9:16










This morning she left home to buy lemons
--- six for a dollar ninety-eight ---
but down at the corner while
a yellow light

blinks caution

she thinks

on the bitterness

of unbroken silence--

the taste of acid irony
proposed to fill the

empty air and still--

she longs for

the translucence of lemons.

Farther down the road
a bouquet of yellow balloons

battles hard against the wind

--- How much will you take for resiliency ---

The balloon man only smiles.

(Image: Wassily Kandinsky: Komposition VII)

White Space I


Make a poem/unmake a poem
sometimes the words flow
others ice dams
jamming the drop
and the page below
remains lucidly clear
uncluttered
the page remains
tranquil/white
troubled only by the shadow
of the maker's empty soul.
------------------------

White Space II

Breath/apostrophe/unconscious
Breath
Apostrophe
Unconscious
to focus is to fear
to focus is to fall---
when the word comes
cold hands cover the mouth
the word is the enemy
the when/the where/the how
what you don’t hear didn't happen and
tragedy bypasses the deaf
it lurks in dark corners
waiting to crush the unsuspecting
a word and a whistle
unheeded/life proceeds
Unconscious of function
Unconscious of the inrush of air
word ceases and
tragedy bypasses the deaf
Breath/Apostrophe/Unconscious
Breath/apostrophe/unconscious
Breath
Apostrophe
Unconscious

el dia de los muertos

the dead don’t dream
but lie sleepless in tombs
meditating on the nature of flesh

and the fortitude of the

insomniate soul

the dead take no meat
but pass the time
in hungry contemplation
(or dreadful anticipation)
of the feast to come

the dead take no drink
but sip the dregs

of roads not taken
of opportunity passed
or grabbed up by the lapels
and shaken the dead don’t dance

until they rise.

------------------

Onion Tears

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,

et quantum est hominum venustiorum:

passer mortuus est meae puellae,

passer, deliciae meae puellae,

quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.

(Catullus 3)

Long did we mourn

poor Lesbia's sparrow

who sang without care

in that sweet lady's lap;

Long do we mourn poor Quintus.

Bird/man the pair unwit players

in four acts of love

whose final chorus

a killing most foul

Curtain rises on Sparrow

as he sips from Love's hand,

and falls in the fading light

of her husband's eyes Long Do

We Mourn poor Quintus

while Lesbia merely laughs,

the motives of the male

too easily understood.

Quintus never saw it coming

and so to Catullus...

(Image: Turner, Ancient Rome, Aggripina landing with the ashes of Germanius)

Ein - Sof

I have no story
only a word to tell.
It tumbles from my mouth
in a harsh and raspy whisper
The word becomes the story.
The word becomes planet,
bird and beast of the field;
The word becomes man.

I have no story

only a word to tell.

It tumbles from my mouth
in a bellow, in a roar
The word becomes the story.
The word becomes Moses
shouting "Let My People Go,"
The word becomes flesh.

I have no story
only a word to tell.

It tumbles from my mouth

in a blaze of light and glory

and the word becomes the story.

The word becomes barriers broken

and the sound of tombstones burst;

The word becomes.

(Image: Hubble Space Telescope, Composite of the Eagle Nebula)

Transition

We should have had an inkling
when the geese refused to fly.
Saturdays we’d trudge through newfell snow,
we'd skate across the frozen lake
listening in the distance for the sound of
plaintive cries and the sense of

shadow overheard.

October November
on into December
they cried until the solstice
and an early morning call,
they cried until a cold voice.
We spent the day in bed
hiding under quilts and covers.
We spent the day in silence
because if you don’t say,
it isn’t so.

Next day we struggled into
worn flannels boots and down.
We trudged through a field
of untouched snow
stepped out onto the lake,
ears accosted by an empty wind
accompanied only by the sound
of silence.

(Image: Picasso, Blue Nude)

Fearless

One of these days
I'll walk across the wire--
I'll dance across the wire

in misfitted toeshoes while

singing at the top of my

voice no care

for whether it cracks

no thought for whether

it's sharp or flat.

I'll dance across the wire

juggling balls and balloons

and when I fall
I'll jump back up
dust the dirt off my butt
and bow to the crowd
with a flourish.







(Image: Joan Miro, Singing Fish)