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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

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 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

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.

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.

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 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:

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

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

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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Quivering in the dark

Posted by riverwriter on Jun 28th, 2008 | 0 comments home title


We can sympathize
with the tribes.

When the government came in
	dammed the river
	for a power plant
	and re-routed the shipping channel
		away from us
		took homes, businesses
		drydock jobs
		shipping jobs
		even graveyards
		to make it work,
we said little
and
	amazed by
		the huge bridge
		the office building
		the promises
we did little
let the long term go
let them have a free ride
until it was over
and the construction boom left.

Sounds familiar and dark.

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audience

Posted by riverwriter on Jun 28th, 2008 | 0 comments home title

Stand in front of four hundred
mostly strangers
there for something else
and be cool.

Monopolize them
with my words
and demeanour
and backed by
fifty musicians

It was the fifty
who carried it off
maybe my giant failures
were just my little failures—
but it would be nice to be perfect.

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loss

Posted by riverwriter on Jun 26th, 2008 | 0 comments home title

So often have we faced a loss:
	perhaps a favorite doll disappeared during a play date
	a wagon vanished overnight from the front yard
	a pair of glasses but not the book
	a wallet from a locked hotel room
	an unexpected fire that started in the kitchen
	a home expropriated for an expressway
	a life denied by bombs and firefights

As if it had been ripped away, each loss left a scar
	a belief broken
	a past denied
	justice lost
	distrust, cynicism, paranoia

Why are there so few thieves, so many victims?

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sine wave

Posted by riverwriter on Jun 25th, 2008 | 0 comments home title

There is a pulse that runs
from day to day
through eyes and skies
and determines
whether crows gather overhead
to pluck out eyes
or just to turn the pages
of the calendar

One day we sing and smile
the next gasp as the earth
collapses beneath us
or a flood sweeps all
toward the pit
except the crows
calling instructions overhead
moves of the chess pieces
in the great throbbing game

The piston of the world
shoves in pulls out
dragging its orbit
closer to the inevitable
conflagration

if we can
we shall spin off
in time
and leave those
birds
to play above
the pulsing sun

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foxes

Posted by riverwriter on Jun 24th, 2008 | 0 comments home title

slender, coltish,
playful red and white
like little collies
a pair in the woods
on the island
have mated
and now
there are five

One of our cats
is older, wilier
but the other
is a trusting
friendly paw-shaker
who may discover
just how unsporting
cute friendly
wild foxes
can be.

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sometimes I wonder (revisited)

artist in the supermarket

transit

concert

inside the music

cocoon

lotus eaters

after

Mauve and Gold

driving home

On being mistaken for myself

what was left

Quivering in the dark

audience

loss

sine wave

foxes

Inspire yourself . . .

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