The
Sacred Space
of Every
Blank Page
“The
dignity of a man lies in
his ability
to face reality in all
its meaninglessness.”
~Martin Esslin
The days disperse
like civilians avoiding
a draft;
deserters hitting the
road
in search of a dream.
Were the days of the
week
ever more than
seven convenient lies?
Mondays and Tuesdays
were always
gossiping,
making up stories,
telling their whoppers
to Wednesdays.
Fridays always got
Saturdays
hopes up only to have
them dashed upon
the proverbial shores
of a Sunday.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
We filled our days in
with what we bought,
what we said,
what we did;
only to have it all
wash up like debris
on a white sand.
Why not let Sunday be
for clearing the
slate?
Just think,
breakfast, lunch, and
dinner
could now be served
on spinning plates.
All of us
eating only
when & what
we feel like eating
because now is
the only time there
is,
was or ever will be.
Every noon will be high
and midnights too.
All of us idle
as sundials at night,
the moon barely
casting shadows
across our faces
absent of names.
Don’t panic,
we can still be
tamed by angels
disguised as misfortunes
threatening us
not to stand out,
to go unnoticed
like themselves,
performing their
alchemies
in the dark,
so their miracles
don't go
to our heads.
The trees
long annoyed
by our compulsive
categorizing
join hands
beneath the ground,
naked limbs
comingling
in anonymity,
pulsating with an implausible
blood, weary of
forming a solo fate
with the audacity
of a single noun.
Now
no one will be
prohibited from
loving
because to love anyone
or anything
is to
love another
as much as
we can love ourselves.
To those who
shall remain nameless
I offer this:
No matter how many
poems I write
I will never lose
sight
of the sacred space
inherent in every
blank page.
04/09/22
A Movie Lover’s Guide to the Stars
i
The Movies Stay
While We Go Away
The movies stay while
we must go,
with no intention of
explaining away our pain.
The movies stay while
we depart
for further vehicles
of unforeseeable fame.
The movies stay as
if they were
more real than we are
ourselves.
The movies stay filled
with the dead
in all their youthful
beauty and health.
The movies stay suffused
with
the light of all those
magic hours.
The movies stay to
bear the weight of
affinities that were
never merely ours.
The movies stay
like drawers for keeping
dreams in when we’re
gone.
The movies stay
while we go away
to immortalize what our hearts knew all along.
ii
Exteriors
A young girl adorns
a scarecrow
with the hand-me-downs
of her dead father
securing him to a wooden
cross
in the field beyond
the house.
She speaks a quiet
prayer
into the hay
beneath the tweed.
That night, she awakens
to find a man standing
at the foot of her
bed
soaking wet from the
storm
that’s been battering
the cornfield outside her window.
For a moment she
thinks her father
has returned from
the dead.
But when illuminated
by a sudden flash of lightning
she realizes he is
the man
she fashioned from
scratch
in hopes she might
go on
being loved.
iii
Memo From the Front Office
Of course, you’re
being considered at this time
but who’ll
direct and who’ll star is still up in the air.
As you know,
you’re only as good as your last hit.
No one can rest
on their laurels in this business.
Not even you.
However, I know
for a fact they have faith in you
and your
ability to move an audience to tears
if only with that
gorgeous puss of yours!
I’ve always
said you just needed a picture
that played to your
strengths. Not another
comedy where
you have more fun making it
than the audience
has watching it!
“Saving the Day”
was mired by too many damn re-shoots.
Let’s face it,
you can’t afford another stinker.
Audiences want
someone they can root for.
Hell, your last
picture only made 40 mil
with your name featured
prominently over the title.
Word has it your
mother is being played by
that top notch
stage actress Louise Fowler,
who was discovered
by the Clifton Agency
while working
behind the counter at Saks
selling bras
and girdles…can you believe it?
We’re lucky to
get Louise as she’s worked
tirelessly for
decades for a role like this one.
She’s sure to
give it her all.
And, get this,
you resemble each other! You’ll see,
she’s going to
give you something to play against.
That was the
problem with “Into That Good Night”,
Verna Fogel was
all wrong as your love interest.
Zero chemistry.
You can’t quarrel on the set
and expect to make a touching love story.
Just hang tight, this is going to propel you
into the firmament!
Peter Valentyne
03/16/22
Every Angel is Terrifying
This
morning I woke
to
find I’d been
kissed
by an angel
on the forehead
while
I slept.
I
knew this because
my brow was
dashed
and bloodied.
I
searched my mind
for
a dream
to
explain it
but
none existed,
though
mornings
often offer up
signs
of a struggle.
Could
the sight of blood
be
a red reminder
that
death is racing
through
our
underground
streams
looking
for
a way out of itself;
a
seedling
making
its way
toward
the light
determined
to
flower?
No
rock or root
can
inhibit its crawl
through
the sediment
of
ourselves.
Until
of course
busting
out
like
birds
growing gradually
bored
of
their
cages.
Now
I know there is
no
need to figure out
what
to do next
as
the things that
need
doing
present
themselves
for
execution
in
their own time.
Has
there ever
been
a need
to
do otherwise?
But
I, like
everyone
else
tend
to take
things
into my
own
hands
if
for no other
reason
than
it
flatters
the
ego to force
things
to happen.
Was
it Rilke
who
said,
“Every
angel is
terrifying.
And yet,
alas
I welcome
You.”
Angels
are
indeed
perilous
as
even their kisses
leave
a bruise.
Who
better to
bewilder
us
back
to
the proper
gratitude?
I
wouldn’t have said
this
to anyone or
anywhere
else
but
here
in
this place
allotted
for
the
most beautiful
of
all possible
revelations.
03/14/22
Wooden Parts
Are you like me an amputee?
Is all that’s left of you
here with me?
People may see us whole
but there’s an absence;
appendages no longer
in need of bandages.
Who sees what’s missing?
I’m not talking of lost limbs
but a vacancy of parts
unknown but no less grim,
draped beneath the fabrics
protected from the dusts;
shrines to gorgeous longings
once mistaken for our lusts.
But an absence of sentiment
doesn’t mean we no longer care
when the past can be as shrouded
as a loved yet tattered chair.
If in doubt lift the skirt, you’ll
find there’s nothing there.
True love leaves a stain,
a feeling presence oh so near;
partial memories reflected
in faces no longer here.
If all there was to risk
was only our own thick skin,
better be amongst the invisible
than by sorrow shrouded in.
If losing something dear
is merely a matter of ballast.
How much more is lost
to avoid becoming callous?
When age severs things:
people, places, or loves,
whatever are we to do
with what not having does?
When there’s more behind
than before us up ahead;
some folks lug their suitcases
even on their way to bed,
and every other room
they enter carrying trunks.
Ones with stickers
full of travels, ones
with initials full of junk.
I prefer to keep my losses
out from under wraps,
to let out a rook to look for land
on limbs or wings or flaps.
When what we’ve loved
has gone away we'll find
our way back to the wood
because even amongst
dead branches we'll be
welcomed back for good.
03/08/22
When Mind
Displaces the Heart
Which Objects
to the Ego
that Argues with
the Soul
Eventually Calling
Upon the Spirit
to Lead
i
I try not to let my mind
do all the thinking for me.
He’s too full of himself;
everything goes to his head.
He likes to push me around
taking the lead at every turn.
He goes around judging
everybody and everything
in a kind of unforgiving light
usually reserved for uncomfortable
public spaces like an HR Block
or a dental clinic. In fact,
he’s the reason I turned to prayer.
I pray to be free of his controlling
nature as he likes nothing better
than to come to harsh conclusions
about me that however insightful,
always feel heartless. He has no
fear of offending me or anyone
else with his obnoxious know-it-all
mindset and alpha-male tendencies.
He is Michelangelo’s The Thinker
as Little Lord Hog-it-All.
ii
My heart is a twelve year old girl.
She loves easily and is pre-
naturally self-conscious.
She’s sensitive and kind
and never ever wants
others to feel uncomfortable.
She feels she is pretty
though not pretty enough.
She loves making things,
cooking, decorating, planting,
anything to do with art.
Dancing, singing, painting,
anything that allows her
to express her love for life.
She adores animals and
basically sees the world as
a gigantic unfolding flower.
She loves to imagine things and
when they’re scary she
screams, when they’re
happy she laughs, and when sad,
she cries out with everything in her.
She lives in a constant state of astonishment.
Oh, and hairy legs make her blush.
iii
My ego is on his last legs.
Has been since sustaining
several injuries in his teens.
Puberty destroyed his Eden
and turned it into a hell.
Before that he was a child star
(in his own mind) craving the spotlight.
Everything happens to him
or at least that’s how he sees
things. Like David Copperfield
he was convinced early on
that he was to be the hero
of his own life. Trouble was
he suffered a breakdown
after a falling out with his
insensitivity to the feelings
or lack of feelings of others.
Determined to be a success
he ran away from home sev-
ering any ties that bound him
to the perception of himself
that did not jive with the
image of his own self worth.
iv
My soul is in the medical profession.
He is very old school. Instead of Doctor,
he prefers Alchemist. He believes
in remedies, particularly holistic ones
and has been writing everything
that happens down in a book
so as to be clear on what and why
he is who he is. He wants more than
anything to connect with others
but knows that his aloneness is
necessary to his own evolution.
He loves rain and wandering
unfamiliar streets where he has
been known to weep at the sight
of houses simply lit up by the life within.
He longs for a mate but refuses
to let that be any requirement
for his happiness.
He exists in a constant state of
bewilderment because in
every moment he is aware that
this may be goodbye.
iiv
My spirit is the personification of Spring.
It has no sexual assignation though
it loves nothing more than joining in
when things get interesting.
Excitable, fun-loving, easily moved
to tears.
Nature is it’s favorite abode.
It loves the mountains and sunny climbs.
It loves to smile and is eager to enjoy
the smiles of others. It wants the best
for everyone. It loves gatherings
and two glasses of Shiraz wine
at the end of the day or before
things get interesting.
Its a gift giver, a cake baker,
and likes to dress up.
It sees theatre, movies, and church
in the same light.
It loves candles.
v
You may be wondering who exactly is
making the above observations.
When the going gets tough,
who is it that best takes the lead?
When problems or troubles arise
which parts of ourselves hold the most sway?
When Mind displaces the Heart
which objects to the Ego
that argues with the Soul
eventually calling upon Spirit
to lead…I take a breath,
close my eyes, and...
destroy myself that I might live.
3/01/22
