07 May 2016

Untitled I, Untitled II, and Untitled III


take me in your arms again as
another spring is born from winter

place your lips on mine and
overhead the birds shall
sing a song fit to break
the heart

furrow-fields, lines straight,
without error, all too ready
for planting, dew-damped, fading
into the distance, a horizon opened up
until infinite, beyond all our poor calculations

how long will it take for the seeds
to sprout?  Only a skilled
farmer knows, winking and peeking
at the sun as it rises and sets, other
propitious signs well-known to him, his
visage fairer than any other

and buds burst along the branches,
newly green, tight-folded, waiting
to be plucked



the woman says:  do not try
to make me small; I am the
colossus who straddles the earth
and engenders all that is good,
mother of all the world, grown
out of the sea, though no
pillar of salt ground down
to grace your table

no doll to be tucked into
your coatpocket, or a book of matches
struck, one by one, their brightness
lying, extinguished, on the landing,
dimmed forever to a smudge of ash

mother of all, subject to none,
rising above the lines of littered phrases
meant to trammel her in.  No.  She
eludes these nets of sarcasm, scar-casm,
gleaming ivorygold, sinuous, sailing off
to better waters



do not mourn me when I
am gone.  Know that I am
with you yet in every sprig
of green you find beneath your boot

each squawk of birdnoise, each
crack of thunder, flame of lightning,
sudden wind stirring up the leaves to
dance in brittle circles

only tell the bees, so that they will
not decamp from their hives, that I have gone,
and let them know of those who will
voice the customary funereal words,

walking, stiff-suited, noose-tied, in dark
clothes, pinch-shod,
mouthing forced formalities through
the fug of flowers, so distant from
the sweeter noise of buzzing hives
under the summer sun

16 February 2016


too big to fail, too
old to trust, the
water sullied by
glowing particulates, threading
thick through the life-blood
of this landscape

and who shall hear her
call, soft through the
night, winding through
the trees, now bare in winter,
waiting for the green garb of

will it come again?

or shall the rivulets shine,
doubling and redoubling mutations,
reworking our DNA until we are

fault lines and faulty
thinking: a poor pairing
indeed, piercing the ground
with poisoned daggers, killing
the one who bore us


scraping the plates, the
heaped bones into the
charnel of a bin, kitchen
meat-fragrant, redolent of
blood burnt over a steady
flame and she thinks of
him and his dear bones,
that finest of frameworks
and how she (once)
pressed her lips to his

still, there are greens to
be chopped with a blade,
silver steady, pressed
against the board, the
ribbons adorning a blue
bowl, crowning the cool
china like a triumphal
wreath, waiting for a
fine seasoning

as she would season your
brow with kisses, peppering
his cheeks until she was
hungry no more.....

and still, the pitchers to
be filled and the linen
cloths, these winding sheets,
to be pressed and put

oh my dear, my darling one,
do not abandon me!

Fairy Tales

drops--that will not pierce
the skin--pelt the flesh
like pennies against the
wall--a coin toss, the
rolling of bones, all in
life a chance, the
chancers standing on the
corner with their matchbook
manifestos, eyes snapping
like a leather belt around
the ears.

this too
shall pass
shall pass

and all will be light
again, the unnerving glory
of a spring day encapsulated
in a single pill, to be
taken with a glass of

we are good children (or
were, once-upon-a-time)
when we still believed
in happily-ever-after

keeping company with the
kith and kin of the forest,
those familiar gnomish elves
who practice good magic
and reward the
simple and deserving, answering
thick riddles with
common courtesy

Carpet, Electrified

the boards shake under a
multitude of hooves, a
tremendous trembling of all
about her, the very fibers of
her clothes quiver, the
carpet is electrified, shining
beneath her feet, the
hot coals to walk across,
a straight line makes for
the shortest distance--
moving the clobber of clothes there, here,

bend and stoop and move,
move, move.  up down, up down,
from black to black and the
mouth, always, looking to be


sit, stand, sit, stand,

kneel and count the
colors in the glass bordered
by metal, thick scent and
always the bells, crisp linen,
fluttering bills, the words-words-
words--the smoothness of
wood and glass, the
quiet-cool of marble, the
water daubed crossways, and
then the returning, blinking, molelike,
to the glare of the sun outside,
blinded, but only for a moment


ah, the bleating and the
bellowing of this season would
fill a zeppelin with hot air to bear
us away from these ill-
tempered contentions, the
rancorous neighing and
pawing of the ground in the
barnyard fit only for
animal tempers, ungoverned,
ungovernable, beribboned and
bewigged, grandly suited in
their suits for our affections,
lapels pin-pricked, noose-tied
red or blue, all this
sound and fury

05 June 2015

So Poetry and Art Walk Hand in Hand

so--poetry and art walk hand
in hand, each keeping close track
of the time, internal
rhythms ticking away, turning somersaults,
this capering pair

trundling past once shuttered
storefronts now blazing with
music, adorned with tinseled
crosses at the crossroads

they do not rush through the
thrum hum of the traffic--they
take note of the ever changing
composition of the sunset over the river, the
evensong of the birds, metrical and sweet,
dripping honey as the sky darkens to dusk,
then night

using every crayon in the box
to write their manifestos, while the
blades of grass pierce the sky, the
lamb lying down with the lion,
and she asks "what is not
art, when I am with you?"

the china, twice fired, their
roses not yet off the bloom,
shudder, slightly, as poetry
and art, now arm in arm,
tramp past the shop window,
mixing desire with memory thickly
upon their palette, the pages
of their book no longer reproachful in
their blankness

Framed by Light

framed by light, the lines
graved in his face a studied relief, a
map of all that has been, a hint
of what may be yet

as he (so noisily) hammers out
a new piece of art and
the crickets sing in counterpoint,
our summer chorus

his ranging limbs forming the metal
into the shape he wills, forcing the
detritus of last night's battle into

the shining baby, knife sharpened,
sprung from the slick grey coils ever
tightening and relaxing, directing those

messy digits to sift through the
dross for gleaming gold,
the path lit by fireflies blinking out
their morse code