[I graduated from San Jose State 1971. It took me a year and a half to be admitted into the Education Program there. Thanks to my wonderful parents I used that time to read. I would read up to 18 hours a day. I read everything I could get my hands on, philosophy, mysteries, history. It did not matter what it was, I loved the smell of the printed page. I would close my eyes and dream that I was reading. I wrote these words during this time. I thank you again Dear Parents.]
The night sounds,
a single engine aloft,
the glow from the street lamps
dances through the undulating leaves.
A small circle brightens my pages.
I am in the shadows of my bedroom
and reading about Madame Bovary.
A night sound, and
I awaken from my trance
and examine on the ledges
other leaves that are me.
Henry Adams is there, still learning.
Bless me Ultima is a tale I wish I had written.
El Cid with sword in hand leads his people
in waging righteous war.
Balzac’s candle waxes and wanes,
while Azuela is trapped in his memories.
Pío breathes in solitude.
The Leatherstocking crosses the plain
while California burns.
Friday lends a hand
as D’Artagnan sips champagne.
Homer holds a place of honor,
next to Hoyle.
D.H. continues his human quest,
as Mr. London walks through Wolf House, head bowed.
The Third Reich haunts our collective guilt,
As the Admiral’s ships seek but never find.
Thornton Wilder will never grow old.
Tonight, as the cold seeps through the window,
as the sound of trucks from the highway fade away,
as the patter of the raindrops land softly on my window
like the ticking of my clock,
and as the smell of night ladens my eyelids,
I’ll awaken from my comfort and feel the winter disappear.
And I’ll curse myself for resting so peacefully
in the warmth of my words.
Well,
good night Madame Bovary,
I am looking for a home as well,
although mine is elsewhere,
yours is next to Dr. No.
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