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
The through
Parking lots hold terrors for the brave:
the simple act of shopping is preceded
by trials that’d roll Ford over in his grave
because we know that if we don’t succeed at
parking so we exit from the spot
nose first, we’ll leave it, quaking, in reverse,
afraid of hitting (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…)
corner
At solstice now we face the heart of winter,
even though cold days are growing long,
we cannot help but stoke the fires and shiver
and know it will be months before birds’ song.
The light of day grows long and that’s a comfort:
it means the sun must surely bring the summer,
and with it come bare feet, (more…)
ka-chunk, ka-chunk . . .
The rhythms of the earth are never still:
the frantic pre-dawn anthem of the birds,
the heat-inspired cicadas’ single words
and fossils keep their records without will.
The waves that lap in summer never still, (more…)
chipped paint
The cracking paint gives way in patterned flakes
revealing dark bones of this weathered porch.
The last coat I laid on I hoped would last,
but again undress it with a blade and torch.
The naked wood has beauty but nude flesh
can never stay or snarling wolves will come
and snap and gnaw until all flesh gives way
and keen regret leaves beauty still and numb.
My bones grow tired as scraping takes its toll
and fingers cramp and knees on floor rebel;
and even though this peeling has its charms
my arms and joints will make me rest a spell.
This time I hope the perfect paint remains
for I have had enough of chipping’s pains.
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