luncheon at Musee D’Orsay

Posted on May 28, 2008 by riverwriter

Ah, yes: the food again of course is fabulous
too much for lunch, just like the chandeliers;
the marble fireplace’ smooth and gleaming tabula
a marvel—I can feel the ancients near.

And yet, beyond the walls in the salon,
a darkened cloister honours those pastels;
and down the hall, Degas and then Van Gogh
and wealths of giant minds that spoke in oil.

So now I fear to leave this room and browse:
I cannot bring to them what they to me;
what if my brain so fails the very laws
to see what they have given the world to see.

Let’s say it just seems absolutely odd
so easily to touch the face of God.

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from Black Jack’s basement

Posted on May 27, 2008 by riverwriter

[Note: Blackjack was a persona I used over twenty years ago, when I was editing “The 21”, a union newsletter for highschool teachers in our end of Ontario.]

So now it’s okay to be late by a day
or a month or a week with assignments;
and please don’t admit that you copied a bit
it’s all right: copyright’s a confinement.

I suppose the next thing the pundits will sing
will be students are teaching the classes;
and knowledge itself will be stored on a shelf
while they shove their heads up their own assets.

Surely these assets can see what will pass
if they practice this brand of stupidity:
the path it will take will lead to the wake
of our country and eyes’ high humidity.

Someone tell me everything’s a dream
for if I wake to this, I’ll have to scream.

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maelstrom

Posted on May 26, 2008 by riverwriter

I

The sky above the valley
would have been difficult in a jigsaw puzzle:
blue with occasional puffs of cloud.
The slope down was an artist’s dream:
sturdy trees, manifest green heads
and strong engaging trunks
carpeted around by swirls of cow-trimmed grass.
The river was wide, smooth, inviting—
so easy to slip in
and drift away downstream.

The water was cool, quenching skin’s heat;
the sky was blue as a lover’s eyes:
one could fall up into a lover’s eyes
undistracted by swimming, not hearing
the soft purring downstream
knowing but not knowing
the speeding current
caressing gently then
clutching with icy fingers
the swimmer’s heart.

White water slapped
the swimmer’s eyes too late:
the driving sluices sucked all
between the jagged boulders
bruising, shredding bone, gouging flesh—

II

They met on a dance floor:
he was consulting his watch,
heading for the office
to call the agency;
she was the DJ
and she was late.
He was struck by her terrifed pale blue eyes;
she bathed in his patient understanding.

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