VESPERS

Votive candles flicker in the apse
white flames shrouded in crimson jars.
Each one a restive soul whispering prayers
that only the saints can hear.

Mute saints, in various guises,
some glancing at the candles,
some heavenly,
seem to acknowledge
these sotto voce pleas.

As I light a candle,
for those close to me, departed:
I strain to hear their prayers,
(as though I’d be able.)

I whisper my own
in hope that my voice
would be heard.

I sit in the pew and stare
at the rows of Votives,
contemplating life,
not death.

All I can do for the dead,
is to light a candle
and give them a voice
for a brief time.


©T.Puma/MMXII

IL PESCATORE

Knives stropped sharp.
Fish with teeth like needles,
and scales like razors.

Hands ever scarred.

Blood and entrails-stained apron
worn as a uniform.

Scale encrusted boots,
looking more like fins than feet.

It’s always cold and wet.
No matter.

I can carve you a banquet,
presented in yesterday’s newspaper.


©T.Puma/MMXII

HAIKU (MOON OF TONIGHT)

Konya no tsuki/
my senses in disarray/
I await the dawn.

©T. Puma MMXII

MIHAI ANTONESCU

A moment before he was executed,
he nonchalantly tossed his fedora
behind the death-pole.

What manner of man has a concern
for his head piece when facing
a firing squad?

Was this a symbol of his disdain
for his executioners?

A cultural heritage, being polite,
when invited to a function?

Did he want to die in style?

He never said.

The coup de-grace was administered
to his bare head.

©TPuma/MMXI

HAIKU (Vet)

Boy with the Carbine/
photo on parent's dresser/
two score years past.

(c) TPuma/MMXI

HAIKU (TFP/TSE)

My friends come-and-go/
all I have left is David/
Michael Angelo.

(c)T.Puma/MMXI

A BOY'S JOURNEY (Separation-Trials-Return)

A BOY’S JOURNEY
Separation-Trials-Return

“This is what Joyce called the monomyth: an archetypal story that springs from the collective unconscious. Its motifs can appear not only in myth and literature, but, if you are sensitive to it, in the working out of the plot of your own life. The basic story of the hero journey involves giving up where you are, going into the realm of adventure, coming to some kind of symbolically rendered realization, and then returning to the field of normal life."

Joseph Campbell, Pathways to Bliss
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I crossed the ocean,
as a boy to do or die.
Old World, old war paths.

I crossed the threshold,
a civilian to soldier,
question what I left.

I crossed my parents,
unsure of my lone journey.
A final farewell?

I crossed Catholic,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
with me, in peril.

I crossed my sergeant,
nasty bastard with three stripes.
“Private”, forever.

I crossed Happy guys,
no courage to join that group.
They made me anxious.

I crossed GI bars:
nose/jaw broke, blackened eyes.
Tough guy now mellowed.

I crossed twenty-one,
older and wiser, maybe;
weary of Army.

I crossed Captain John,
obligatory salute.
“Good-luck, son.” “Thanks sir.”

I crossed the ocean,
a young man to live and thrive,
New World, new path ways.

© T.Puma/MMXI