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
After Shopping
The groceries are in their places:
Refrigerator, pantry jammed
With cans, bottles, packages, cartons of —
But it wasn’t the shopping
So much as getting there:
We stopped in at the house to
Check mail and retrieve an extra
Propane tank from the garage:
The door jammed, and for two
Hours of respooling, lifting,
Figuring, co-operating, solving,
Exerting beyond limits, we detoured
Through hope to desperation
And back again until suddenly
Success. The rest was just
The usual acquisition of food
And fuel, messages and waiting.
Of it all, the part that made me
Happiest was the two of us working
Together like a fine machine.
I loved that part. Really.
Quonset Hut Redux
The actual pilots who drove those
Fighters and bombers on adrenaline-
Fuelled missions in the clouds were
Often too young to vote or drink
Legally in public bars. I recall
Being senior staff at a summer camp
Where teenagers were responsible
For the life and limbs of pre-teens
In and on the water, on archery
Ranges and the trails; yet these
Same teenagers the next fall
Would not be trusted
To go to the washroom
Out of class without a pass.
Quonset hut
I never did check out the butterflies
To see if they were still hanging around
Like leather jacketed pilots in the officers’ mess.
I suppose I assumed they had gone
On a long mission with a low return rate.
Maybe I didn’t want to know.
So young. Bless ‘em all.
When I Write a Poem
When I write a poem
I just start describing
Something that
Turns into a butterfly.
Double dactyl
Higgledy piggledy
Jessica Bassermann
Playing for virgos
At euchre I think
Muzzling Peter quite
Extemporaneously
Driving opponents to
Laughter and drink.
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