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
Nice day, eh?
The clerk was genuinely interested in my opinion:
sunny it was, cool and melty,
gray fuzzy patches of salty slush
lined the bare pavements
but the yards and tops of snowbanks
were smooth swan white;
the whole place looked like fairyland cake
and damned if I didn’t look like
some kind of giant gnome —
so damn me if I didn’t:
“Sure is.”
Sing me
Sing me something sweet, then
something that reminds me
of sunshine and wine and dancing
barefoot on green grass
in summer’s swooning heat.
Bring back the cicada
sawing in the sweet warm woods
and the lapping of blue ripples
bathing the red shore rootlets
and the cool of water on skin.
Ah, sing me summer again.
MC
Sure it was a put up job:
all those long-gowned
beauties suddenly in the front row,
and Ellen, all business
They didn’t tell me this was part of the job
vacuuming expertly
but impatiently
That’s a lot of skirt, Penelope
around their feet —
not exactly washing them,
but not so far off either —
a forgiveness of beauty
a ritual that every day
we humble ourselves to
and so we wallow
in the hallowed love
and rejoice in this
impossible reconcilliation
testosterone and estrogen
this cuddly commentator
the next Will Rogers
not by aphorism
but by example
and as she is
we wait
not for a lariat
but a hokey
wonderful dance.
[See my other blog, Platinum River, for a background article, "Ellen Degeneres", and photos on this poem.]
SCUBA
“Self contained underwater breathing apparatus
is what it stands for,” the tour guide at the front
of the bus, also our instructor, explained to us
on the way to the SCUBA diving resort,
as we pulled out of sight of the gleaming blue bay
and our sleek ponderous white cruise ship.
She was a blonde, muscular, suntanned, pretty
woman in a blue bikini and tank top. who
demonstrated the flippers, mouthpiece,
facemask, weight harness, and airtanks,
underwater handsigns, procedures, rules
and more procedures to us on the half-
hour ride to the SCUBA diving resort.
By the time we got there, our tingle of
nerves had turned into anticipation,
and our disorganized banter had become
an efficient compliance and and docility.
She was good. She was also the owner-manager
of the SCUBA diving resort and a hotel on
another island across the deep blue Carribbean.
We broke into groups and each were fitted
with equipment, which we carried out to
the sunny beach set deep in a palmy bay.
We land-drilled without thte gear, then with
the gear, how to breathe, signal distress,
how to switch to snorkel, why snorkel is on the left
All kinds of stuff I didn’t know.
Underwater, I discovered I — a strong swimmer
and ex-lifeguard — didn’t know how to sink
so they added more weights to my web belt.
Before long we were under water, and the breathing
was as natural as breathing on land, except
you had to keep the mouthpiece in place.
This was as close to freeform flying as is possible
without growing wings; it is as lovely and sweet
down there with the colourful fishes as strawberries
and cream and a glow in her eye. About ten feet above,
I could see a lovely lass in a very brief striped bikini
treading water with a grace that exists only in dreams.
and below was a peace that cut out world and weather
and distance and hurry: all was blue and pink and yellow
and muted by a silence in which bubbles were the highlight
and graceful motion was as normal here as gravity on land.
Everything was delightful: flashing tropical fish, coral, even
sand. When it was finally time to go back up, I went reluctantly
back to normal: shed my SCUBA gear, and headed for the bus.
[Photos and background in Platinum River ]
I started to write a Saturday poem
I started to write a Saturday poem
but lunch was on, so that was that;
I started to write a Sunday poem
but sun was shining, so that was that;
I started to write a Monday poem
but birds were singing, and life was calling;
I started to write a Tuesday poem
but children were crying and skies were dark;
I started to write a Wednesday poem
but skies were cracking and walls were flat;
I started to write a Thursday poem
but paper was burning and earth was flat;
I started to
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