Sonnet 2

That which stands in my path blocking my way
prevents the easy attainment of all
I have imagined in my grasp: the small
and large adornments and promise of day.
Perhaps it is in that which I so hate
that I would find redemption from this fall
we share as our misfortune. — Dare I call
my assassin to my side?  In this state
we stare into each other's eyes and watch
the mirrorings of what we seem.  We hold
onto the judgments that with time grow old;
and we judge no longer with words that catch
the moment in the sound phrase or sentence
containing our day's longing for repentance.
If We Knew

So if Nostradamus knew
he knew only the words
and now words dissolve into silence.

All the world has blown
into the open window
the seers looked out.

So if Einstein knew
energy equates with matter in motion
then peace equals the square root of war.

In their speed these machines
have grounded our summer dreams,
have crashed into morning's mist.

In our stunned silence
a stubborn music has taken root
and shall give breath, shall bear fruit.

New York -- a hustling heavy hive
of glass, chrome, brick and steel;

a nervous noise flowing up and down
costly avenues and streets, where

millions make themselves at home
in soot and splendor -- measures time

in weathered monuments while lovers bare
their breasts beside granite fears of death

(breathlessly they draw the lines that
separate their lives -- cells within the hive).
Sonnet 1

Inspire me with a word. — Whisper, give voice
to the turbulent and the still.  Set in
motion this moment's passage.  Let in
the illusion of perfection and choice.
I travel to you, with you, by cleaving
to noumenal knots; raveling radiance
by typing alphabet's seductive dance
of come and go, returning and leaving.
Let me be frank, state simply what I mean,
articulate the stands I take, express
concern, love, hate fear and hope for the best
of all possible moments in this dream:
give me the art, the touch of the artist
here let me reside in lines and context.
When I Dream
Something Happens  

This poem is
the product of
a pen's small motions,
measuring our borders
with a line that bends
along the dream.

Language moves minds
to encounter
changing structures
of involvement and withdrawal —
rituals of obligation,
passion and appreciation.

And the anguish suffered
by a break
in the pattern
becomes part
of another art.
In Lieu of Hubris
(Remembering JFK, Jr.)

Mist clothes his waiting.
His tongue's trapped in a riddle.
The craft to Ifland taxis forward;
this journey makes a separate
motion over his absence from it all.

The moon is bedded in
an anxious cup of coffee.
He looks to prepare his
bargain with inexperience
for a conscious spark in the sea.

The plane rages against
an aggravation of sky;
and once his lament collides
with events, he drops
a moment into memory.

 Richard Spiegel