sometimes I wonder (revisited)
Sometimes I wonderif she ever existed.
—found poem
Sometimes I wonder
if she ever existed.
Only a smile now
a gesture
copper hair flashing
she fades even in dreams
artist in the supermarket
She stands in the aisle like reverse Stendhal:frozen, her hand extended over the mound of apples.
Apples push into her like the fists of a lover
knocking at a locked door, urgent, juicy, plump.
It's always like this: fruit overwhelms, vegetables
scream longing; fresh trout imagines a sizzling grill,
beef lounges in a marinade, ready to sear.
She wants to paint, to cook, to knead warm
transit
Night. City street after rain.Early autumn leaves cling to the pavement
like wet hair on a waiting face.
Amber and blue incandescence
lies in pools for walking entrances,
performances and exits,
as the occasional soloist mimes
man walking alone on the street
concert
engine idle just beyond theancient boathouse
river calm and waiting silent
to the weed beds
and the spaces vast, beyond
ease the throttle slowly forward
hear the engine twist
inside the music
The part I sing in our quartethovers above or below the melody;
often it sounds like the French horn.
The Lead's note sounds familiar;
the Bass is the solid foundation;
the Tenor lilts above all, thrillingly;
my part, the Bari, fills it all in.
cocoon
Inside the silk threadsis what will come:
beautiful wings,
gleaming reds, yellows, blues,
curves and strength,
the freedom of flight
instead of plodding,
gnawing eating.
lotus eaters
This is the first in a series I started a while back. I should write a few more on this . . .everyone on the street was
somewhere else
listening to music
words from another time
another place
after
She used to purr when she leaped onto the bed;I prefer to think of her arrivals.
I could read her expressions through the fur:
glad to see me (and usually was):
relaxed eyelids, fur sleek off the face;
impatient with my stupidity:
Mauve and Gold
If a god were eating strawberriesWhen that sunset happened,
I know he'd stop in mid-bite
With red sweet juice dribbling
Down his chin onto his toga
And just stare and do a god-thing:
driving home
The sun set just before we turned west onto the roadthat curved into the pure black landscape silhouetted
against the absolutely clear tangerine and indigo sky.
As our headlights revealed and dismissed the familiar
meanderings of this riverside route and its clusters of cottages
On being mistaken for myself
Photos never lieexcept when they must,
with a minimum of mendacity,
tell welting whoppers
about how egregiously old
the old codger has become.
I have studied photos
taken years ago
that make me look
what was left
First they took away the all moneypoured it into the government trough
and they fed the war in Afganistan
but still that wasn't enough
so they crucified the artists
and they stood around and laughed
Spring in the driveway
Sun dances on the driveway
which simmers under the unexpect baking
having emerged from its cosy ice blanket
just a week ago. The air is summer warm
Pappa in his tee shirt is vacuuming the car mats (more…)
Twitching
at the edge of comfortable town
there is a sludge lagoon
that used to be a lake
you can tell because it looks like a lake (more…)
Philology VII
warm.
A welcoming summer smile
usually at a cottage near water
where the view has a sunrise or sunset (more…)
Haiku: variations on 2
2:
horizontal dawn
painting golden verticals
silent song for eyes (more…)
Comfortable love
Muted by windows, traffic drones
its uptodowndoppler low growl
rumble pounding bass sibilance murmur
irrational abstract concordant dance
that we ignore now, grown used
Clink of coffee spoons memories of
Ben’s in Montreal, presided over by those
bow-tied white shirted nine o’clock shadow
waiters, and the little sign on every table:
“Use less sugar, stir like mad:
we don’t mind the noise.”
We carry that behind the eyebrows
coffee spoons that measure out the time
each time we meet before the drone
rumble subtle quaking China — no
china in the cabinet so civilized our afternoons
mothers used to meet in hats and we repeat
stirring like mad without hats as in church now too
in the almost empty pew we sit and nod
the sorry mundane hymns strummed by guitar
vulgate is so vulgar; where are the gregorian echoes
soaring over organisms roaring everything but Ave
murmuring grace after meals in self-inflicted sweetness
tonsured cowled sunlight streams through incense
swung in a clicking censer by the trembling altar boy
some ritual a liturgy that carries us forward
through the measured insistence of the clock
the calendar, passing of the moon the stars reeling
the hockey stats guitars and simple reinventions
on the wheel of music oh carry me back saint catherine
through my fault through my most thump thump thump
to the lone pew kneeling in submission to the will of
momma who insisted we attend this church
of pappa’s while he was away and she went her way
to hell the nuns told me and fueled my nightmares
for years stink of flesh burning in the ovens those good people
spread upon me like cream cheese on white crustless bread
oh god forgive me but like Huck I’d rather
go there with my beloved momma than with you
whom I do not know except as a long beard in
a burning bush yelling kill kill kill or you cant go home
So we stir our coffee inhale the aroma of the sacred
beans roasted ground brewed to perfection
the hit is in the smell why drink it when you can
just sniff an aphrodisiac and love everybody
no, he said, I’ll have to go to war far far away and
so he went dragging all of our nightmares over there
over there channeling the powerful dopplered drones
of spitfires messershmidts in dogfights over
the newsreels great parade of flags and fireworks
and enemy death carefully censored with dark eyes
perhaps a cat prowling on the windowsill
looking in, her intense green eyes longing
to curl up nearby while we talk about the talk
the talk that streams through dreams and days
through newspaper newsprint onto the internet
into the onternet until singing voices wake up
and we crown at 3:57 in the morning it’s a boy
seven pounds five point three ounces palindrome
congratulations and the small talk drones on
dopplering in and out of my eyes like rainbows
over the other side of the river near the blue cliffs
the river we all cross towards the light
and all our friends stirring like mad ignoring
the tears the embarrassing tears that drip
off the ends of our noses for we miss all
these dear friends with whom we shared
all these coffee aromas and discussed everything
that didn’t oh I’d live to tell you all my true loves
I’d live to love you if I could the traffic
O the traffic of the street is so discreet I cannot
participate except to hesitate stirring coffee
while our hearts drip out pale thready treacle
and a moment at a time, it is too late.
clicking on the play button starts the sound. You may adjust the volume by the sound control to the left. You may access a complete list of podcasts here. I shall add to this list as I add podcasts. I have recently improved my recording equipment; as a result the sound quality will improve. If you have any requests, please comment below the podcast list.
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