The Terrible Dream

It was the middle of the night, just one year ago,
I woke up terrified and started to cry --
A strange voice had spoken to me in a dream:
"Your grandmother's going to die."
I felt awful all day, and then that night the phone rang,
Mom got it, and then, weeping, she said,
"That was your Aunt Sara. There's terrible news:
"Your dear old grandmother is dead."

Six months or so later, I woke again in the night,
So shaken that I had to cry.
That same, strange voice had spoken again:
"Your grandfather's going to die."
Distressed and bewildered, I stumbled through the day.
At night, the phone rang, and Mom said,
"Brace yourselves, children, that was your Uncle Mike.
"Your dear, sweet grandfather is dead."

Oh, what does it all mean? Who can explain it?
What's this gift that's so much more a curse?
It's all such a terrible burden to bear--
How could my life get any worse?
I hardly can get any sleep anymore,
I'm so shaken with worry and fear
Of the chance that I'll hear it, that voice in the night
Whisp'ring terrible news in my ear.

Then last week again I woke up in the night,
And my tears were pouring like rain.
That awful, strange voice with its terrible news
Had shattered my dreams once again.
I couldn't believe it! Oh, what would I do?
I shook my head, helpless, and cried.
The horrible voice had spoken again:
"Your father is going to die."

"What's the matter?" said Dad when I hugged him that morning,
But I could only stare at the floor.
I was aching with sorrow all through my school day,
And when I came home, Dad opened the door.
He said, "Son, it's your mother--she's had a bad shock,
"And she's taken it awfully hard.
"This morning the milkman had a heart attack,
"And he died right here in our front yard."

Oh, what does it all mean? Who can explain it?
What's this gift that's so much more a curse?
It's all such a terrible burden to bear--
How could my life get any worse?
I hardly can get any sleep anymore,
I'm so shaken with worry and fear
Of the chance that I'll hear it, that voice in the night
Whisp'ring terrible news in my ear.

In My Own Language

Some words exude sensation—
Some feelings call a hundred words to mind.
So why does my own mouth so often gape, dumb-struck,
Filled with an emptiness of words it cannot find?
To tell you that you're beautiful,
To ask you for a dance, a touch, a whisper,
Or for a silent glance that tells your answer—
Though what question I would ask I cannot say.

I could read to you from German poetry
Or French, recite Italian verse,
But here's the irony:
The language of my own heart is as a foreign tongue to me—
I never learnt it fluently.
What teacher or academy
Is there to train my mouth to speak
The words that match the meanings in my soul,
To part my lips at last and make my music whole?

Speaking in my heart's own tongue,
I dream, I'd sing a song to move your heart,
Tell stories to beguile your mind
And open up your eyes and mine
To see the beauty and the sadness
And the agony from which, habitually,
We turn away our eyes, and, turning, fail to see
The very nub and essence of existence and humanity.

Public Notice

(Inspired by an entry in the Davis Enterprise classified ads, February, 2010.)

Why she changed her name
it didn't mention in the ad.
She may have changed her gender, too,
or got a brand new mother and dad.
You bet she had her reasons, sure,
to file the papers that day, and now she's
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché.

And should I ever see that name
on a "Hello" nametag sticker
Or spread across a hundred yards
of Times Square news feed ticker,
I'll doubtless still have as many questions
as I have in mind today, about
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché.

Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché—
Sounds like somebody's pony,
or a bull who sniffs rosé,
Or a clerk who works at the S & L—
Really, who can know or say anything about
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché?

Trochee, trochee, dactyl,
trochee, iamb in a row,
A fascinating rhythm,
makes me wonder what else there is to know
About the former Anna Leigh Teller,
and how she chose her new a.k.a:
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché.