Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Beat it snowflake

Sonnet for Spring

No two snowflakes as they say,   
A maxim that draws me awed   
To autumn’s window, first thaw  
Long, grim bitter months away,  
Worn thin by Valentines Day, 
Swallowed up in winters maw,  
Mother Nature’s brutal law,
Iron mounds that won’t give way
Until late May or June.  Fat  
Drops of rain fall all the same,
Singing as one, braiding wee
Brooks into rushing streams that
Bear winter away in shame
To drown itself in the sea. 

Friday, April 25, 2014

The Beach Hat repost

The Beach Hat

The blue broach is the first to go;
short stroke of ultramarine warmed

by some earth hue pulled right to left
across a wet ochre petal humming

in silence at the point of acute angle
parting the breasts, drawing the eye,

note of blue mirrored in the churning
chaos of the muddied wings brimming

the beach hat, poised to bear aloft
her becalmed grey eyes, level gaze

holding me forever suspended,
reason enough to let them fly away

along with the fluted nose, tight pink
bud of mouth, mirrored green question

mark along the right hand contour
of her face, red on low boil in the hair

and neck, sweater a pair of hands clasped
in prayer around welling passages of

greys, blues and yellows in the blouse,
every stroke and jab gone, right down

to the vibrating torrent of background
that pools about the figure in eddies

and cross currents, washing all away,
white canvas scoured clean save

for feint remains of the artist’s signature
tucked into the bottom left hand corner,

a name I invoke, present, by some quirk of fate,
a rip in the fabric of time, at the beginning:

begging Robert Cozad Henri
let me stay to witness the first thin layers,

what to leave in, what to leave out,
The Beach Hat appearing before my eyes.

not my type


The type is an excellent example of the influential and sturdy Dutch types that prevailed in England up to the time William Caslon (1692-1766) developed his own incomparable designs from them. 

Four square wing chair, forbearing lamp
hovering a little behind and just above,
pouring endless rounds of burnished light,

raveled sweater scabbed with elbow patches
not to mention the roomy eluvial pants
that cascade heaved and rumpled into my lap,

a captains stripes of reading glasses
manning the bridge of my nose convey a
sonorous sense of timelessness shading to  

somnolence broken suddenly by the sound
of shattering glass jolting me awake, a baseball
among glittering shards at my slippered feet.

“Goddamn kids, I’m keeping your ball!” shaking
my fist as they scatter, not a Garamond
or New Times Roman among them.

The neighborhood’s changed, all these
Hiskyflipper’s and Scranton Fancy’s,
Scrappy La Doots and Scars Before Christmas

running wild, wreaking havoc, showing absolutely
no respect.  You bet I’ll be having a word or two
with the parents of Bad Mother Fucka. 

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

can't get there from here

Cemetery Beautiful, Avenue Love, Row Paradise

Coordinates given by poets
Will take you in circles
Business forgotten in the search
For words to compare a rainy afternoon
To a blue boat with a white sail
Best all of them chose 
Cremation in the end
Ashes scattered to the four winds
Like milkweed in spring

ant farm repost

I make morning coffee, you go up ahead
passing from panel to panel to pee
in profile directly overhead while I pour

purified water to the twelve cup line, 
our lazy streams splitting the ripened
silence with the braided sound of nickel

chain collecting coiled in a metal bowl. 
Darkness harries me from room to room  
nipping at my heel on the staircase,

a line graph ascending in a dry hinge
litany of old grievance.  We retire
in a welter of well-worn vignettes:

you fanning the pages of a magazine
me sawing the bow of a toothbrush
our bed, a crescent of lamp light, luffing

curtains boxed up tidy under the eaves,
waffled cross section of floor and wall
blocking the coda of our long running strip.