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
singing the song
he inhales deeply
hoping lungs last
and hits the final posting note
the note soars on and on
like a stretching fabric
meant for a ballroom
but used on a mountaintop
he can see by the expressions
his audience is pinioned in the middle of the sound
in the pure heart of the sweet vowel
nurtured by years of dues
over a hot piano
in too many smoky rooms of stale air
watching too many sweat stained satin gowns
too much puke to ever go back
here word of mouth has brought him
here he will hold
garlanding
Down the street
an unscathed oak trunk
killed a car
grieving relatives
festooned the hard place
you have seen this before
woman with a drink
saw her husband
flirting with
drove off in a hurry
blind drunken tears
stamped her foot
and won oblivion
ribbons and flowers
dangle in the rain
Adeline
The drive along the South Branch Road was dicey
the sky was gone the sun had long since set
and snowbanks at the edge were grey and icy
the woods were black as ink you can’t forget
The letter told a sad familiar story
the words were cold as daggers in a spine
his fist still gripped the page that said “I’m sorry
and I will always love you, Adeline.”
The motor roared the car was fairly flying
but underneath his heart raced twice as fast
[Want to write a few more lines? Give it a shot as a comment]
chopping ice
so I’m at it with the ice chipper
sorta straightened hoe
sliding the frozen layers off the driveway
on this warmish mid-day before the freeze
guy puffs by tossing a caption at me:
snow’s a bitch, eh?
Hell, I’d prefer snow to scorpions any day.
armour
the guy whose pickup is parked
partly in my back yard
makes me wonder
what he thinks insulates him
from common sense.
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