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
Night passage on the water
A tiny porch light marks the bearing.
Buoy markers rim the cross-channel:
I back out of the confines of the slip
Into the reflections of my navigation light
Turn, and head into the darkness, onto the ripples
That build in size as I accelerate, planing
At speed into the cross-chanel chop.
I switch on the spot light, searching for
The reflective buoy markers and head for the first.
I cannot anticipate the chop, as I cannot see it.
Nocturnal ducks scatter out of my way;
I take a few bugs on the face:
Except for the lurching chop, I drift in
Isolation from the planet, steering by stars
And the porch light flickering through the trees.
Drifting at night
Stars, lights afar, the slap of the chop on the hull
I drift out into the universe.
Free fall.
The air is cool.
Birds scoop for bugs over the water
Sudden phantoms veering like spooks.
Weedbeds on either side
Lights glimmer on the water
Define down.
Immersed in the cocoon of engine’s roar
There is silence, focus, peace.
A day at the Honda dealership
Around me sit gleaming masks
That once would have planted in me
Dreams of achievement and success
Although there is a little of that
Still here, it has diminished in insistance
Compared to my desire to sit
In my screened porch
Watching the river and sky.
Forgiveness
Standing astride the illusion in which we wallow
Is the Lifeguard ready to pull us out:
We have only to reach for the line he extends.
We have only to take his hand
To merge once again with the light and love
That waits, endlessly forgiving and welcoming
But we seem to prefer to drown.
dawn
Pink edged clouds in the west
Hang over the sun-scoured shoreline
Birds debate the eleven degrees of perfection
A laker chugs down ominously
Sullen bands of fire smoulder in my hips and calf,
Debating the seven levels of Hell
With my numb toes. The wonderful poem
That I though I wrote and which resounded
Through my head much of the night
Is not on the page, but fades into the background
Of birds, thudding ship engine, and sunrise.
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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