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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

Smooth Slider

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pickup boat

Posted by riverwriter on Aug 31st, 2009 | 0 comments home title

We use the old tub most days
getting from island to mainland
carrying groceries, passengers,
refrigerators—we depend on her.

She needs new upholstery
and some canvas repairs. (more…)

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arrangement in white and planet

Posted by riverwriter on Aug 30th, 2009 | 0 comments home title

five white stacking chairs asymmetrical
around one side of the bonfire pit
evidence for archaeologist or detective
of an evening after the children were in bed
a week or so ago when they were all still here (more…)

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East wind

Posted by riverwriter on Aug 29th, 2009 | 0 comments home title

Long deep whitecapped rollers answer the contrary wind
where the deep dark channel narrows between islands
that funnel the cold raw power of the waves
upstream against the current of the mighty river.

The marina worker on the phone told me (more…)

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Here

Posted by riverwriter on Aug 28th, 2009 | 1 comment home title

early evening sun
searches empty rooms
hearing voices of the departed
echoing like pebbles on a far drum (more…)

Saving Your Favourites

If you click on the title of a post, you will be taken to the archive copy of the text, where there are many options:

"Print this post" -- creates a printable screeen
"Add to Favourites" -- See below
"Related Posts" -- other posts that are in some way similar
"(Visited N times)" -- Started Jan 5, 2010

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In various places on this site, if you don't have a Gravatar (an icon that represents you and appears with any comment you make), you will be asked if you want one, and given a link to the Gravatar site.

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Quick Post Finder

Printing a Post

Direct method:

1. select the post by dragging your cursor over the poem from bottom to top.

2. Click (in Windows), then click "Selection" so that it does not print the while page, then click "Print".

The disadvantage of using this technique on my printer is that the font prints small.

Formal method (easier):

1. Click on the title of the entry.

2. On the resulting screen, click on "Print the entry below".

3. On the resulting screen, click on "Print" in the lower right corner to print all, or

4. Select what you want to print as in the "Direct Method" above. The type will be regular size.

Thanks to Lester Chan for his excellent wp-print plugin.

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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

pickup boat

arrangement in white and planet

East wind

Here

Inspire yourself . . .

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