Apr 25 2017

how high’s the water, mama?

there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs

there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity

there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice

there is always hope and
disappointment
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)

and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice

.

.

.


Apr 24 2017

the bones of her face

mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken

i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten

i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters

this is age and
this is mo(u)rning

and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival

.

.

.

 


Apr 23 2017

time passes when
no one is looking

there’s an oak tree
in the brush line
by the driveway

with a branch
that’s been hanging
since the ice storm
of 1991

i remember my sadness
at the damage of trees

i remember being young
and appalled
at life’s cruelty

i remember how
the basement flooded and
the lack of electricity

i remember that my parents
came to stay

it’s been 26 years
and that branch
is still hanging

and i wish i remembered
how to cling with tenacity
to a tree still growing
through bad storm

.

.

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Apr 22 2017

on the corner of chelsea and 57th

they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price

but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy

where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice

.

.

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Apr 21 2017

frills

prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope

the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week

but these are my days
and no matter how messy

there are always flowers

sometimes fresh

sometimes dying

sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake

always
flowers

always a smile

on a short-sheet friday

and life’s
funny bone
antics

silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that

.

.

.


Apr 17 2017

blue on blue

suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday

.

.

.

 


Apr 13 2017

microcosm

busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light

one breath

one moment

take it in

notice

this is what matters

this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty

remember

.

.

.


Apr 12 2017

the geese are on the move

and i am still right here

these are the words
that ring through my head
on a hamster-wheel day
when running in place
feels just as exhausting
as covering distance
and all i really
want to do
is fly

.

.

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Apr 10 2017

calyx

spring comes and the birds start singing

and that’s not poetry
it’s truth in a dress
made from hope and hybrid dancing

but we wear it on days
when the swamp
spills over
and
every tiny miracle
understands the word survival
and thrive becomes the promise
of tomorrow

less season
than rebirth
perhaps even
a holy transformation
or simply life
refusing
to go gently

but the birds learned all this
long before Plato
and that
in a word
is
poetry

spring comes and the birds start singing

.

.

.


Apr 9 2017

just sing

of your outrage and your joy
your frustration and your ploy

your glad-to-be-alive
or about-to-take-a-dive

the mystery of light
and the hollow of each night

your complaints and your praise
of survival and spent days

the youth that was lost
and the parody of cost

just sing

.

.

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