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New Poems
(2015)
Plein Air
Ah! The erotica of ambition!
I cross the bridge across the stream
where lilac is blooming alongside it
on the embankment. Not far from the sea,
a seagull overhead circling something,
eyeing something. Almost a dream!
I pass the laurel. I remember its struggle to survive.
My senses are alive, revived
with the promise of the meadow.
Light through fluffy lettuce clouds,
bold and crisp. Name this gleam of light
shining on my gladness. In the meadow
I sit down and take out my sketchbook,
soon defeated by the power of red
and yellow, my pencil
no match for such splendor.
Inside Outside (Again)
To us our outings were famous and infamous too.
The fancy lady with a cigarette holder blew smoke rings
above our heads. They lingered like low-hanging clouds.
The barefoot man in a tux, the helmet boy on a rented scooter,
the man in a top hat and bomber jacket and spats,
and the others, all came along, but hot afternoons were best inside
for the memory of who we were out in daylight
on such trips. Compassion Guy stayed on his corner
asking passersby to define compassion. Maria’s memory
of the confessional booth kept her outside no matter what.
We always go past the campus girls practicing archery.
It’s the shortcut to the countryside.
Once a girl with a suitcase at a bus stop, seeing us,
decided not to run away from home. She joined us.
Crows in flight cawing, looking down at us, turned and followed us
to the meadow. Passing the old farmhouse half fallen in
was my favorite moment. It broke the monotony of long stretches
of astonishing loveliness. Two women held straw baskets
of tomatoes. “Ripe and delicious!” they called. But
hot afternoons are best inside, in our cool rooms.
On the Beach
Something seems to be going on down there.
Girls stop playing volleyball.
Couples stop sunbathing.
A man stops trying to inflate a plastic elephant.
A motley gathering of us starts moving in that direction:
men with big beer bellies,
old women with flabby arms,
pregnant ladies,
teenage boys carrying surfboards.
And this is what we discover:
across the lake a cluster of folk
onshore looking this way at us.
Leisure Dilemma
Are you up to a stroll through the Louvre?
Yves or trees? Ingres? Manet?
Morisot’s purple impasto?
Or we could stop at that little café
we were told is so you.
We can talk Carot over coffee,
then walk along the Seine.
Take the train out to Auvers.
Or, on a dare, stop in on Henri
to see what he’s up to;
or just do what you want to do.
What do you want to do?
Chase butterflies?
Play hide-and-seek?
Okay, okay!
We’ll spend a week in the South by the sea.
Alchemy
My senses on high alert: I see ripples in frozen water, shaded.
Evading my responsibility, I help the priest carry the cross.
I defy my boss. I see the spilling of ink and blood.
This is my untold story without glory, without the Flood.
My senses in high alert: I see veins of leaves without trees.
I hear the slapping of water as swimmers swim. Evaded,
I trim the trees. I hear the scream of a man on a flying trapeze.
I smell the splash of a cook making a washtub full of soup.
My senses in high alert: Birds and bees keep me in the loop.
I see stone blocks pitted with age and moss over rocks.
I am duped! This is my fire burning, my desire burning.
I smell cab horses, no longer restless, standing curbside,
hooked to their carriages. Without lust, I see a girl
at a window holding her cat to her bosom.
I hear the crack of rifles as men shoot ducks from the sky.
I see scraps of skin-thin paper pasted together to no good end.
No one will contact my next of kin. I am careful of what I buy.
I hear the shout of people on rooftops above shops
waving at a procession of returning soldiers.
I see in the sky a looming darkness as welded bronze.
My senses are highly alert: I hear red slabs of earth
grinding together. This is my pain, my joy on a long train ride,
my golden leaf, my relief. I am alert to all.
This is my place in the shade, my trust. My trust in all.
Holiday at the Beach
What could go wrong? This is a place of moral certitude.
A pelican on a post. Gulls circling and searching the bay.
In the distance, drifting sailboats. Children flying kites
all day across a perky sky. People in green and pink swimsuits
on yellow sand. Girl with an attitude perched on a sea rock.
She leaps for a dive but becomes airborne. The bearded lady
under her beach umbrella reading about black holes.
A Yorkie chasing a butterfly. Children filling buckets
with sandy seaweed. The mime hasn’t moved for two hours.
People sipping beer at the beach bar. Listening to the radio band.
Squinting at the lone swimmer far out in the ocean
doing backstrokes. He is moving so far out that even if he turns back
he might not make it. A dressed-up couple appear
on the boardwalk, apparently from afar.
They seem to be waiting for a formal introduction.
Yet, way, way out, in the misty and majestic distance,
beyond the lone swimmer, the ocean is turning black and blacker
against a blue-blue strip of sky. Sound of water like an earthquake.
Waiting for the Storm
Our jalousies slammi...
