Rocks shine like scaly fish
Braced against the flow,
Mountain mahogany, juniper
Watch, wait expectantly,
Yawning stone sea lions
Sun half-buried in sand.
I lower my weight of years
To coyote-eye level
Feel the hard cold press up
A hand crawls out to stroke a stone.
Who is this foreigner?
Seeking asylum?
What does he want?
“To be, without want,” I heard him whisper.
“To be, among friends,
Welcome.”
~ Myron Fink, February 1993
In the Spring, tiny, tender shoots
Of fresh shy leaves
Press into window pane.
Waiting to be held?
In their Spring, thousands
Of bewildered German Jewish children
Said goodbye to family.
“Write every day!”
“We’ll see you soon!”
“Be brave. I love you!”
In England, they were scattered like seeds,
Letters came, stopped coming.
Silence, emptiness, only
The arms of death.
In my Spring
Chaotic winds
Tore out my patch of ground,
Blew me away.
No-one called my precious name,
No arms for a darling boy,
Not even the arms of death.
~ Myron Fink, April 1991
An Old Story
I nuzzle in your
Neck, we cuddle, exchange kisses.
Sex enters winking.
~ Myron Fink, September 1988
Workers
Me Myron, you bee
I pick tomatoes, you sip
Sweet flower nectar.
~ Myron Fink, September 1988
Daily Life
Morning. The dark drug lifts and I am
Here again, feeling the slack,
Before the tension closes in.
Like my morning lemon drink,
I’m set on automatic. Later
I will wind up my legs and set them moving
In the city park.
Between the tapes that play me
I am free to feel, to dream, lounge
On my king-size bed, write poetry,
Listen to music, be.
Evenings, I retreat, surrender
To TV, make-believe and reality,
To addiction, especially chocolate.
~ Myron Fink, undated
whoopsy dipsy make mine fish
make mine wholly delish
in a world so swishy swish
things are only what we wish
maybe some will get the cash
steal it smoke it make a stash
mornings we take out the trash
always something makes the mash
still too soon for April fools
not too late to save the schools
don’t ask me to change the rules
off it man let’s not be mules
~ Myron Fink, March 1994
Paul
A distant train torch
And you were here
Black bearded, soft voiced, taller
A world in your pack.
Home with Mook and Dooge:
Three weeks of yummy dinners,
Talk of doings, comings, goings.
Jobs – a closet for you to clean, records to tape;
TV watching, readings for Dad.
How you stirred our settled soup…
Evenings, knee to knee
We reminisced, remembered.
You read from your diaries,
We lit with words our family tree.
When I spoke of aging, Death
Purred like kittens on our laps.
You said you would care for us
In old age. We all wept.
This home you left, so sunk
In habit, is yours also
Though bit by bit we clean you out!
We never left you at the train
We never will.
~ Myron Fink, January 1993
Hands
Sitting at the kitchen table, his small
hand in mine, I felt his little life,
his trust. I showed him the back of mine:
scaly skin, the protruding veins
that spoke of years of use.
We stared at my hand, he in wonder and I
in fear of death’s signs and warnings.
~ Myron Fink, April 1994
Ez’s Shoe
Each time I get my coat
From the hall closet
I see a small shoe
And I ask:
Where is the other shoe, Ez?
Did you lose it near the tree
Where you made your mighty stream,
Bronze boy of three
Arching a rainbow?
Or did you, generous heart,
Give it to a shoe fairy,
The one I heard you talk to
That day in the park?
~ Myron Fink, January 1993
Watershed Park
Passive Cedars with elephant feet
Waiting for another day, another
World. My days are numbered too.
Despair not. We have each other.
~ Myron Fink, December 1988
Self-Portrait
1
I’m in charge here! I direct
A story that eludes me.
Always right, always wrong,
How can this be?
Relentless, the heart beats,
Timed to running sand.
Aware, unaware, I am ever
Prodded toward the plank.
Poet by decision, I listen,
Allow, playfully record
Images, world dissolved
In distant music.
My goal, to catch the magic
In my self, the net.
Oh yes! I will
Have it yet.
2
I am Discovery! I sail
With the wind, expect surprises,
Live with not knowing. My compass:
To acknowledge, feel the hurt.
My shore: Aliveness and self.
My anchor: To heal before I die.
~ Myron Fink, undated
A Father’s Visit
I say to Anji “I am the fire
That lit your star.”
I kiss her eyes and we cry.
The best scene in our play
Is this opening line.
Later we will tell stories
And get busy unpacking
Letting the magic glue between us
Crust over.
— Myron Fink, 1993?