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
housefall
A bit extreme, don’t you think?
—the house on the head, I mean.
You know: the little horizontal- striped legs
sticking out from under,
their size four ruby slippers
toes-up, as they say,
and right in the midst of
those cutsy stogey-puffin’ Munchkins. (more…)
observation point one
She kicks her feet up
topping the high blue sky
stretches down
tickles the sun-gold snow
This I dare to see
from my quivering mud hut
Ranting old men
So a bicycle on a sidewalk
cold cocks a pedestrian.
What might a bleeding student
thrown out his window into the night
by masked mercenaries
think of that
as he falls
too many storeys
to an unmarked grave.
And what are such old men as I
complaining about
when other old men
have ordered such acts
in the name of God?
Dodging bicycles
Walking on the sidewalk
lately has made me feel like
a tin duck in a shooting gallery:
when will the next sidewalk biker
be awarded his giant stuffed panda
as I lie groaning on the pavement?
Must I duckwalk like a prisoner
glancing neither to left nor right
lest such frivolity
carry me into the trajectory
of a careless cyclist?
Sidewalks are for walking
yet ringing the bell
before he overtakes me
seems never to occur to these
silent interlopers
who should be on the road.
Oh for the good old days
when kids clothespinned cardboard
to clack on the spokes
or actually stayed in traffic
taking their own chances
in their own Russian game.
settling in
The first step onto the dock
is like a fresh haircut, a new dress
Unpacking the groceries
is like casting a line into clear waters
Changing into the swimsuit
is like answering the door on your birthday
Sitting on the front porch
is like unpacking in the college dorm
Cracking the first beer
is like sitting on the front porch
Watching the river flow by
is like forgetting everything else
whatever it was.
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