Quite calm, resigned and commonplace,

Like many other faces that we see.

But once I groped and found the key.

Then ripped away the mask, and so revealed

The inner life the outer face concealed.

Beneath a smooth, serene facade

There ruled an evil kind of god;

A raging demon who'd destroy

All hope for self-respect and joy.

It thrust its pointed talons deep

Within to scourge and scar and keep

An anguish writhing there inside,

Raising horror difficult to hide.

And yet he masked these things successfully -

And hid the self that never should be free.

I stood apart and watched them, for my time was not the same.

I stood apart and watched them, but I knew them all by name.

I watched them march and heard their cries;

I saw the sweetness in their eyes.

I listened when they sang of peace and love.

I drifted in and listened and I cheered them from above.

But then one day they took me in; I stood there in the crowd,

And briefly I was one of them and briefly I was proud.

And for a while I found myself and knew where I should be,

Holding others in my arms and soaring fast and free.

But now they're gone, those brave young saints who tried to change it all.

And now they're gone, those brave young souls; they cannot hear me call.

Some gave up and some came down and drifted out of place,

And all the brightness that they brought is gone without a trace.

And I am cold and lonely now, still standing at the side.

I can't go back and can't go on, but Lord knows how I've tried.

I stood apart and watched them, but I knew them all by name.

Yes, I knew them all by name.

Break me apart

And crumble the pieces

Over the abyss of memory.

Then reconstitute the remnants

Into a palpable mass throbbing

With the guilt of untaken chances.

Scatter the leftovers of relationships

Over gravel paths of longing,

Intercepting the untended vistas of doom.

Untangle the vines stretching out to

Stifle tender impulses of hope

Sprouting within the catacombs of despair.

Rescue me from the Cyclops of Cyberspace

Lurking at the edges of an Internet

Programmed to deaden feeling.

We are not here because we choose to be.

We have been forced, quivering with resistance,

To join a manic spectacle

That feeds on the frenzy of misplaced destiny.

The members came each languid day

As wealthy people met to play

And struck a ball on sparkling greens

Dull ritual of men of means

While spouses lunged within the pool

And drank too much to keep them cool.

Why was I there? The scene was wrong.

I watched but did not stay for long.

At twilight time they filed inside

And sipped some more and ate and lied.

Pale black men carried plates and bowed,

Then moved like ghosts throughout the crowd.

While outside sprinklers arched up high,

All urinating in the sky.

Inside the tones dropped soft and low

Never to let the rudeness show.

And as the murmur filled the place

They moved about with stunted grace.

Their fluttered hands fell veined and thin.

Beneath their tans the men were gray,

A tinge of imminent decay.

And even smiles reflected gloom

For they were trapped within this room.

How sad to see their souls were set

For empty lives without regret.

With searing upper class control

They acted out the joyless role

And mocked all those who failed to meet

The standards of the rich effete

Who can't afford to think or feel;

No wonder this was so unreal.

And I was glad when I could go

And leave the artificial show.

But all of them were left behind,

Vain victims of the shuttered mind.

Once I spent myself in dreams

Arched my ego to the heights

Broke it up in golden beams

Fused again in blazing lights.

Felt the power glow and gush

Gilding over fear and doubt,

Stood alone and took the rush

Of triumph pounding from without.

Always thought I could elude

The Terror breaking on the rocks.

Plucked it out to tear the mood

Climbed the walls and crushed the box.

Looked on earthlings with disdain

As they stumbled into rage

Struggling hard to hide the pain

From long confinement in the cage.

I was always meant to soar

Far above the mindless space.

Through muffled thoughts I heard a roar

And pushed aside the ruined face.

How I schemed to beat the trap

Snapping hard through brutal teeth!

With scornful hands I sealed the gap

That spread to snare me from beneath.

All the evil shards of time

Were helpless specters of my game.

The gleam of good dissolved the crime

And spread the litany of fame.

But someday dreams are doomed to crack

Like stale eggs tossed against the wall,

The shells are scattered on the rack

The yolks are dripping from the fall.

When they are lost the soul is wrecked

Though lumpy stitches mend the seams;

This is all we can expect

When we spend ourselves in dreams.

What is he to me, this young man with caramel-colored eyes?

He is too old to be my son and too young to be

my lover, so there can be nothing of the flesh

between us, which makes my feeling for him pure

and much different from any other relationship.

He is someone whose mind and spirit reach out

and flow into mine and linger for a while and

flow back again and I know beneath the difference

Sometimes the eyes are cold or turn away, but

often they hold a look of such sweetness that I

know he has an inner strength and wisdom and

knows everything in the world worth knowing.

Once I saw him lounging at a bar drinking a gin

and tonic and I thought how out of place he

looks wedged between middle aged men in ties

and coats to hide the growing paunches.

For he is slim and taut and fresh and belongs

wading in a creek squishing mud between his

toes or sitting in a circus with a crowd of kids

eating cotton candy and gaping at the lion tamer.

He is Huck Finn forever in ragged denim cut-offs

surrounded always by children who love him

One night I sat sharing a joint with him in a

Volkswagon bus with printed curtains parked

beside a Catholic church, till the joint fell apart

and sparks lit on his pants and he brushed them

away and said that he was stoned.

Then I felt closer to him than I had ever felt to any

other person, but I don't think that I was stoned,

well, maybe just a little because my mind felt very

clear and free and I wanted to touch his face gently.

What is he to me, this young man whose eyes are

the color of Kraft vanilla caramels?

When I think of him my eyes fill up with tears and I

am someone who never cries at all, but these tears

are good because they are for him and he is very

special and I care very much.

He has suffered far too much for one so young and

fine and I want to look after him and protect him

from all that is evil and help him find whatever he is

looking for intently.

I reach out to him because he taught me to reach

out to others and to be free myself and say what I

feel and never be afraid and I am trying very hard

but I am still afraid.

That is why I need him, the young man with the

lambent caramel colored eyes.

CRAWLS down the crevices behind my eyelids and jumbles the reflected images, creating a phantasmagoria of grotesque

demons that stare malevolently back at me.

CLUTCHES at my diaphragm and kneads the strands of

flesh into a column of useless matter that cuts off the rhythms of breathing.

CROUCHES beside my bed and thrusts day-glo beams into my mind, destroying all coherent thought and piercing my very soul.

SLITHERS beside me on a dark street and tangles my feet with taut cords, so that I stumble and stop, immobile and defenseless.

BECKONS to me from a supermarket shelf and entices me down a long, white aisle - faster, faster till my limbs fail and my sanity shatters on the glistening floor.

PERCHES on my windshield and blinds me with a distorted

mirror, as I weave helplessly back and forth and finally pitch over the side into blackness.

At last, Fear closes the coffin of life - forever.

And I am obliterated - mute, sightless, without hope, without love, without protest - but, finally, without fear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joan Gipple died on November 29,2000 as a result of a voracious infection she received at the hospital following heart bypass surgery.  She was my most intelligent friend and best travel companion.  I will miss her sharp wit and generous heart.  I have no idea who wrote the following poem but it is so very appropriate for Miss Joan.

Copyright 2000 - Joan E. Gipple - All Rights Reserved