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sometimes I wonder (revisited)

sometimes I wonder (revisited)

Sometimes I wonder
if 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

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artist in the supermarket

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

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transit

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

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concert

concert

engine idle just beyond the
ancient boathouse
river calm and waiting silent
to the weed beds
and the spaces vast, beyond

ease the throttle slowly forward
hear the engine twist

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inside the music

inside the music

The part I sing in our quartet
hovers 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.

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cocoon

cocoon

Inside the silk threads
is what will come:
beautiful wings,
gleaming reds, yellows, blues,
curves and strength,
the freedom of flight
instead of plodding,
gnawing eating.

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lotus eaters

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

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after

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:

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Mauve and Gold

Mauve and Gold

If a god were eating strawberries
When 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:

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driving home

driving home

The sun set just before we turned west onto the road
that 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

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On being mistaken for myself

On being mistaken for myself

Photos never lie
except 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

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what was left

what was left

First they took away the all money
poured 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

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musician

your head bobs to a rhythm
easy as your tears
your heart beat is opening
playing on our ears

the earth is surely rising
with your heart
no words can say it
sing your part

my soul is taken
away with you
your heart is beating
and mine is too

play loud the melody
this is not wrong
play to the heavens
sing it strong

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dessert

I wonder
when I see how much time and creativity and effort and artistry
go into
creating dessert

if dessert
is a metaphor

and if so
what is it a metaphor for

does it show us that hard work pays off sweetly
or that
sweet work pays off hardly

hardly

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sandwich

Lay out a thick slice of heavy chewy bread
pungent with yeasty life; on it spread
mayonnaise smooth and tangy, then lay
crisp pale translucent lettuce,
slices of red raunchy tomato,
slabs of garlic-roasted beef,
shavings of sweet red onion,
salt, pepper, lay on
another generous slice of bread;
cut into sections, and bite in.

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quo vadis?

Little fingers guide the pen
easily over the vellum wild
crafting there Picasso’s wish
to draw as simply a child.

From his memory he invokes
the scene in the room below
a man, his guitar, a table and plant
and a picture frame just so.

So clean, so true is the miracle
we all know what this is:
a moment that could define the now
or a moment lost in wishes.

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little boys

loud honking trucks
in our living room
zooming crashing
trains routing around
the coffee table
tall cranes swinging
large structures emerging
from the carpet
sounds of industry and effort
sputtering from future
captains of industry
under our Christmas tree

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