Seven Poems by Nolo Segundo

 

     

On Finding a Dead Deer in My Backyard   

 

I saw them a few weeks ago. My wife called me, something urgent--

so I left the computer and went to see what so excited her.

 

Three deer, 3 young deer meandering around our ¼ acre backyard.

They look thin, she said-- I agreed

(not saying it was not a good sign with winter coming near).

 

We enjoyed watching them through our plate glass door, their

casual grace, that elegance of walk deer have when unafraid.

They were special, even more than the occasional cardinal

alighting in our yard like a breathing ruby with wings-- so

we stayed as still as possible. I told her that deer can only see

what moves, so we held ourselves tight like insensate statues.

 

Two of these white-tailed beauties grazed daintily on the ground

but the third was drawn to our giant holly tree, resplendent

with its myriad red berries, like necklaces thrown capricious.

I was concerned-- something alarming about even deer drawn

like the proverbial moth-- safe, I wondered, for deer or tree?

 

The triplets soon left our yard, as casually as they had come,

and a week went by-- then one day a single deer came back.

I say back because she went straight for the holly tree, and

I banged on the plate glass door and yelled as fierce as an

old man can yell to scare off the now unwanted intruder, for

something told me the holly tree would be death to the deer.

 

She fled, but the next day came back again, again alone, and

again with eyes only for that tree, an Eve that could not say

no to the forbidden fruit-- or berries or leaves it appears.

Again I chased her away, and for a few days saw no return.

 

Then one brisk morning our neighbour called-- he saw what

we could not see in the deep green thickness of that holly tree.

The doe lay sleeping under its canopy (so death always seems

with animals, unlike a human corpse where something is gone),

killed it seemed by berries or the leaves of the innocent tree.

 

I called my township-- they said, put the carcass by the street,

we’ll send someone to pick it up-- but I couldn’t or wouldn’t.

Not just because I walk with a cane, and am old and unsure

how such a moving would be done-- no, no, it was more--

when I saw the deer lying sheltered beneath the tree it loved,

the tree it died for, it seemed a sacred place, consecrated--

and I could not bring myself to violate nature’s holy ground.

 

Fortunately, I have a neighbour who is not sentimental, and he

dragged the dead doe roughly to the curb, and I knew, by

its pungent unearthly smell of death, it was the only answer.

 

 

Tasting Eternity

 

My old friend and I went to a restaurant for lunch,

a ramshackle little place, but my friend told me

the food was great—and it was! Three different

chicken curries, a lovely lamb curry, and a half-

dozen veggies, and mango drinks to wash it down.

 

I suppose we visited the buffet more times than we

should have but we were talking philosophy as we

always did when we got together and speaking of

God and the soul and the meaning of life really

can make you hungry--then my friend said he

believed in God but had trouble with Eternity--

it seemed scary, terrifying even to think of time

going on forever, endlessly, a road never ending.

 

I laughed a little, then smiled at my old friend--

‘THIS is eternity! ‘I told him, ‘Right now, this

moment as we eat this delicious curry and try

to figure out the meaning of our existence’.

I swallowed a mouthful of lamb korma and

laughed again-- ‘wherever we exist is eternity,

and we always exist somewhere, and time is

an illusion, time does not exist, except as a

moment’-- And the next moment, I asked him

if he had room for the rice pudding….

 

 

On the Way to the Ballet

 

The old ladies march

Onto the elevator,

Steadied by their canes,

Each a shrunken frailty

Wrapping an unending

Soul—they are going

To watch young people

Dance dances of grace

And beauty, while re-

Calling their own beauty

Long dissolved in the

Acid of time. Yet, they

Are happy—I even joke

With them as I lean on

My own cane: “Come

Ladies! Let’s have a

Foot race!”  They all

Laugh, as the young

Girls within their

Tattered frames

Flirt with the potent

Young man hiding

Behind my time-

Marked mask.

For a moment

We all feel a jolt

Of that spark

We call life.

 

What Is Ego…

 

What is ego but an ostentatious coat,

designed only for show, providing no

warmth, no protection from life’s

wintertime—and it is a heavy coat,

pulling down the heart, slowing the

mind, even poisoning the soul….

 

The wise never put that coat on, or

if their wisdom is late bought and dearly

paid for, they struggle to throw it off

until they can breathe free-- I am one

of them and I still need to cut up the

last remnants of that hoary illusion,

but bit by bit, piece by piece, I am

freeing my mind, my heart, my soul...

 

 

What Is This Thing Called Love

 

What is this thing called

love?

 

What holds two together

as though they were one?

 

What makes forgiveness

even possible?

 

What spans time and space

and even death itself?

 

What is this thing called

love-- 

that a soul could

no more do without

than a body the air?

 

 

MY DREAMS ARE LIKE POEMS

 

My dreams are like poems,

They come to me

Through that unseen door

To the unknown mind.

 

Why and when they come

I know not—in my youth

They came as child’s play

First, then later as poems

Of soft love and hard lust,

Some written, some lived.

 

As my youth aged,

The poemdreams faded,

Until one forgotten day

The great door slammed

Shut without a sound.

 

For half a lifetime

It was sealed tight,

Forever I believed—

Until some small wonder

Chanced to pry it open.

(What I do not know-

Perhaps the memory

Of a tangible dream

Of a long lost love.)

 

Now the dreams come

In platoons, the poems

Oft with them—two sides

Of the same golden coin?

 

 

NOW THAT I AM OLD

 

Now that I am old:

Did I know the gold I held,

the softness of a woman’s kiss,

my flesh binding to her flesh,

the look in her eyes as they sought

my hidden soul…?

 

Now that I am old:

Shall I grieve for my young days

When I swam through the world

Carelessly and oft without grace?

 

Now that I am old:

Does it matter that I can see

Clearer, feel deeper, love in

Freedom and regardless of

The inevitable sadness life

Blankets us all in-- finally?

 

Now that I am old.

Nolo Segundo, pen name of L.J. Carber, became a widely published poet in his early 70's in over 80 literary journals/anthologies in 7 countries and two trade book collections: The Enormity of Existence [2020] and Of Ether and Earth [2021]. Both titles and much of his work reflect the awareness he's had since having at 24 a near-death experience whilst almost drowning in a Vermont river, which brutally shattered his former faith in materialism, the belief that only matter is real. [And no, the NDE was definitely not of the 'white light' sort, but then his near-drowning was not accidental.] Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2022, he's a retired teacher (America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia) who has been married 42 years to a smart and beautiful Taiwanese woman.