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I present these poems with no explanation, a potentially dangerous (interpretively speaking) tactic, as many are personal and contain inside jokes and information. This means there is an excellent chance that, even as you find the poems very personal and meaningful for you, you grossly misinterpret in ways quite different from my own gross misinterpretations.
If you want a more scholarly understanding, I urge to to encourage Cliff Notes to lend a hand. But I choose to disagree with Søren Kierkegaard's 
assertion when he says “I would rather be a swineherd, understood by the swine, than a poet misunderstood by men.” I find that the misunderstandings make it far easier to remember the poems and the poet who, like Kierkegaard, are greatly misunderstood and therefore remembered. And by the way, I would suggest you trust yourself for literary understanding rather than Cliff Notes. Scholarly attempts have been made to read into things possibly not with so much intent to enlighten, but more to impress. In the Cliff Notes on Wordsworth's “Ode: Intimations of Immortality” it is contemplated that the tree mentioned might belong to the Garden of Eden, when it more than suffices for it to simply be a tree one plays in during childhood!
The poems are in chronological order, most recent first.
Contents (titles or first lines)
You wish me to write a poem for you?
On Explaining the Meaning of Entropy to My Parents
Solace on a Cold Winter’s Night
The World is a better place for my having known you:
Some say love is the most important thing in the world. I say it is passion.
Cherished moments come and go:
Love At First Sight Is Welcome Now
Do Not Be Alarmed; This Is Not a Love Poem
A Prayer of Peace for the Descendents of Abraham
On Watching the Crescent Moon Move Beyond Jupiter Without Your Being There
Rummaging Amongst the Daffodils
The Summering: A Parable of Peace
On Learning the Horrible News that Alex is Eight
“Who” or “Whom” will pay the Syntax?
Ode on a Married Lip ![[New!]](../images/smallnew.gif){kind=small}
Just rediscovered and added 24 July, 2013!
T’was Mr. Magoulas who taught me to sneeze;
You wish me to write a poem for you?
Forget it!
What would be more foolish than to try to use words
To express what is in my heart?
Wars have been started, entire countries destroyed
Because of words. Useless, useless words.
Should I say the poem in music?
I don’t think so!
Even that expression is depersonalized
By use of an instrument, even the voice.
(You’ve heard me singing; should I dare torture you more?)
No. No words, no music.
Let me instead write upon you with my fingers,
Play you with the caress of my lips.
You want a poem?
Let me scribe your heart with the fire
You ignite in my eyes.
You want a poem?
Hold me, let me hold you.
The music we hear unplayed,
The words we say unspoken,
There is your poem.
All this we say, all this we play,
It is the poem of Love.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
20 April 2012
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rita
funny
sweet
laugh
loud
loud laugh
sid
rita and sid
love
life
love of life
twin
twins
roma
mona
roma and mona
sid and rita
twins
identical
different
identically different
differently identical
loud
bossy
mascara
lipstick
perfume
strong
strong perfume
strong perfume
gentle
quiet
helpful
friendly
courteous
kind
scout
mature
caring
funny
thoughtful
thinking
philosophical
atheist
goddess
ageless
introspective
retrospective
rita
love
life
rita
miss
much
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
6 January 2012
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On Explaining the Meaning of Entropy to My Parents
What does it mean to get old?
First of all, there's all the jokes about it.
You know, like when you're young,
You are four years and 27 days old exactly;
When you are old, you're 70 something.
Of course there's more to getting old than that.
Memory gives way to Wisdom.
You become a wise old owl,
and people want to learn from your wisdom,
That is, if you can remember it.
You become less forgiving,
not because your heart hardens
(which it does, at the same time something else softens),
but because you realize
you can't forgive something that doesn't need forgiving;
because you realize those things
were not really all that important,
and if not important enough to worry about,
certainly not important enough to warrant forgiving.
Even though you accept that younger others forgive you,
your guilt doesn't dissipate,
but it does at least become a part of one's wisdom.
But lets look at the wisdom thing more closely.
They say that with love, the more you give, the more you have.
Wisdom seems to be a sort of antithesis,
as the more wisdom you have,
the more you realize
you don't have as much as you thought you did.
The more you want to give it away,
the less you have;
the less you want to give it away,
the more you have.
Yet love and wisdom seems intrinsically intertwined:
The less wisdom, the more love;
the more love, the less wisdom!
We speak of getting old.
It's a semantic thing.
Some of us get old.
Some of us merely travel through time,
make some changes,
experience changes happening to us,
then at some point transform into something else.
But we do not get old.
We've been unwittingly introduced into a journey;
in which some of us lucky ones are so busy travelling
we forget to get old.
Imagine someone going to a restaurant.
Once there impatience reigns:
upon arrival the focus becomes preparing for the journey back home.
Such a person does not get old.
They may not enjoy the meal as much,
but the conversation about the meal
and the journey to and from the meal make up for it!
So, what does it mean to get old?
If it is true that we do not really get old,
then the question is meaningless.
Yet it is neither paradox nor Koan,
Not riddle or trick question,
getting old is quite fascinating.
Our early ancestors lived into their twenties,
never benefiting from what we call old.
Dogs live to be a hundred doggie years,
and cost hundreds of doggie dollars.
Mosquitoes and flies,
trees and turtles,
planets and galaxies,
you and me...
each and every Universe, big and small,
traveling through time, aging yet ageless,
enjoys an infinite instance of existence,
And I am ever so grateful that my instance
got to cross paths with yours.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
27 December 2011
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To lie in bed and think.
Looking at my multi-colored pen.
Contemplating how, if my back
Was well enough, did not still hurt,
I’d be dining with them.
A wonderful, delicious home-cooked meal.
I take comfort in the thought
That they, my friends,
Are thinking about me, are talking about me,
My absence not a determent to their feast,
But a uniting topic for their dining enjoyment.
Even if that is not true, that’s OK:
I know they are still my friends,
And I’m sure they won’t mind
If I find great comfort in their thinking of me,
Even if it is only just pretend.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
29 December 2009
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The World is a better place for my having known you:
A new kindness finds itself expressed in wondrous ways.
Even stars shine brighter, as the broad horizon
Strives to greet the mornings of our days
When I walk, I smile, and others greet me,
They also smile; it’s just what they must do.
They have no way of knowing what I’m thinking,
But they are smiling because I think of you.
They go to work. Some struggle, some are sad,
Some are suffering, some are dying, some wish they were dead.
But everyone who sees me has another thought in mind:
There’s hope for us and for our world, for all of humankind.
The World is a better place for my having known you,
For who I am now is different than before:
Peace yet again peeks out from the horizon,
As I am touched by one whom I adore.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
7 January 2009
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Some say love is the most important thing in the world. I say it is passion.
Passion is the emotion that drives our lives, in our work, in our play, in our love.
Young passion is what gives birth to innocence, and what destroys it,
Very powerfully, and when we’re lucky, in a very positive way.
Mid-age passion brings us love and children, but not necessarily in that order.
But love cannot exist unless passion first has its impact upon the Human spirit.
Passion of the aged is the most passionate of all passions, if it is in the context of love.
For it does not have to exist in wild caresses, screams, or intense exercise.
A simple gentle touch upon the shoulder or caress of the cheek
Is all that is needed to arouse the deepest possible passion of another
If the other shares a loving relationship with you.
The passion of the aged is the greatest of all passions,
For if you are in love and share that simple touch,
This passion may be felt at any age.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
20 December 2008
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Cherished moments come and go:
Hither, thither run our lives,
Ever changing. What we know
Now transforms ‘fore our very eyes.
She, who listens to the music,
Hears the songs I gladly sing,.
Understands the gifts I bring.
When she listens to the music,
Every moment ordinary
Now is a most wondrous story!
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
25 August 2008
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Love At First Sight Is Welcome Now
A Love Acrostic
Zithers dance and dancers sing to celebrate first signs of Spring.
Yet there are those so spurned by love they dare not discard Winter’s gloves.
How will they fare? But fair is all: they try to leave their thoughts of Fall,
Yet having fallen like a leaf, they’ve no idea of Summer’s grief.
Often love may feign do harm, and seem to threaten, create fear
And drive its owner to revulsion, destroying what was once so dear,
Unless a special guidance shows, a mystery profound and bright:
What magic spectre now does loom to turn deep darkness into light?
Just as the frog may sleep for years, ‘till droplets rain upon its head
And blow him up just like a sponge, in essence bloomed from what was dead,
It just may happen, just by chance, when dancers sing and zithers dance
That hearts asleep may give a shake and suddenly find themselves awake.
Awakened hearts alone can be fulfilled with bouts of ecstasy,
And opportunity, when met, can be one’s special destiny.
Now awake and present here, the open heart will loose its gloves
And heeds the message: “Know the time when it is right to fall in love.”
Quietly speaks the messenger, yet loudly heard the spectre’s call:
“Trust the heart. The feeble mind can’t guide the soul, would let it fall.”
Its message has a truth that rings a joy that every season brings:
If one but listens, one can hear that Trust is present everywhere.
Newly listening, willing hearts may shower us with one great prize
Love at first sight is welcome here, to soothe the burn of love-worn eyes.
Great is the spectre in our lives, great is the way our hearts will grow,
Great is the hope our spirits drive, great is the love we’ll come to know.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
6 June 2008
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To simply be in your presence and see the world glow brightly even in the midst of darkest night,
To touch finger tips to the small of your back and feel my world convulse with pleasure,
To touch your lips with mine and mute what I would speak to tell you of my love,
To kiss your breasts and taste the nectar of the butterfly, the bee, the hummingbird,
To hold you tight and feel the universe safe and wonderful, rich and generous,
To taste your inner-outer joy and feel you press against my tongue and time and sun and all become as one,
To be inside and love you deeply and you and I, inseparable, without identity, without conscience, without essence, become all that is, was, and ever will be,
To hear your gentle cooing at that special moment when the voice of the universe announces it is loved,
To simply be, to simply be in your presence is more than enough.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
2 June 2008
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There is a Poet in my Heart.
Usually a reason for rejoicing, but
The Poet in my Heart is just simply not very bright.
Its mastery of Language is quite lacking,
As is its sense of timing, and its verbal taste.
A reasonable Poet in my Heart
Would have no difficulty
Expressing the joy upon my face
Each moment I would think of you.
An eloquent Poet would find it easy
To articulate with radiant flowery tunes
The roses and daisies that, thus assimilated,
Blossom wildly from my finger tips
When I would even think of touching you.
A gentle Poet would easily caress
Each word with feather lightness
As it paves the path before me
With clouds of Heaven
As I approach you and your Soul
With words that do but barely brush
And tease as they brightly float lithely past your ears.
But my Poet, alas! It becomes but a simpleton
In your glorious presence;
It fails; it falters.
I’m sorry, but the best it can do
Is to grunt crudely at best, rudely at worst,
The one only truth it seems to comprehend.
So please forgive me, if all you hear
From the Poet in my Heart is
I love you.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
10June 2006
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Do not be alarmed; this is not a love poem.
If I were to ever write one for you, you’d know it.
You’d know it by its mood,
You’d know it by its humor,
You’d know it by its words.
As this poem is moodless, and humorless, and—
Well, OK, so one out of three,
But words alone hardly foster endearment of the heart.
If I were to ever write a love poem for you,
I would talk about my thoughts (and fantasies) of you when I go to sleep,
And my thoughts (and fantasies) of you upon awakening.
I would rave about how, moment to moment,
I get to ask myself what would you do
in this case, in that case,
weigh our combined options
And then act accordingly.
But as I’m not even mentioning any of this;
You know nothing of it. As far as you’re concerned,
Such thoughts never cross my mind.
If I were to ever write a love poem for you,
You’d be amazed at all the little things
I would mention that I associate with you.
I’d tell you how, when my back itches,
I think of that cute little wooden back scratcher you have.
And how my seeing Winter’s bare blossoms aching to reemerge
Triggers my re-experiencing of your fragrance mingling with mine.
How I need but think a moment of your smile across the table from me
To lighten my day, to brighten the music I compose.
But for now, these thoughts belong to me and me alone,
Because they are yet to wend their way to you in poetic song.
Nor will you hear of how I perceive the World as a better Place
By envisioning it as if seen through your eyes.
You will not yet know how my deepest sorrows
And my finest joys well up in desire to be shared with you.
You will not comprehend the intensity of my wish
To be there for you as companion and as friend.
These and many others you do not know, you will not know.
Unless I were to ever write a love poem for you.
So fear not, do not be alarmed.
Do not be alarmed; this is not a love poem.
If I were to ever write one for you, you’d know it.
I’m just not sure if I would!
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
16 March 2005
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Fortune falls sporadically upon us all.
Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but sometimes.
Always sometimes.
Occasionally sprinkles of love head our way.
No matter how deeply honored, never fully appreciated.
Fortune smiles,
Not as the gifter would smile,
Nor as the prankster would smile,
But as the innocent perpetrator smiles,
Fully oblivious of its affects upon us.
Fortune, the simpleton within us all.
What we do with fortune, what we do with love,
Is up to us and us alone, and no one else.
That is why I pick flowers…
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
14 February 2005
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Little has been said of the difficulties one confronts
When waging a well-intentioned romantic campaign
That finds itself interrupted by unintended biological maladies
Such as the common cold, the flu, sinusitis or allergic rhinitis.
Little has been said, and it is probably just as well.
How does the love-struck warrior, transformed to worrier,
Continue to gain ground as opportunities for new first impressions
Diminish disproportionately to the non-standard quantities
Of fluids exiting orifices via sneezing, hacking and oozing?
Not to mention, medications, mental aberrations, excessive snoozing.
Various claims begin to fail: endurance, expansion, even interest
Are belied by what is said and what the physical can do.
As romantic secretive campaign gives way to liquid secretive campaign
One can only be thankful for the universal existence of two things:
One is humor, and the other is that she at least once has been there, too.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
24 January 2005
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I want to have a big funeral.
I want to have a procession two miles long,
Not of cars, but of people
Walking, talking, laughing, crying…
I don’t want a marching band;
I want an orchestra
Playing “Ode to Joy,” the “Hallelujah Chorus.”
I want fireworks, tours of the Grand Canyon,
A Bastille Day in my honor,
A Mardi Gras celebrated as a camping trip.
I will be buried in pomp,
Buried in circumstance,
Flowered with utterances and memories.
It will be a most remarkable event!
Someday afterwards, when I die,
A tiny, brief moment will be taken
To reminisce that grand funeral
Some years before.
Then life goes on.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
24 June 2004
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(Each column to be read simultaneously with the others)
I am a descendent of Abraham, and therefore I am one of God’s Chosen People. I am Christian.
My teachings are of Peace. I have been given the commandment not to kill. To kill is to destroy some of God’s creation.
Some people, who are not of the Chosen, Are not for Peace.
As a Christian, I am self-ordained To prepare the World for its resurrection. To do this, I must kill those Who are not among the Chosen.
If I am capable of killing God’s own creations, This means I have greater power than God. It is because of this power to kill That I am one of the Chosen People, a proven descendent of Abraham.
I speak Truth, and I kill in the Name of God.
Thus will I attain Peace for the World.
Peace | I am a descendent of Abraham, and therefore I am one of God’s Chosen People. I am Moslem.
My teachings are of Peace. I have been given the commandment not to kill. To kill is to destroy some of God’s creation.
Some people, who are not of the Chosen, Are not for Peace.
As a Moslem, I am self-ordained To prepare the World for its resurrection. To do this, I must kill those Who are not among the Chosen.
If I am capable of killing God’s own creations, This means I have greater power than God. It is because of this power to kill That I am one of the Chosen People, a proven descendent of Abraham.
I speak Truth, and I kill in the Name of God.
Thus will I attain Peace for the World.
Salam Alechem | I am a descendent of Abraham, and therefore I am one of God’s Chosen People. I am Jewish.
My teachings are of Peace. I have been given the commandment not to kill. To kill is to destroy some of God’s creation.
Some people, who are not of the Chosen, Are not for Peace.
As a Jew, I am self- To prepare the World for its resurrection. To do this, I must kill those Who are not among the Chosen.
If I am capable of killing God’s own creations, This means I have greater power than God. It is because of this power to kill That I am one of the Chosen People, a proven descendent of Abraham.
I speak Truth, and I kill in the Name of God.
Thus will I attain Peace for the World.
Shalom |
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
17 April 2004
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On Watching the Crescent Moon Move Beyond Jupiter Without Your Being There
The crescent arches upward at a slant,
as if tipping its head to get a better view of me,
casually pointing away from the recently settled sun.
I tilt my head to get a better view of what it is seeing.
It doesn't help.
I marvel as I perceive its near conjunction with the brightest star,
and draw an imaginary line through the crescent's two points;
the line flashes past, just above where Jupiter lays.
The crescent's line, with the moon, gradually moves up, up, away from Jupiter.
I turn and look at you.
The planet shimmers like crystal water wind-blown on a lake,
Its partner's curves graceful as two swans joined in quiet acquiescence,
The whole sky cups the world and universe in its darkened hands,
and gently chants loud and clear that all of this is to be held dear,
regardless of one's life's plans.
When I turned and looked at you, your absence took me by surprise!
When miracles such as these are seen and shared,
The transformed sense of sensibility confirmed, enhanced,
Then and only then is this the Dance of Life prepared
to take another chance.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
29 March 04
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Winter arises, the flowers fade.
Oh, how I miss the daisies, rose, and violets,
The pennyroyal, sage, and even the ragweed,
But most of all, I miss the daffodils.
No wintry plants to entice:
No waxy holly, no, not for me.
Pines, way too predictable, not to pine for.
At least, flowery memories don’t fade,
At least, not completely.
Then without warning, without expectation,
The daffodils appear. Just like that.
In a park, gently camped next to and under a tree,
There sits a stand of daffodils.
In wintry radiant splendor,
The not completely faded memories fade a little less,
And gradually, ever so gradually,
My Spring reappears, heralded joyously
By a simple stand of daffodils.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
14 February 2004
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The summering is upon us:
The may buds lilyify,
The crocuses croak their loudest,
The emeralding of the fields is in its prime,
Its green leaking out upon the sidewalk’s meticulously cultivated cuticles.
The summering is upon us:
The Spring’s sprung exuberance of youth
Quickly oozes into the realm of Distant Memory.
The work’s been done, the genetics established;
All that awaits is the harvest of our work.
The summering is upon us:
It is the time of quietude,
The time when we rest
And contemplate the legacy of our harvest.
What of the harvest? What did we sow?
Do we really know what we planted?
What will happen with the autumning of our souls?
Will we survive the inevitable onset of the cold,
the stone dead cold?
The summering is upon us:
Gratefully, Nature knows our fallibility,
And though we will not remember,
She always remembers,
And always gives us yet another springly chance
To gild Her essence with Herself alone,
And hold the summering that follows in our hearts
As one we truly cherish and gladly remember.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
15 June 2003
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Peace knows no God.
Peace is a human invention,
created of necessity out of an abyss
that we in our imperfection
also created.
Peace knows no theology.
Peace knows no God
or god or goddess
or goodness or greed
or creed or crude
or crud.
Peace knows no God.
Peace knows no theology.
Peace knows no God.
Yet we—in our imperfection—
attain Perfection by creating Peace.
Peace knows no theology.
Peace knows no God.
But You and I—
But God—can know Peace.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
7 June 2003
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On Learning the Horrible News that Alex is Eight
There’s something very, very wrong with being the age of “eight:”
It’s way too early to be nine, and for seven it’s just too late.
Oh, the suffering you must endure! Humiliation, aging angst,
At least there is a bright side: you’ll suffer this age but onegst.
So for this year at least, you’ll want to hide your head.
You can do it in the sand or sneak a pillow from your bed.
But the worst news of it all is that it’s not long until you find
You’ll have to start all over, because at some point you’ll be nine!
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
25 February 2003
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when i touch You i touch the Sky
i can feel the Clouds and gentle Breeze
as your Hills and Valleys wander beneath my finger’s caress
the Birds flutter within my heart as your Warmth envelops me
the Stars abound, even in daylight, as i look into your Eyes
no two Constellations alike, but always singing of Love
countless Constellations, all happily singing of Love
and the Moon, ah the Moon! always full, no matter which season
no matter what time of day, its radiant light the Beacon that beckons
guiding my hands to explore beyond the moon, beyond the planets
you nod your head and the comet’s Wisps encroach one moment,
moving away the next, but always returning, gracefully taunting my planet
as It barely touches within its atmosphere then moves on ‘till next moment
and super-novas brighten and enlighten with every kiss
and even gestures serve to drive the galaxies to distraction
i do believe in the theory of the Big Bang
no greater Joy than this, the exploration of my Universe
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
27 August 02
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Does the poem really need to be just for you?
Even heart-songs sung in ages past
Now move one’s love-lust to tender, laughing tears.
Is such sentiment any less personal when your special person
Selects it with just you alone in mind?
Every thought of love today is built on thoughts of love of yesterday.
Rare are the words that capture love succinctly.
One grows in love over the years,
Becoming more adroit in heart-felt endeavors.
Even if I wrote words for another,
Read them as if I wrote them just for you:
Touched by you, this inspiration of the past
Seems but a stepping-stone to the love of the moment.
Orfeo
13 February 2002
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Sayeth the Butterfly to the Eagle,
Of what use are your wings,
With which you soar endless hours
In endless broad circles or lengthy straight lines?
How can you possibly escape your enemies
Without diversion, without confusion?
Sayeth the Eagle to the Butterfly,
Of what use are your wings,
With which you flit aimlessly to and fro
In ups and downs and backs and fourths?
How can you possibly precisely spot your prey
And have enough speed to catch it by surprise?
A dialog ensued. It concluded. It concluded:
Sayeth the Butterfly to the Eagle,
and
Sayeth the Eagle to the Butterfly,
Let us soar and flit together,
One who has no enemies,
One who must live in peril,
We shall soar and flit and talk,
And flit and talk,
And soar and talk,
And talk,
And heart to Heart,
Become free of all enemies,
Excepting those whom Mother Nature trusts.
The dialog was overheard by another.
A letter was written to the local newspaper.
The newspaper was read by a music teacher.
The music teacher sent a copy to a friend.
The friend, a painter, drew an illustration
And sent it to a chemist.
The chemist made a copy of the illustration
And sent it to a meteorologist.
The meteorologist thought it was cute
And sent it to a physicist whom the meteorologist
Thought was too uptight and could use a laugh.
The physicist was reminded of the butterfly theory
and its application to weather predictions,
And sent a copy to one of the Heads of State.
The Head of State was moved
By the implications of the story,
And mentioned it to another Head of another State
During their private negotiations.
A dialog ensued. It concluded. It concluded:
Let us soar and flit together,
One who has no enemies,
One who must live in peril,
We shall soar and flit and talk,
And flit and talk,
And soar and talk,
And talk,
And heart to Heart,
Become free of all enemies,
Excepting those whom Mother Nature trusts.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
3 October 2001
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for Shenoah
chocolate dark, light, nutted, soft centered
savored, melting, trickling down the throat
forever remembered, cherished
even if never tasted again
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
14 February 2001
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Words cannot expr
**************************
How does one merge time?
The steady ticking, tickity tick tick
Enlightens one to the hour
But fails to give our oneness satisfaction.
Although these, my thoughts, may seem to wander,
It is forgivable,
As they are the
Completely Unnecessary,
Absolutely Inevitable,
Consequence of Love.
So let us merge time.
Together we’ll cross the borders of eons,
Tour the glaciers receding, retreating, retreading,
Threading through the Amazon,
Melting as the heat of passion warms each greedy day.
We’ll visit new and ancient dwellings,
Weather-worn and torn by war’s cruel shelling.
We’ll leave our marks forever etched in the shifting desert sand.
Long lost nations sing for us, encourage us
To open hearts to find the joy that so abundant abounds.
We’ll master languages never ever spoken then or now.
We’ll create the art that master artists dared not even dream.
We’ll play the instruments that sound the sounds
The butterflies and stars would wish to hear.
The bear laughs; the turkey trots.
The carrots blush a happy orange.
And how do I merge time?
Only with the bridge across time.
Only with another.
Only with you.
Only when our hearts reach out and join across that Grand Canyon,
Only when our bodies fuse as parts inseparable,
When we cross across that bridge,
We merge time,
For every time we are the bridge across time,
For me there is one and only one Time,
And that one Time is the time I spend with you.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
26 December 1999
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The florist in spring
So entranced by the moment
Lost count of syllables
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
1999
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I was told to listen to Spirit.
I sat by the flowing water,
But the ripples’ blurble
Silenced any call Spirit might try to make.
I built a wall that stopped the water to a trickle.
Still, though still, no evidence of Spirit at all.
I moved to an open field of clover and listened.
But the incessant buzz of the bee and fly,
The cackle of the crickets and the snort of the toad
Rendered it impossible to hear Spirit.
I swapped the invisible invincible sting of poison
For the very real (albeit brief) sting of the wasp
And silenced the creatures of the field.
Yet Spirit was not to be found there.
I sat by a stand of daisies in the woods.
The cold wind shrieked amongst the trees;
I shivered from the bones inside out, and
Could not focus on hearing Spirit.
The wolf’s bark silenced, furriered warmth regained,
I cleared away the trees, the daisies, and
Built great buildings that kept out the wind,
Kept out the clouds, the thunder and the rain.
I listened through the silence for Spirit,
But Spirit did not call out my Name.
Why do you not talk to me, Spirit?
I went outside the building.
A hummingbird flew by.
The hummingbird asked
“Why do you not hear Spirit?”
I explained, “The noise was too omnipresent.
How could I hear Spirit
Over the roar of the river,
Over the scream of the wind,
Or the screech of the birds,
The howling bark of the Wolf,
The flutter of the moth,
The buzziness of the insect,
Or the blistering brightness of the clouds?
Now all is silent, yet Spirit evades me still.”
The hummingbird paused a moment,
As one does when in thought or sorrow,
Then flitted away, never to be seen again.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
9 November 1998
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Let’s play post office!
It arrived Special Delivery, Insured.
It perhaps didn’t arrive as soon as expected or hoped,
But that just gave it more time to mature, to ripen,
Like a good cheese.
It may have been slightly worn from all the jostling,
But was still in far better shape than I ever hoped.
I especially liked the parts about “this side up,”
And “fragile; handle with care.”
The contents were sweet, oh, so sweet!
I also kept the packaging.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
7 October 1997
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As a couple joins forces, it is essential to create mini-traditions which are mutually beneficial. The less popular term for these mini-traditions is “routines.” However bothersome the idea of routines may be (words like monotonous, humdrum, etc. come to mind), these routines are essential for the survival of the relationship.
Some of the minor advantages of these routines include saving time, knowing each other better, and decreasing the chances of stepping on each other’s needs. There is also the opportunity to draw upon each other’s spheres of experience to gain efficiency and effectiveness. The “saving time” is the most important of the less important advantages, because it means there is more time to apply the major advantage of routine.
Romance is the breaking of a routine with another in a positive and supportive way. If one routinely brings in the towels, it is romantic when the other breaks the routine and brings them in instead. If one routinely makes the salad and the other the dressing, it is romantic to switch the roles. This is why if flowers are not a routine item, bringing flowers (breaking the routine) is romantic.
Romance is the breaking of a routine with another in a positive and supportive way. I wrote this for you; writing this has never been routine.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
24 September 1997
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Me is a pronoun of exquisite proportion.
Me is a growth, a growing, yet to be grown.
Yet, to be grown, is to fully appreciate
Not being able to fully appreciate Me.
You, however, You are Me.
You are an exquisitely proportioned pronoun.
Me is Me next to my heart
Delicately sewn with yellow thread.
Me is “ME” next to my heart
Secretly sewn with yellow thread
On the inside of the shirt I wear
Sewn by Me for me.
Me, however, Me are You.
And who are We?
We shall see...
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
21March 1997
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“Who” or “Whom” will pay the Syntax?
The Subject and the Predicate
had gotten in a fight;
each thought that he should come in first
and each thought she was right.
They took their case to court that day
to have their statements weighed;
The Conjunction, being neutral, was the
Judge that need be swayed.
The Participle leant support
upon the Predicate’s cause,
And used a sharpened verb or two
that gave the Comma pause.
The Noun and Adjective teamed up
and with an Adjectival Phrase,
Concocted concrete evidence
that leant the Subject praise!
Meanwhile, the Adverb and Article
got in a frenzied fight,
Until an Interjection stepped in
to say “You both are right!”
The courtroom was in quite a stir,
but not to be outdone,
The Preposition grabbed the door,
and though fed up, kept hanging on.
“Silence, silence, in the court!,”
the Exclamation cried;
“May we a verdict?” was the Inter-
rogatory’s reply.
“Yes, indeed,” the Conjunction said;
a hush crept o’er the crowd:
“The Subject and the Predicate are both
guilty beyond a doubt.”
“For either can be safely first
and either can be last,
But unless those two can get together,
they’ll both go nowhere fast.”
“You’ve fought and fought in disarray,
so now for your repentance,
You’re hereby ordered to cooperate,
and that shall be your Sentence.”
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
January, 1995
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...and so her lips I tried. Instead,
with her sudden turn of head
I kissed not sensuous horn of speak
but rather, vacuumed blushing cheek.
“How dare you, sir!,” indignant, cried
the owner of bilabialed pride;
“Pray first complete a marital inspection
before you dare show oral affection!”
Alas, ‘twas true. A closer look
showed her heart and hand both took.
And I, so taken, now had begun
to see hope’s knell and left hand rung.
What’s in a kiss? Shall interpretation
be misconstrued by interpolation?
Can’t verbal intercourse be on inspection
cause for show of oral affection?
Were I a Leper it might be true
that an oral affliction I might give to you.
Were I a Doctor you might receive
an oral infection, I do believe.
And as an Orator I might appear
to use oral inflection to sway an ear.
Or an Electrician need not shock with wire
when oral induction might light your fire.
But one need be no Lover to lay claim
to oral affections‘ glorious fame.
What's in a kiss? I’ll have you know
It's kindness, friendship all aglow.
(But you are wise for as you perceive,
It’s not all I’ve got up my sleeve!)
Don Rechtman
January 13, 1993
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siLently sLeeping,
sLowLy shaking,
suddenly sitting,
staring, spacing,
sLipping, shimmering,
sauntering, sLithering,
sLippery, sLippery,
sLlimy stairway,
sssphhht!
oop!
kLunk!
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
1977
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Joe was tickled by the feat;
To him the goldfish was a treat.
Today the fish was on its back;
Joe stood awhile, then down he sat.
The boy was young (he was but three);
Again he stood that he might see.
He said aloud “I wonder if
The fish has cramps; he swims so stiff.”
He watched him more and thought aloud
“My aunt can swim and watch a cloud
By swimming on her back for hours;
She only turns in when it showers.”
He said “Perhaps my fish is seeking proof
That I am shielded by a roof.
Or possibly it wants to be
an ocean perch in open sea.”
“Perhaps my fish can better think
With bottoms up for he may link
The proper problems to all strife
And also contemplate on life.
A look of anguish gnashed his face;
He said with sudden swarming pace,
“I wonder if it could be dead?”
He came to me and hid his head.
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
1968
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T’was Mr. Magoulas who taught me to sneeze;
He tutored with wisdom, and tutored to please.
We studied the structures and bones of the nose,
And followed the air through the routes when it blows.
We then practiced our wheezing and sniffing and snorting
And all eighteen functions of nasal contorting,
And even the technique and words one should say
When wiping and mopping up post-sneesal spray.
But the most valuable thing that he taught me to do
Was to let out all tension by sneezing “Wahoo!”
So I offer my praise as I mop up my knees
To Mr. Magoulas who taught me to sneeze!
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
1968
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Young Peter Marlow had great wealth from living ‘lone and free.
(He also owned all by himself a toothpick factory!)
Though of great spirit and great mind, he still received his licks:
Peter was still yet to find a way for storing picks.
Meanwhile Peter bought a bird that cost him one week’s pay.
This parrot had one trait absurd: with toothpicks it would play.
This toothpick bird, this playful sport, though very mild and tame,
Would next to pepper sneeze and snort—so “Pepper” was her name.
One day, Peter, deep in thought, resolved his major fix:
“In metal pipes I’ll store a lot of manufactured picks!”
He filled some pipes, then packed a trunk with pipes to show his bird;
To celebrate, went home, got drunk—got “pickled” is the word.
Meanwhile, Pepper smelled the trunk, and knew what she would find;
She wanted picks so she could dunk them in some regal wine.
But when she tried to take a pick, her beak got wedged in tight;
The pipe held fast, she felt so sick, she could not breathe—good night.
************
The gravesite had a grassy look, well kept, and likewise trimmed;
It lay beside a crackling brook, filled with crayfish, trout and brim.
The epitaph where Peter kept her was spelled out with yellow sticks:
“Poor ol’ pickled Peter’s Pepper pecked a pipe of picks!”
Don “Orfeo” Rechtman
1968
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