The Boy in the Mirror (2nd Edition)
By Alan L. Slaff
Published by Alan L. Slaff at Smashwords
The Boy
in the Mirror (2nd Edition)
Copyright 2012 Alan L.
Slaff
Cover Design Copyright 2012 Laura Shinn
Cover:
Background painting by Guido Reni - 1635
“The Archangel
Michael Defeating Satan”
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author’s Note: This work of poetry is intended for mature audiences and contains adult language and situations.
* * * * * * *
Chapter
1: 1970-2004
Chapter
2: 2004-2011
Endnotes
About
the Author
Connect
with Alan
* * * * * * *
Chapter 1: 1970-2004
* * * * * * *
The Kitchen Garden
This was the place
where plants peered
out of the windows, where rubber spatulas
and
assorted utensils sprouted out of a variety
of glass jars. They
filled your windowsill.
It was there where
our love grew like a flower
waiting for the gentle caress of the
morning sun.
One day, the sun came up, and the sill was bare.
Our friendship was a
respite in the midst of the
storm. Your storm ceased. You decided
to go
back to the northwest you held so dear.
My storm continued
east, but finally came to an
end. I wonder about you after all
these years.
I even catch myself saying your name when the
warmth
of the sun fills my kitchen garden.
*******
Food for Thought
I counted
twenty
nine empty
chairs at this odd
hour.
Even the
savory
Chinese food
couldn’t stop my
thoughts of you,
bad
or good.
*******
The Needle
Your anger was like
the needle
on the living room rug that
found the soft bottom of
my
foot this morning.
It pained me
momentarily, but
annoyed me well into the late
afternoon.
*******
If Owl Could
Will I live long
enough to see a cold clear
glass of water become a thing of the
past?
I think not.
Will I live long
enough to see no more
women and children being abused?
Or
teenage gang shootings or high school
killing sprees? I think not.
How about no more
rape, road rage, or
sexual abuse? No more abortion or
fetuses
found in dumpsters? I think not.
Our culture has
become a stagnant pool.
Unfit to drink. But the people say,
“Drink!
It is good!”
How will history
remember our culture?
History might record that we saved
some
trees and a few birds. But in Heaven,
the record shows a
culture filled with
pervasive hatred and a high body count.
What about the owl,
who neither grieves
nor frets his place in time? His specialty
is
simply owling. That is what he does.
If Owl could, he
would cry out to our
Maker on behalf of mankind, who has
forgotten
who he is and who made him.
*******
Sweetness
I bit into a
nice
cold plum slowly.
But the juice
gushed out
and ran
down my
chin anyway.
How sweet, I
thought,
but not as sweet
as the word of the Lord.
*******
To Reading
I scratched my beard
while I reached
for a book high on a shelf. My thoughts
drifted
to the bookcase in my room
when I was a young boy.
It was two shelves
high made out of
thin plywood, painted a glossy gray.
The
shelves were filled with Tom
Swift Jr. and the Hardy Boys. And
a
lot of other important stuff, too.
New books have that
special smell.
National Geographic smells great, too.
To fan
the pages of a new book is
titillating to be sure.
In those pages, time
and time again,
I have loved and been loved. Be gentle
with
that book!
A torn page is like
a broken heart; you
can patch it up, but it is never the
same
again. Books give and give. They’re
not like people.
*******
Of Tea and Twisted Hinges
A white door stands
at the end of a long hallway in my mind.
There is an object on the
door and some lettering.
I walked closer to see. Odd. The paint on
the door looks
fresh. The object is a red cross. A sign above the
door
reads ‘Intensive Care’. A small gold plate hangs below
the
cross and says ‘Unavailable’.
The door swings open
beckoning me to enter. I walk in.
What a nice room! A quiet
sitting room. Warmly decorated.
There’s a table set for
afternoon tea. There are no windows
or lamps, but the room is
filled with light.
I couldn’t help
but notice the elaborate arch in rich dark wood.
Then I saw them.
Angelic hosts standing on either side of
the arch. They appeared
to be guarding the hallway. Their
wings go from the top of the
arch to the floor. And they
wore swords that were as tall as I. I
feel weak.
Much to my surprise
they let me pass. There are a few other
doors. All closed. No, the
one at the end of the hall is ajar.
I can see the light in the
room. I stick my head in. Well,
there is someone in bed. All
curled up with the covers pulled
tight. Looks like a man. My eyes
move to the night stand.
A pair of
eyeglasses. They look like mine. What? That’s
my watch! Oh dear
God… I’m on both sides of the door.
Then I see the other
man. Why didn’t I notice him at first?
Was he there the whole
time?
He is kneeling in prayer at the far side of the bed. I can
only
see his long thick dark hair. He’s lifting his head.
His
deep blue eyes pierce my heart. I bolt for the hallway.
My heart is beating
so loudly my head hurts. My thoughts
cannot tell joy from sorrow
and seem to meet in
a very wounded place. A place where darkness
taunts me
and my confused feelings flicker down the highway of
my
mind. Like neon signs you pass in the night: “Not sure,
I
don’t know, not sure, I don’t know, not sure, I don’t know.”
Another entrance
appears in the hallway. But there is no door,
just twisted hinges.
Incense burns on an altar in the center
of the room filling the
hallway with the sweet smells of
Babylon. Two black candles burn
dimly in the darkness.
The room appears to be empty, but I can
tell it is full.
My thoughts head
down a side road where a bold
“DO NOT ENTER” sign is affixed
high on a chain link fence.
As I stare at the sign, I hear myself
groan from my bed.
My bones ache. My mouth is dry.
Oh, no! I could feel
it in my soul… it was I who ripped the
door off its hinges and
entered that dreaded room.
Somehow I could sense that the praying
man at my bedside
was standing bathed in the purest light.
A woman’s laughter
fills the room of twisted hinges.
The breath of demons freezes in
the cold air above the candles.
She licks the air. Perspiration
pours over her parted lips
as she smiles in the darkness. Her eyes
open black on black.
Fear grips my soul; my feet won’t move. I
hear a
scream and realize that it is mine. I collapse to the
floor.
Inaudible prayers well up from deep within my soul.
I awakened in the
bright outer room in front of the archway.
The table was filled
will little cakes and fruit. That same
praying man poured our tea
and gently placed his hand on my
shoulder. As I felt his touch, I
wept. For I knew I went where
I was not to go. I entered that dark
room. I wept. He held me.
Then, my eyes were drawn back down the
hallway.
The door to the
bedroom was open but the bed was empty.
The nightstand was bare.
Suddenly, there was a great noise.
Of wings beating the air. Then
screams. Seconds or hours?
I couldn’t tell.
The whole area
filled with winged warriors who knelt leaning
on the hilts of
their swords facing the man who had poured my
tea. The blood of
demons ran down their swords, only to hiss
like water turning to
steam when it dripped to the floor.
*******
For Some
I watched a
sailboat
trying to make its way
across the lake.
My book was
open,
but I hadn’t turned a page.
Too tired; too hot.
I checked on the
sailboat.
It seemed to be
where it was before.
No
breeze.
Here or out there.
Stifling in this heat.
The quiet was
shattered
by the high whine
of speed boats that came
and
went with or without
skiers in tow.
They buzzed by often
enough
to be annoying.
That is peace for some.
I belong to the
Lord;
that is my peace.
Unfortunately for
some,
their summer is joyous
only because
it follows winter.
*******
Tick-Tick
The clock on the
electric range was cheap.
And noisy.
The tick, tick,
tick-tick, tick was more
annoying than usual today.
Tick, tick, tick-tick, tick.
Nothing could drown
out the quiet
your leaving left behind.
*******
Time and Tears
Although I am locked
into a life without
you, I feel you behind my eyes.
I feel you
deep down inside where no one
else has been.
I sense the softness
of your skin, even though
we never touched beyond a parting
embrace.
I can still feel your eyes finding mine.
We stared in silence
because we would no
longer share long walks, chats, and late
night
laughter. And crying. Then came the final hug.
Our lingering stare
said what couldn’t be said.
Our silence screamed to know all the
things
we will never know together.
To this day, my
memory is full of you, even
though we shared only time and tears.
*******
Beyond Repair
O how our love
burned bright. Sometimes
it burned with a soft glow. At other
times,
it simply smoldered. It had its moments.
Then I caught
myself. I was thinking that
it was better than it really was. Our
love
was like a worn out wall switch.
Click on, click off,
click on, click off,
on, off, on, off, on, off.
And one day,
the switch didn’t work at all.
It was beyond repair.
Like a filament in a
bulb, our love burned
with an intense savage fizzle, then died.
*******
Separate Pain
I awakened on a
small sounding train
that clanked its way out of the northeast
plain.
It brought dawn into
Bangkok as night was fleeting,
but the stifling morning heat was
our only greeting.
I sent you a
telegram only to say
that I missed you dearly and was on my way.
I should have never
married her; how both of us have paid!
How was I to know the
magnitude of the mistake I made.
And now forever apart, we live with our separate pain.
*******
Missed Moments
Mommy, Mommy,
look
what I drew.
Mommy, Mommy,
look
what I drew!
Now look you,
Mommy
is busy.
Later, Dear!
Please come
here,
Mommy! Look.
I’ve drawn a cow.
Please, Mommy.
Mommy.
*******
Norfolk Island Pine
We searched and
searched through
that greenhouse jungle, until we
came upon a
tiny Norfolk Island pine.
We weren’t going
to buy anything.
Knew that going in.
We were trying to
spend more time
together and less time where we had
to go back
to.
Let me know you as
long as it takes
that pine to grow at least as tall as I.
*******
Over Coffee
How about some
coffee?
I slept well last night,
didn’t you?
What else will not
be
said, how many more
questions will never get
asked or
answered?
How many more
discussions will we not
have over
morning
coffee?
How could she
have
slept so soundly! For I
didn’t sleep well at all,
again.
I walked into the
kitchen,
opened the cupboard, and
saw that we were out
of
coffee.
My tears were mixed
with
laughter, the mad laughter
of one who was tired of
years
of empty talk. We
were on empty.
So, I left over coffee.
*******
To Shreds
At first, I blamed
the Army mail, because
I hadn’t heard from you since I left
for
Vietnam. I wrote to you every day.
I kept your picture
long after I received
your “Dear John” telling me you
were
getting married.
Years later, in my
own way, I had to let
Vietnam go. When I finally cried
and
agonized over Vietnam, I let you go, too.
It was time to
forgive all the way around.
I lost you, and lost the war.
I
loved Vietnam and her beautiful people.
I loved speaking the
language, the smells
of the busy marketplace, and especially,
the
laughter of the children.
And, I loved you.
I loved teaching
English in Hue at that stately
old high school by the Song Huong
river.
And, yes, I even loved why I was there.
And, I thought I loved you.
But, in a moment of
exasperation, I finally
did it. I tore your picture to shreds.
And
then I wished I hadn’t.
It hurt when I lost
you, but I cried harder
at the loss of Vietnam.
*******
The Reading Fountain
In the park, there’s
a fountain with a bronze bird.
The bench where he sits doesn’t
have his name on it,
but it should. This is where he comes on the
clear
days. He always sits there by the reading fountain.
I never walked
through the park before he’d arrive
or after he’d left.
Definitely his bench! He always
wore a plaid cap with a snap in
front, cocked way
back on his head. And the same sweater.
If I get to be that
old, will I wear sweaters in June?
The heat doesn’t faze him a
bit. He reads as though
New York City wasn’t there. He reads now
as he
wished he could have done years ago.
*******
Dream Dance
Dance, don’t stop.
It was in my dreams
where
I saw us dancing together
with mimed grace.
We moved with such
gentle
intensity, it seemed like we
shared a single shadow.
Dance, please, don’t stop.
*******
Makeup
There are scars
people can see.
They don’t hurt as much as the
scars people
can’t see.
You wear them well.
For now.
We all have scars. I guess it just
depends on what we
do about them.
Time will pass. Some
will still
stare at your figure. Others will
gawk at your good
looks.
Most won’t see
past the exterior
glaze. I thought, “Sexy. But looks
pretty
hard. Not for me!”
Can’t you see that
the makeup you
wear doesn’t cover up a thing?
As we get older, our
bodies wear
the character of our souls.
*******
Macbeth’s End
Once upon a time,
there was a dark prince who
waged a protracted war against the
people.
He delighted in ambushes of the mind.
While swords clashed
in the heavens, chaos and
confusion oppressed the people in the
light of
day. The enemy sabotaged our highest hopes
with deep
despair.
Our lives became
deserted battlements where hearts
smoldered in ruins of rage. And
so the story goes.
If this was a
fantasy, wouldn’t you want to know
how it all began? If this was
a mystery, wouldn’t
you want to know who did it? If this was
a
comedy, wouldn’t you want the laughter to linger?
Certainly,
you would!
Lean close. Let me
whisper. Macbeth’s end would
be too good for this dark prince! I
know how this
story ends. The dark prince will come for a
time,
then go, but a people will rise out of the ashes.
How? By the power of
Him who breathed life into
Man. By the power of Him who raised the
Lamb of
God. Hear the name of truth and life being spoken
softly
to the ear of your soul. It is the name of He
who was, when
history had not yet happened,
and the future was fully known.
Like the ‘emperor
with no clothes’, we think we can
cast shadows in a dark room.
In the light, the scars
of our hearts mirror the scars on His
hands and feet.
*******
Mauretania
Have you ever
watched the sandpipers at Marina Del Rey?
Their little bird heads
bob back and forth. The thinnest
bird legs you’ve ever seen move
them quickly across the
sand.
All kinds of boats
paraded by making their way slowly
up the channel, seemingly
unnoticed by the sandpipers.
It was the mysterious Mauretania that
really caught my
eye. It was from another time.
I pictured Bogie and
Bacall at the piano bar below.
I can see Tracy and Hepburn looking
out over the stern.
Fred and Ginger dancing and singing their way
around
her romantic deck. I can hear Norma Shearer’s
laugh
echoing from the quarter deck.
I could see my dad
on the Mauretania. Wearing a soft
white skipper’s cap with a
shiny black brim. Sharp
white trousers and deck shoes. He was a
snappy dresser.
In my mind’s eye, he looked the same as he did
in the
pictures I remembered of him on his family boat going
up
and down the Hudson.
Dad during the
Depression cleaning the twin engines.
Skippering the boat for
party rentals. He, Grandpa and
family out on the boat. He seemed
happier then.
I never knew him that way. My memories of him
were
better in pictures.
After making its way
past me through the channel, the
stately Mauretania turned out to
sea. I watched her
until she was no longer in sight. I sighed,
paused, and
reflected. So many mixed memories.
When my dad had
nothing left ahead of him, he moved
to Nyack where he could see
the Hudson from his
apartment. I think he was trying to recapture
the joy of
life that somehow evaded him. He died there.
I turned and started
to walk back to the car. But
movement on the sand caught my eye.
Those little
sandpipers were still at it! I smiled at them.
Nothing would
alter their quick pace or keep them from their
destiny.
Nor would anything keep me from mine.
*******
Weeds and Flowers
A weed lived as a
flower
in the eyes of the child who picked it.
That is, until it
was cruelly thrown
away by the one to whom it was given.
Her wet cheeks dried
as she waved
goodbyes to the beautiful weeds and
flowers
through the car window.
When you grow up, I
hope you will be
able to forgive. You see, my sweetheart,
weeds
and flowers grow in all of us.
*******
After the Prom
We never dated.
We
only went to proms together.
We were in art class together, too.
What did we talk
about? Did we
talk? I can’t remember.
I heard you went to
California.
Are you still in California?
There are so many
things…
so many things…
I would love to tell you now,
to
ask you now.
Why couldn’t you
go with me
the day after the prom?
Was it me? It was probably
the
“my family is Jewish and your
family is Greek” stuff.
You need to know
that it was
more than that. I didn’t know
about the abuse
then. I was the
one that was messed up, not you.
You were lovely. A
beautiful
dream. I couldn’t tell you then.
I couldn’t even
think it. I wanted
to see you again, to know you.
*******
Head Game
One of my biggest
fears is that
you are not thinking of me as I
am thinking of
you.
“Thoughts” and
“feelings”
are playing tennis in my head.
It’s a head game
that strains my
heart at the net.
*******
The Wait
How nice it would
be,
to be loved
just a, just a
little bit.
To be loved
totally
might be just too much
to ask for.
I think I’ve
fallen in love
with the woman I haven’t
found yet. She’s
not
perfect. Just willing to
love me as I am.
And I her.
The subway train
pulled
in. The doors made their
opening and closing sounds.
It
wasn’t my train. Maybe
she’ll be on the next one.
*******
The Meeting
In response to our
meeting,
all I can say is that your
family is lovely. I opened
up
like a bottle of pop, didn’t I?
From the very first
hug, I was
completely yours and theirs.
My love to you all! I
must
confess that this is rare for me;
doesn’t happen that
often.
I was overwhelmed by
the flood
of emotion your family showed
me and openly expressed
to each
other. How special love is when it
is genuine and
without pretense.
Your family is better at it than mine.
*******
No Lemon, Please
An older lady
sitting across the aisle from
me said excitedly to her companion,
“My
daughter is going to have a baby girl. I can’t
wait
until July to go to LA and visit them!”
“LA’s too crazy
for me. My oldest boy is in
Denver. I love to visit them. I just
love it in
the mountains. Is this your first?”
The lunch crowd was
very heavy. I didn’t
even look at the menu. I couldn’t. You
know
how it goes. You’re not really trying to listen
to
someone else’s chitchat, but somehow,
trying not to listen
doesn’t do any good. You
hear every word whether you want to or
not.