Just a Routine

Just a routine
the dogs love to keep,
dragging me down to the
park in the dark,
a team of Belgians
on harness, not leash
At least until
the fleeting fancy strikes:
Perhaps these dogs are
part of my spiritual discipline
(which heaven knows is a bit flabby)
for they beg and whine
wiggle and wag,
yipping excited, hinting demands
until the comfort
of my easy chair,
and the warmth of home
are traded for winter wraps
and the brisk bite
of clear January night.

And lost in meditation,
punctuated by obedience training at crosswalks,
I am startled by the two,
slow-moving silhouettes,
bent in conversation.
At first,
fear for myself,
then,
as the dogs are released,
fear for them
(for the watch in the dog
ticks hearty warning)
Calling and whistling I move away
but not before catching a snippet:
"love..."
"charity..."
spill forth as the two lumber
slowly, one limping, the other matching stride,
up the hill
a pilgrim pair
finally out of reach of streetlamp's fingers
returning to shadow
leaving only the hum of
interstate traffic
scudding through the
sparkling star light
as punctuation
to my meditation.

Though I walk singly
in meditation
I am never alone.

1/12/89
©1989 Steve Eulberg

A Single, Lonely Toothbrush

A single, lonely toothbrush
hanging up above the faucet
the well-worn single tube
of paste alongside

One set of towels and washcloth
suspended over the bathtub

An empty shelf
upon the wall

I'm really not a fan of 'em
will hardly ever use one
"for ecology to be preserved," I say

But now that you are not here today
I must conclude that I

would rather hear the whir of you
Blowing your hair dry.

10/29/86

©1986 Steve Eulberg

Salvaging Death

Saturday's excursion
to the salvage yard—

walking back over muddy trails,
amid stacks and piles
of old, worn-out,
mostly-wrecked auto hulks,
shells of once-finely-tuned machines
through and between which has grown
the green of weeds
and the incessant shrill cry of crickets
who are background to the periodic
dip and sway of the doppler-like
fly buzzings,
together weave a shroud
with the muggy, musty mud-smell
of August

—with Tommie,
a red & yellow-eyed,
tool-toting attendant

We toss short comments between
strides and breath, seeking
conversation and contact

With the week's experience of
funeral and funeral home
I am immediately brought to
view it all as a graveyard

When I say so, Tommie muses,
in fashion that quickly reminds me
of the Greek way of expressing indirect question:
"Makes me wonder did some
die in 'em."
"Shore does,"
comes my reply.

And our search continues
for a VW door handle.

8/19/86

©1986 Steve Eulberg

i miss america

There once was a land where a lady would stand
With her lamp raised at the golden door
Saying, “bring me your huddled masses, tired and poor”
Now that welcome don’t seem so welcome any more
O—I miss America.

There once was a place where the whole human race
Could yearn to breathe free—haven of liberty—
Land of the brave, home of the free
Today the fearful forfeit freedom for a lock and key
O—I miss America.

O say, can you see me, I’m your neighbor
Like you I struggle and labor
I pull my own weight and do my share
And believe, yes I dare
That though we may differ
Together we are stronger than apart
E pluribus unum
O—we are America.

There once was a time where speaking your mind
Was a sign that you stood up like a grown man
And the strong one protected the weak one
Now the self-righteous belittle the meek one
O—I miss America.

Oh what do you do when the red, white and blue
Become a cloak to hide dirty laundry
And a muffle to choke those who disagree
And the emblem no longer serves to set us free?
O—I miss America.

Have you ever heard of a high-flying bird
Who can soar the sky with one wing missing?

Today I stand in my native land
Turn off the TV and I step out my door
To neighbor and stranger I offer my hand
Saying, “this land it is your land…This land it is my land”
E pluribus unum
O—we are America.
O—we are America.

(These are lyrics which you can hear recorded here: i miss america)
© 2006 Steve Eulberg, Administered by Owl Mountain Music, Inc.

do i sing to be heard

do i sing to be heard
or to begin to hear;
do i write to be read
or perhaps understand;
do i rise to be seen
or to learn to see?

it seems,
somehow,
if not,
i should.

CU 1979
©1979 Steve Eulberg

From My Tower

Staring, intently,
From my tower
I command your
Lone figure to
Appear before me;
Yet crickets and
Other of this evening's
Musicians realize
And understand
What, at first I
Do not. They,
Therefore,
Parry my pleas
And do not
Sing the song
Of your entrance
For your appearance,
Then, would be
Mere apparition
Lacking in heart
Lacking in will
Hardly you at
All
So
From my tower,
Again,
I wait.

CU 1979
©1979 Steve Eulberg

Rippling Wave

In a rippling wave
of newly-awakened fur,
a grey-brown
squirrel spritely springs
across the open
green, gnawing
at the empty nut
husks, hesitant;
darting eyes
furtively figure
if he is safe.
Finished, yet famished,
he wheels
—blinding blur—
to turn tail
and head for
greener grasses.

CU 1979
©1979 Steve Eulberg

...Out Like a Lion...

Yester saw
the bud
of tender greenness
pregnant,
perched on
limb's delivery stool.
Today's eye,
unpeeled,
views
the craggy
fingernails of
November
seeking to
wrench the
life,
stillborn,
from its
issuing womb.

3/30/88
©1988 Steve Eulberg

Quickening

So quickly, I am surprised
So gently, I awake
She takes my slumbering hand
And to her stomach it is pressed
To find
The quickening of feet
and boxing hands
of Baby "Yogi"
The fruit of our love
Joy of our sharing
Creativity of our differences
Meshing together
Our hope for the future
God's word:
"The world should go on."


3/10/89
©1989 Steve Eulberg

All the Good Ones...

Overheard from a radio conversation:
"All the goods ones are married..."

Did you ever think that
they are "good ones"
as a result of marriage?

Not just that
it is somehow easier
to want the unhave-able
but that the process of marriage
hones and polishes like a gem tumbler
so that even the roughest of raw ore
in the daily grind and rub of relationship
begins to be worn
smooth and shiny
like the
tawny topaz?

3/13/93
©1993 Steve Eulberg

Well-Worn Shoe

How ever
could I have slipped
into the well-worn shoe
of comfortability?

How ever could I have lost
the tingle in my taste
for your you-nique-ness?

How ever
could my heart
lie sleeping safely
in accustomed rhythms of routine
Lulled to
slumber
by conscious efforts
to control and quiet
the steaming inferno
that so nearly ago
was stoked with only
a hint of
your ardor-igniting image?

So yesterday
was it?
that we tumbled
at every chance
into the embrace of
promised trust, acceptance
titillated by refrains of coming
kisses
climaxes
and love thoughts
love talks

How ever
could I have exchanged
the dynamo of our love
for the siren song of respectability,
false modesty
adorning deepened desire to control,
in fear of being lost,
adrift in the flood of passion and
lusty dream-fulfillment
choke-chain
gripping adolescent fantasia
about pulsing neck
restraining
retraining
refraining
from pleasure's caress
Focusing instead on projects
Agenda
flimsy newsprinted stories
of fleeting trivia?

How ever
could I have bargained
with eternity to gain
tiny bits of temporality
in a self-swindling
swapmeet?

8/6/87
©1987 Steve Eulberg

At the Thought

At the thought
of writing
my fingers flee
to the plastic-coating
of playing cards
a deck-full of
distraction.
To sit & pour
uncork, let flow
my feeling of loss
at your absence
causes me fear.
Without you here
nothing is what I do.
Ideas flock to my attention
But inactions safely herds them away
Apathy holds sway
my hollowness
rings as inner tears
drip
echoing
along the frame
of my desire
for you.

12/8/85
©1985 Steve Eulberg

His home is on the road

His hand is on the handle
his hat is on his head
his traveling shoes upon his feet

He pauses to ponder
wrestling with the words

It's not that he has to go
or that he needs to be free
it's just that sometimes he finds
his home is on the road.

03/09/07
©2007 Steve Eulberg