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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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coming storm

we sit upon Olympus
watching weather
like fans in a stadium
except we fly above
and in the midst

participate in our own
executions gladiatorial
thumbs down I say
cakes and bread
have bloated us

we stagger out into the
alley vomit the excess
and return for the next event
betting with our futures
corner bookmaker’s odds

I shiver at night
in the alley
winds grow cold
what are the odds
on Demetrius’ match
with the octopus?

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crab

I never knew I would become so
intimate with the symbolic crab
in so real a sense
yet it is so fitting

crab walks sideways
armed discus
skyward symbol
horoscope made flesh
and dwelt among us

perfection
continues in
my flesh
in the tides of
my circular organ
my bladder

there resides the seed
that can spring forth
incarnated
deadly
disaster
unmaking all

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chocolate

behind the lips
symphony plays
surges into the brain
takes over
the conscience
dark sweet intoxicating
brown

chewing is believing
swallowing is forgetting

flood me
with gold sanguin jewels
rich, enveloping romance

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digging

perfect poem
goes down the steps naked
into the front yard
onto the sidewalk

neighbours wonder
each with an opinion
distressed by public
nudity especially
if an arm is out of place
or a leg is missing

it’s my poem
and I love it
but am willing
to offer surgery
be patient
not a patient

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open chakras

[Our grandson, two-year-old Eero, observing a whirling ceiling fan with a light globe, above him in the Picton Harbour Inn Restaurent: "Flying light"—that's my found poem for this weekend.]

We had seen it
so many places
so many times

ceiling fan
blades whirling
light globe jiggling

unenchanted
we had not
allowed ourselves

to see the
mystical
flying light

be swept away
through the
magic portal
to the stars

[See Platinum River for the background of this poem, and a photo.]

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