

               Tony, Fire Island Pines, Sunday brunches,
               champagne corks popped into scrub pine trees,
               tea dances at the Sandpiper.

               Once more remember—Martin reading
               Dr. Seuss to wide-eyed, wondrous children.

               All this and so much more, and you must know,
               love’s end is not the end, anticipating shouts of joy,
               new friends, awakenings, remembering still to
               to live, continue as day begins, dark of the moon,
              full moon—no matter, afternoon, nightfall.

               Each morning the day begins
               as when the universe was born,
               a single spark of energy becomes
               everything that is.

When I Look into Your Eyes

                      When I look into your eyes,
                      I see the Buddha,
                      when I hear your laughter,
                      cries of sorrw or delight,
                      shouts of joy, a child’s first breath,
                      I see the Buddha.

                      World-filling wonderful sounds,
                      as simple as Chautauqua cardinals
                      clinging to topmost twig of tallest tree,
                      singing approval of the morning sun,
                      whippoorwills chanting mantras in
                      evening dusk, distant woodlands.

                      Thoughts dwell on the miracles of life,
                      I see the Buddha.

                      (Surely someone has written these words before me,
                       surely I did not write these lines.)

                      In worlds in all directions, I see the Buddha,
                      in all of life, I see the Buddha, revealing wonders,
                      finding comfort in a cosmos magically a part of us,
                      and us a part of it, the Buddha’s scope and majesty.

                      I’m a sailor trusting to feed an albatross from my hand,
                      participating in rituals unnamed, arriving now, here
                      to blazing fireplaces in homes too long deserted,
                      embracing life, I see the Buddha.

                      Have we forgotten who we are?
                      Look inward,
                      thou art Buddha.