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
shy
He had several theories about why he couldn’t talk to women:
he could not look one in the eye
without thinking she could read his mind
and would be totally scandalized;
women talk face-to-face,
and men talk side-by-side;
the beauty of women
made his eyes water so he couldn’t see;
women thought so fast (more…)
sensory memory
I nibble the tips of my thumbs; the knuckles of my interlocked fingers
are out of focus, doubled over each other. The scent of my hands,
taste of my thumb tips reminds me of puffed wheat and cool milk
in the morning when I was a kid. I tip my still-interlaced hands away,
tip them palms-up, look down into the cup they form, and remember
spring water illuminating my palms where my interlocked fingers looked like
gears intermeshed, ready to spin the water (more…)
edges of sleep
Time staggers between day and night,
a mosaic of the now and used to be
laid out with a fury that suggests
the artist is angry. Oh, to sleep:
and there to discover the order of dreams
in a field of wildflowers presided over
by infants and amoebas. (more…)
Killing the keyboard
I speak; therefore I am a poet.
It should be possible to speak to a computer
and have it do what you say; the computer has
the processing power to interpret speech and
express it as text. Keyboards are so model T.
The death of the keyboard will allow the speaker
to use words naturally, while the computer
places them on the page. A word of warning:
I suggest you keep any murderous intent
toward your keyboard to yourself, (more…)
Impatient Page
When I consider poems I might write
and whether words I sing might last an age,
I hear the urgent pleadings in the night
of unused words denied the impatient page.
There’s envy, lust and murder waiting there
and every sin that plays upon a stage;
so nothing good could force (more…)
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