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
Weapon
Nothing can
silence a waiting room
like a writing pad
when one of the patients
starts using it.
Waiting room
Two little guys
testing mummy’s limits
the older editorializing
on younger brother
worried about
having something
small and white
removed from
his own ear
with a knife
maybe.
So I told him
how nice the doctor is
and how quickly
he took stuff out of my ear
with a thing like
a little spoon.
Now he has become
a little boy again
and is running
cirlces in the hall
a little past
entertainment.
they’re biting
something about
sitting in a small
wooden boat with oars,
or on a dock
or a small rock by the shore
holding a fishing rod
or a pole
with a line
slooping down into the water
on a soft day.
Water mirrors sky
separating the act
from the action.
The reverie is enough.
Below the glass
lurks Alice
with her flippant questions.
Soft days
Think of walking
on grassy slopes
touching a lake or river.
How likely is that?
A park or golf course,
a farm pasture,
a private home
— a park.
Easier in poetry
than in life:
large waterside
grassy spaces
are more likely
dreamscapes
conjured up by
the weary brain
seeking peace.
emagic
Somewhere, inside this metal case,
a cloud of magic, some of it black, some white,
flows by dint of charms and spells
and adds “one” almost infinitely.
Some wizards have grown rich
pretending to control these clouds
but, like meteorology,
computer prediction
is pretty much a mystery
no matter what rich wizards say.
I do believe I would have more luck
herding cats or teaching them sympathy.
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