The written word has lost its battle with

the spoken word.

Still, I would hope there are a few of us yet who glory in the thrill of looking at these archaic symbols and seeing life a new.

It then is my hope that this page will bring about new life not only for me but for you as well. It is only when we are reborn every day with new visions and aspiration that this short life of ours rivials that of the mythological immortal. For with Hope, Faith and Love there is not end to our lifes.

Come join me again and again that we may dream with the written word as our only guide. A poem about Hope, Faith and Love

Back to Thomas Nance's Home Page

There is much to be learned and so little time!

"The closest thing to poetry is a loaf of bread or a ceramic dish or a piece of wood lovingly carved even if by clumsy hands."

Pablo Neruda

"Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry."

W.B. Yeats

SOME OF MY POEMS:

• I Cannot sing to Her
• All the Wires Are Down
• We Opened Father's Curtain
• T. Writes to E.
• El Dia De Los Muertos
• To an Empty Page Before the Poem
• Sipriana's First Look at Father McGovern
• Sipriana's Love
• qualifying just as good as race
• sometimes i watch you sleep
• Word Portrait
• How can she be told
• i love you enough
• Lover's Dance
• We Had No Children Then
• If It Weren't So Late
• Last night it rained
• If I would have asked you

Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar sur oido

[My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing]
Pablo Neruda

I can't sing to her with my voice
Roughed from cursing our drought.

Besides, my lips have cracked from the heat
Rising off the wavering hills and asphalt roads.

Even if I could sing, how would I
Know she would listen? Would her eyes close

In delight or boredom? Would her arms fold
In rapture or disgust? Would her fingers outline

My mouth or muffle my song? There is no salve for
My lips or soothing nectar for my dust cursed throat.

Sometimes I think it will never rain again.
Even the wind is hot, dry and unforgiving.

All the Wires Are Down

If it was an accident, I don't remember.
Could it have been self-inflicted?
This morning everything was fine.
The fans turned; the bulbs burned:
And even the clocks kept time.
Could insects have invaded and gnawed through
The wires in the basement, attic and walls?
I don't know. I don't remember.
But all the wires are down.
Maybe if she would have loved me
Enough to have put her hand in my hand,
To have drank coffee from the same cup,
To have sat close enough to on a bench,
For her side to warm and quicken my heart.
Maybe then. Maybe then. Or perhaps
If I could have parted the traffic
As Moses did the Red Sea, I could have found
People to follow me into Downtown Park
Where the shaded wind could have cooled
Our sweat into dirt. I don't know. I don't know.
The wires are down. The wires are down.
I've heard it said the streets are safe.
The missiles won't fly again. Piece after
Piece has been taken away and scrapped,
But what of the heart of the missile.
Surely, it isn't as easy to toss aside.
It still beats in the dumpster or
Deep beneath the city where even
The rats won't drink the water.
The wires are down. The wires are down.
All the churches have locked their doors.
It's as if the stain glass has turned to iron.
For the holy images are formless and light
Doesn't change a thing. I can't even sleep
On the steps. Father Bellini keeps sweeping me off.
The wires are down. The wires are down.
If I could feel the flies on my face maybe then
They wouldn't hatch from my head and beard.
Maybe then they wouldn't cover my food and drown
In my cup, and I'd feel hungry again.
But the wires are down. The wires are down
And I don't know why. Would it have made any difference
If I did? Would the sun go round the earth again?
Would the stars race across the sky? Could the planets
Become gods, make me the object of their laughter
And give me something to curse? The wires are down.
There's nothing to do but wait.

We Opened Father's Curtain

To clean the window years
Ago. Used amonia, water,
Rags and our nails.
Maybe we tried too hard
And the glass was scratched

Now Father's curtain is always
Drawn. The window's spider webs
Keep the flies down
And the 60 watt lamp
Gives him all the light he can see.

The room keeps getting larger
By noon he usually loses his way.
Mother's picture has fallen off
The wall but he can't remember from where.
The shadows cover everything.

Few visit Father anymore.
Even if they did
Father can't answer the knock.
His voice got so dry
When it cracked, he swallowed it.

A spider must have crawled inside
His brain and weaved a web too tightly
Around his memories. If the egg sacks
Break open, his memories will be eaten
Leaving nothing for his heart to count.

T. Writes to E.

It's November and already my neighbor's trees
Are shedding their leaves into my yard.
I should rake them into a pile, wait until
The morning dew has dried and strike a match
As my father did to all the leaves I raked
In my youth, but those fires came from long ago.
The sky is too grey for any more smoke.
And just as I won't see smoke, nor will I see you
Again, and you won't see these words my clumsy hand
Guides into the page. It was back in May you left
I didn't hear until now. I almost wrote before
But was afraid. I suppose the dead have no choice
But to forgive. If so, forgive me and don't read
What I should have written months ago.

E. you are always in love
Or looking for the rich to piss on.
Surely with love and piss a man can
Live forever. So what is this I hear
Of your growing bald,
Of your sweater hanging limp
From your shrinking shoulders?
Who is telling these lies
That spread like sparrows
After the first shot gun blast?
How can you be ill?
How can the immortal E. be dying?

Not you, E. Not you
With mescal burning
In your belly,
And your knuckles raw
After losing yet another
Fight with the sun.
Not you, E. Not you crushing
Marigold petals while you
Rest on a soft breast
After your sweat has dried
In the summer breeze at dusk.

Not you. No, not you, E.
How can you go and leave
The spiders in the wood pile,
The ants in your lawn,
The crow on your chimney?

Not now, E. Not now.
Surely they haven't numbed you
Enough to bitter sweet honey
On your tongue.
And what of the poems?
There are G.'s and O.'s
But neither of them can taste
The coal dust of youth
Or feel Senoir Zepeda's switch
Or smell your blood clogged nose
Or hear your father's curses
Or see your mother's tears.

But you wouldn't have listened to me
Because you, E. listened to nothing
Except life.
So you left us
In May.

El Dia de los Muertos

I have brought you no food.
My death head mask is still
Unbought on the self
Sun will rise soon
And others will set places
On browning weeds
To meet silent souls
Who need less of me
Than ants waiting
For autumn crumbs do.
I brought you poems
And read them to dim
Moments before sleep.
They can never make up
For your children's tears.
Ernesto, why couldn't
I have asked you how
You found those spiders
To spin your words
And the time to share them.

To an Empty Page Before the Poem

If you were a throat burning
Shot of 100 proof,
Or better yet, a woman,
I would know why I was here.
But you are neither
And today of all days
You might as well have been
A mountian before a broken legged traveler
For all the good you've done for me.
If only I could sleep a bit,
Put you away for a day or two,
A year. Forget you forever.
Become a child once again
And spin, arms spread beneath
Cloud islands until I fall
Whirling toward the blue white sky
And call it life.
Who can ever say that of a poem?

Sipriana's First Look at Father McGovern

I was but a child.
My hands could not open
An orange unless I bit
Into the bitter rind.
Yet it was your rind
I tasted when you touched
My tongue with the eucharist,
Then blessed me with your palm
Across my forehead.

For the rest of the Mass
I held His body and blood
On the roof of my mouth
Until you blessed us all
And you left to the antechamber
Where you hung those purple robes
As I swallowed the eucharist whole.
There must have been some of you
In the bread and wine
For salvation never tasted so good.

Father McGovern's First Look at Sipriana

Red roses for passion.
White roses for purity
Were on the altar.
Had my hand but covered your face
I never would have felt
The weight of the purple robes
For sorrow.

Sipriana's Love

Since you don't see me, I must have no body.
What then did my hands caress last night in my dreams?
Since you can't hear me, I must have no voice.
What then cried out your name as the sun rose?
Without body or voice I can send you no pictures,
Show you no bitten finger nails, sing you no songs,
Nor tell you lies or truths.

Then why is it easier to cry as you walk by?
If I could give you something: a locket, a watch,
A pen, a poem, would you hold it in your hands
And love it for a moment before you threw it away?

All I want from you is a moment to exist.
What a moment it would be in that nothing time in eternity.
After I was your whole thought, your whole reason for being,
My wanting you would leave as easily as sweat dries on my flesh
When the heavy, hot, summer air is lightened with a fan.

Yet once the fan turns on, once the air cools,
Wouldn't I still sweat and want for something more?
Is a body and voice enough?Must I also taste,
Hear, smell and see? Would I then need a soul?
Would I really love God more or is loving God's creation
Enough love for any creator? Could it be these clothes
Make me invisible? If I were to take them off,
Drop them at your feet and stand before you,
Would you see me or would you not even love me
As you might a whore? Jesus loved the whores
And listened to them confess. You're a priest
Not a god. Love me and make me holy.

Father McGovern's Reply to Sipriana

Become the silver cross. My flesh will warm you.
My heart will sooth you. If anyone comes by,
I'll hide you between my hard pressed palms.
Oh, Father, why must we suffer for an empty cross?

qualifying just as good as race

it doesn't take
much to enter.
nine months
and we're in.
that's when
the race begins -
the fastest,
the strongest,
the brightest,
the most beautiful.

and the rewards
recorded on the newsprint,
engraved into gold,
sprayed on sidewalks,
or chisled into monuments
should be gone
in a billion years or so.

whether we sing
a perfect high "c"
with the angels
or give the earth
a tender touch
of gas
and win nothing,

isn't it better
to have had the time
to count our loses
then to have had
no time to lose?

sometimes i watch you sleep

you sleep so soundly
i don't wake you
for fear you might
be dreaming of me.

Word Portrait

How can she be told

This is only for her ignorant youth
blinded in self-doubt as she smiles
to hide the terror or a heart beating
alone to death, or cries
for the perfect world she thought
did or should exist.

Would she believe me
that it is only her youth I want
not for me but with me always
cradled in a memory
and rocked to the quiet rhythm
of the night when all around me
sleep and I can remember all those
other faces I feared to watch too long,
all those other sights I wanted
to warm my cheek?

Could she understand enough
for me to say
"I love you"
and to walk away
like winter memories
of a magenta sunset
in spring?

i love you enough

would

you agree
a minute
from now
I love you
enough
without question

Lovers' Dance

We Had No Children Then

So was it so strange
For me to clear my throat
As we opened our wallets
And shared our children's pictures?
I showed you
My boys laughing in midair
Out of their swings
Before the sun set
And it rained so hard
The fence collapsed.
My boys cried
For my dog escaped
And was never found.
You showed me
Your girl old enough
To toddle naked among the yellow corn stalks
Before the wind chilled the clothes back on her,
And you held her shivering back into warmth.

How did we love without children?
As a crow would fight it way back
To its nest blow out of the tree
And into the dust,
So we must live our lives
With the past that can never serve us
For we can't put it back where it belongs.

If It Weren't So Late

If it were our bed I would.
But it's your bed and his bed
And tonight your sheets are not mine.
Your flesh is not mine.
How can I tell you now
That what is mine is no longer
Important because without you
I am living with almost nothing
In this darkened room?

With almost nothing but the pain
Of watching your picture
Never move on the table.
With almost nothing but the pain
Of your echoing voice in my head.
With almost nothing but the pain
Of my hand without your hair
Your forehead, your eye lids,
Your cheeks, your chin, your neck,
Breasts, waist, thighs.
Without all of these and so much more.

Gin burns and does not heal.
Last night's sandwich dries on the counter.
The burnt light bulbs aren't replaced
And the calendar is still on June
When they made me sign away
What I meant to keep forever.
But you wouldn't believe me.
Damn it! I don't know if you ever did.
Could you just tell me one thing.
What's if like to sleep without dreams?

My sleep is not sleep.
It is one dream after another.
One foggy, dark alleyway where my stone friend
Leads me naked passed elegant woman
In high heels and warm furs, sipping wine
From mirrored glasses with no reflections.
If the women laugh, I'm off searching
For the long, dark tunnel where
No man can find his way without a woman.

How can I have you lead me?
Before June, I could always sleep.
Before June, my dreams were never remembered.
Before June, I thought you believed.
If it weren't so late,
You might believe again,
And I might cup your cheeks
Between my hands in prayer.

Last night it rained

If I would have asked you

My youth didn't know how
Much I'd miss not asking you.
Could you have told me "no" anyway?
Then I might not wonder today
Why the simplest things I've learned
Are usually unfulfilled.

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