OTHER POEMS
BY
GARY DORMAN WIGGINS
Staryi (Starry)
I remember seeing several times
An old derelict
Proud of standing dimes on end.
Seems they stood for ages quite erect,
But they always fell.
January 1967
Chto on tam tak plamenno povtoriaet
O zhizni, dniakh, liubvi, tocke?
Nevidimye slova, v kotorykh smysla net,
Ob”iasniaiut vse, chto v zhizni ne nuzhno mne.
6 April 1967
The printed word is itself a poor representation
Of something stirred
By something blurred.
Call it “non-stagnation.”
When a poet speaks in images,
He says what may not please.
But poets lie so beautifully,
It’s fine with all us geeks.
To get the true meaning of these pages,
You simply must demand,
“What odor has a new-born breeze? “
Ask a garbage man.
April 1967
Death is an old and feeble nag
Among a herd of prancing stallions.
A loathsome heap of long-shunned fears
Plodding stealthily through their gyrations.
Life is a burden,
Born to sag
And lose the ancient battle.
And they snort when death draws near,
Seek footholds on empty foundations.
The price of a fall appears too dear.
They wrestle with some vague conception,
Exert their all for one more sneer
From Life, The Immaculate Deception.
May 1967
“One moment, please.”
Moment of agony, please.
The tube, so long the master,
Is silent.
Nothing but a buzz where the soothing . . .
Exploding . . .
“One moment . . .
Pleased!
29 May 1967
I am an old decrepit man—unwanted, waiting.
I am a bold intrepid youth—undaunted, mating.
This is not a puzzle to be solved
By the mere moving of blocks
On an empty background.
It is a riddle evolved
Through eons of suffering,
Through oceans of black sound:
Physical impossibility—eternal salvation.
Reckless stability—man’s perpetuation.
9 December 1967
The free-falling aspects eased off a bit as time went on.
Found a fledgling Flounder.
Cryptic remarks will not be tolerated!
The left index finger had formed such an attraction for the “e”
That it completely displaced any efforts on the part of the middle finger
To encroach upon the upper rows.
January 1968
Hiccupping siren draws near,
Pauses briefly at intersections,
Avoids any messy accidents.
Why must the sound be so fearful,
Splashed with revolting dissections
Of a quiet ever so reticent.
Nearer—Stopped.
Very antiseptic.
Body—Plopped.
A bum becomes an ascetic.
2 April 1968
Heretofore I’ve been a lot of things.
Never successful. Just been.
No success in being.
May 1968
See the why of it all.
Sail down the way
Like a lost leaf
In a swift running stream.
Thoughts drift past
Like suddenly visible specks of dust.
Borne by an unseen breeze,
Through the all-seeing rays of the sun,
They drift into nothingness.
The enigma of the ages—
The joining of two separate souls,
Sharing self,
Safe, eluding insanity . . .
Broken beyond repair
By the arrival of a third.
15 April 1970