SCOTT JAMES (S.J.) VARENGO - POEMS

Scott James (S.J.) Varengo was born in 1960, in a city called New York. Two years later he formed a band called The Beatles [citation needed].

He returned to New York City to attend Fordham University (having been told it was a basketball powerhouse) before transferring to the State University of New York at Potsdam (having been told it was located in the tropics), from which he earned a bachelor's degree in Art History. (Aside from the handsomely framed diploma and his ability to run art categories on Jeopardy, it hasn't really paid off).

Varengo loves to read (favorite authors are too many to list in this limited space, but include Craig A. Hart, Hunter S. Thompson, Kurt Vonnegut (even though he has no middle initial), J.R.R. Tolkien (who is a bit of a show-off and has TWO middle initials) and an up-and-comer named Ernie Heming-something-or-other), listen to music (when he writes, it's usually jazz - the rest of the time it's Industrial Techno Punk - oh, it's a thing), and walk along forested trails with his wife Kim. He lives in Baldwinsville, NY, a suburb of Syracuse, known for its picturesque setting and its friendly people. He has two adult children of whom he is obnoxiously proud.

His published works include a volume of short fiction, three fantasy novels, two thrillers and an ever-growing list of spy/espionage novellas, which he co-writes with Craig A. Hart.

Visit his website at sjvarengo.com.

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All We Are Given
​

​When I am old
And my gait is crooked
I will capture once again
All the friends who took an instant
For at the end that is all we are given

And when my breaths come with labor
And when I cough on sunny days in summer
I will hear their words
And be comforted by their laughter
For at the end that is all we are given

When the only dances are those remembered
And the only kisses are those in my dreams
I will feel upon me
The light touch of their hands on my face
For at the end that is all we are given

And when all my eyes can see
Are the flickering lights of yesterday
I will watch it all again
And laugh like it is new
For at the end that is all we are given

When all I have left
Are times recalled
I know it will be this season that I remember
So today I laugh just as loudly
For in the end this is where I will store all we are given
 
 

Learning The Words
​

​Some songs make me think of you.
The ones we both sat beside
during those distant four years.
I always felt like you found them first
then brought me begrudgingly 
like the big brother 
  standing in line with the little
  waiting for Santa.

But when we were both there
no one else seemed to hear what we did
or to feel the things they did to us.

We were young
and didn't yet have the words
to describe what was happening
  as it bathed us
  as it burned us.
We could only sit transfixed
remembering to smile when we had the strength
  for often it made us weak
  even as it strengthened us.

I would give much to sit again
in the everglow
to see if we have learned the words
  to see if we could push back
  even as we continued in our compliance.
 
 

The Day of Execution
​

​On the day of execution
only the women smiled,
almost drooling
in mute anticipation.

At once a murmur
as the condemned appeared
from the scarred wooden door
of the ancient stone tower.
And a cloud stepped aside
    obediently
to let the sun show his face.

The women's smiles faltered.
This was the face,
framed in golden curls,
that called them each.
Each by their individual names
This was the face that 
    knew their secrets.

Slowly he was led forward.
The executioner's huge hand
wrapped around his arm,
like a father guiding 
his son across the rough cobbles 
of a busy street.

They reached the steps,
climbed the platform.
He stood unbent
and calmly looked each woman
in the eyes
one by one.
Accusing.
Forgiving.

The mayor's powdered wig
sat slightly askew.
He cleared his throat as he
prepared to read
    the charges
    and the sentence.
Pulling the scroll from his perfumed cuff
he slid the ribbon down its length
and with awesome solemnity
    unrolled it.

The paper was blank.

In the square, the only sound
was the women's ragged breath
as a black cloth bag was offered,
but the accused shook his head
    then placed it on the block.

Now even the breathing of the women ceased.
The hooded giant took his place.

From a bare tree
a single bird
called a single note.

The ax was pulled aloft
The brave, unsuspecting sun glinting
    on its edge
and in an arc of perfect, timeless beauty,
      swept down.

From the bare throng
a single woman
called a single word:
    "Stop."

But the blade 
touched the block
unresisted,
and the cloud stepped 
in front of the sun once more
    as if to spare if from the sight.

And now the unseen men 
began to breathe once more
As the women wept as one
into guilty handkerchiefs.
 
 

On Forsaken Paths
​

​When starlit we walk on the wordless way
On forsaken paths of village grey
You and I, a pair
of sandals for some asterism
Who would rise and brush her hair.
She points her toes, but then is gone
Away before she’s slipped us on.
And not a voice we greet or flee
And not another face we see
No delegates from among the quick
Only the humming electric quasar
As it illumes the new-laid brick.
And the whining whoosh of a passing car
As it flies, praying to a yellow star
Then passing under ruby Mars,
(Safe for there is only you
and I in charge, we don’t pursue).
You whisper now, a random thought
of a piece of lace you bought.

Night and Smoke and Rain
​

In memories of misted nights
you stand near me on
rain-slickened streets.
The only color from changing lights
and yellow smoke 
from a smoldering can
which curled around 
as if to carry you off.

But you stayed
and we heard the voices
of two young girls
dripping down from an open window
laughing at things only they know
and dreams of Leonardo.
You looked at me
and shook your head
but we knew that you’d been young once too.

We both recalled
our more tender souls
had nearly burst,
agonized over worries then
that are nothing more now than
yellow smoke
clinging to our ankles in the dark
as we pass beside the sleeping park.

Though I’m stung and broken
by the subtle trace
of sadness on your smiling face
when we pause beneath a lamp
beside the river;
my feather touch still makes you quiver.
The young girls’ laughter
will not reach us here.
Only smoke and night and whispered fear.
You cannot be sure
as you touch my cheek
which is rain and which is tear.

At last we reach our dim-lit rooms.
Warm towels for your hair now
and teapot tunes.
Nothing has changed somehow
but now the pain
stays in the night
and smoke
and rain
and changing light.
 
 

I Am Not Here
​

​The nurses from the hallway
calling to one another discreetly
or to one of the Walkers
in no uncertain terms
“You’ll have to keep your voice down;
There are others.”

But it is not me
I am neither the loud
or the others.
I am not here
though someone here 
is wearing my clothes.

It becomes more difficult to be sure.

The first meal is too early
but shuffling feet still answer the call
of names I do not recognize.
I cannot eat
I can only smell the disinfectant
and the scent of the Walker 
who goes in the hallway
no matter how many times
the nurses reprimand. 
It doesn’t seem like food
And I will not eat it
since I am not here.

The boy in the other bed
plays the radio –
a station that repeats 
the same bad songs
over and over again:
I'M SO FANCY
YOU ALREADY KNOW
I'M IN THE FAST LANE
FROM L.A. TO TOKYO
He tells me not to look at him
but I am not here
I try to explain
but he just gets madder.

We all get madder.

On some days 
people I know come
but they do not visit me
for I am not here
and cannot entertain guests.

The man they see has just 
tilted a paper cup to his mouth
and far too many pills have fallen into it
This happens without pause
over and over again
until I am sure 
that I am not here.

But someone is reading my books
and someone is hiding
in the room with the other boy
who is drawing a picture
of a tiger now
and is not angry anymore.

Outside the door
the Walkers pass
back and forth
to the end of the hall 
then to the other end
over and over again,
as if this was the answer.
The don’t go anywhere
but never stop trying.
Their feet make a sound
like sandpaper
on a board
that is already smooth.

Once a Walker
who covered her hair
touched the hand
of a Walker who was not me
and they went together
to the end of the hall.
It could not have been me
I am not here.

Another time I found myself
thinking
that if I am not here
how is it I see
every Walker - 
even the one wearing my clothes?

But it is time to tip the cup
to my lips once more.
Not my cup
not my lips
I am not here.

But someone is
and when he stands
before the polished sheet of metal
that serves as a mirror
the distorted Walker staring out
from inside
looks too much like me.

Someone needs to tell him
that I am not here