Poems by Lenny Zeltser (me), assembled in 1999.
The Way You Feel
When trees undrape, and you don't care;
When your friends leave, but you don't notice;
When sleepless morning lasts forever,
And then the day begins its torture;
When scent of hope is in the air,
But you're too weak to recognize it,
And simple words are too revealing,
And melodies are not harmonic,
Then only she can make you better,
And only silence will express
The way you feel.
September
September.
Late afternoon settles
behind sky's clouded curtain.
Thinning grass, still green,
conceals dowdy, arid soil.
Footsteps chatter.
Muffled voices shift
through cool, smoky air,
and I watch, as tree trunks
dissect the strangers' silhouettes.
Branches shuffle.
An old oak tree reveals
two squirrels galloping across it.
There, a dried up leaf
flirts with the evening breeze.
Now falling.
Stranger
You waltzed on the horizon at dawn,
sharing the nickel of the moon
with a herd of slumber clouds,
tree tops, and house roofs.
Enveloped by the wind,
your smile tickled sleeping fields,
kissed the haze of bashful lakes,
and sprang up to part with speckles
of weary stars.
My perfect stranger,
I long to carry your shadows.
Sunflower Seeds
A handful of fresh roasted,
crisp sunflower seeds!
Can anyone refuse such ample offer?
The challenge is to nibble on the shell
until the stubborn halves crack open,
undamaging the tender inside.
Its teasing taste then serves
as prisoner of the tongue,
whilst raving lips
spit needless half-shells out,
and fingers reach for more
and more and more...
Such gentle pressure from the sides
wins any prize,
leaves all locks broken.
October
One kiss.
A mind-spinning,
will-blinding,
thought-racing
kiss of October.
The sun is slipping
under the horizon,
confusing maple leaves
of their true color.
The masquerade has begun.
As the alley's festival dances
by my side, a man with the
New York Times people-watches
right though me.
A falling leaf carefully
touches my palm, but I
let it slide to the ground,
almost unnoticed.
You are my October, dear.
No kiss is more precious.
Us
Words
escape from our thoughts,
zigzag past you and me,
doomed to collapse
into a mush of stale,
theatrical phrases.
Somewhere
gray-green of my eyes
reflects shy glitter of yours.
Our smiles meet
and travel together
over grids of dowdy crowds.
At times,
the Milky Way peeks
through clouds of evening smog,
but even when your hand hides
deep inside mine, I sigh:
all this has been before.
Cadence
In my cafe
empty chairs upon table-tops
separate one day from another
This door
once squeaking and swooshing
now hides a dusty room
Somewhere daisies
stretch sluggish petals
in a morning exercise
Do you and I
also keep closing and opening,
closing and opening?
My Letters
You know, perhaps ocean waves are more than petite tsunamis,
but also envelopes of voices between land and horizon,
And white tulips in shop's window are haiku of the field,
their petals—syllables of a redolent message;
And maybe falling stars insist on spelling out an ancient pattern
that only autumn leaves can understand,
And possibly my letters, so full of superfluous punctuation, are
deputies of senses, fragments of me that I want you to keep.