Another untitled poem from the 80s…
wood and water
the wave of
fragrance so perfect
we seek to
obtain it as
if we could
be windows open
to a light
the gentlest cloud
would obscure still
spreading like one’s
final exhalation which
travels only to
disperse and become
at last another’s
This first appeared here in June 2017.
Curtain
Adept at withdrawal, it retreats.
How appropriate, we think,
that its body curls
with the wind’s
tug, offering
only the
slightest
resistance. Then
it returns,
bringing to mind
the habitual offender
whose discomfiture
lies in choice,
the fear
of enclosure
removed. The
forward glance.
And back again,
whispering its
edict: concede, reclaim.
Give and take. We are as one.
“Curtain” last appeared on the blog in July 2017.
Hummingbird (4)
What overwhelms is the fate
of our breath
moving from one mouth
to the other, a form of
denial flickering by
like the hummingbird,
impossible in flight
but moving despite our logic.
The air
claims no intention. It waits,
and waiting, gives itself to us.
The gift we accept is of ourselves.
“Hummingbird (4)” was written in the 80s, and first appeared here in July 2015.
Theory and Practice of Tension (duet for guitar and mandolin)
By compromise I mean the gap between desire and
ability, the difference between mist and fog, cold air
and warmer water. Held taut, the line remains constant,
reciprocated energy observing Hooke’s Law. Though
inadequate in our attempts, in singing we often express
more than words convey, a bridging of music and lyric,
the extension commensurable to the force, as in the
bended A string trilling at dusk, words shimmering
nearby: equilibrium in thought and deed, in body and
intent. And what is the yield strength of need, of want
and notion? The fertile tremolo, plying note upon note,
peace through constant velocity. Presuming failure,
I limit my attentions and compress. When the sum of all
forces equals zero, we attain balance, owing no one.
Proportional to distance: the strings and bridge.
***
My friend Chuck and I get together on occasion to make noise with guitar and mandolin. We are not musicians. But we laugh, sing tunes written for better voices, drink good beer, and enjoy ourselves. Occasionally the sound we achieve transcends our abilities. I live for those moments.
“Theory and Practice of Tension” first appeared here in April 2016.
Dog
Not away, but after
or contrary,
the reversal indicative
and untoward: scratching,
she spirals to the perfect
spot between us, touching both,
then sighs. In comfort, in ecstasy,
in contentment, who can say?
But we sigh in response.
“Dog” first appeared on the blog in October 2014. The photo is of Apollonia, aka Apple.
The Underbelly of This Seam
Slides beneath your gaze, unnoticed,
but the joining satisfies that particular
urge, combining two separates
into one whole, creating this new
piece. I thumb the string on every fourth
beat, anchor the cloth, pull it taut, and stitch.
What better material than air and silence?
Yesterday’s tune, tomorrow’s silk?
A fine breath zigzagged down the edge – frayed
lines, beneath, on the other side, testifying
to the struggles of the unseen. I exhale,
strike another note. You hum something new.
* * *
“The Underbelly of This Seam” was drafted during the August 2016 Tupelo Press 30/30 Challenge. Many thanks to Ursula, who sponsored the poem and provided the title.
Because You Cook
You know the pleasure of
hunger, of patience
and a task well done.
Dice onion, peppers – one hot,
one sweet – saute them in olive oil,
fold them into an egg
cooked flat. Add
crumbled goat cheese, basil.
Look away.
Morning ascends, then declines,
but night drifts in, confident,
ferrying these odors among others.
Accept what comes but choose wisely.
Light the candle. Shift the burden.
* * *
“Because You Cook” first appeared in Ristau: A Journal of Being in January 2018. I am grateful to editor Robert L. Penick for taking this piece.
This first appeared in 1988, in Aileron. At the time I was experimenting with movement and breath and line, and wrote quite a few of these meditations in this form, some more successful than others.
* * *
where breath begins
it ends consider
light its secret
structure the sense
of limit defined
if a hand
recalls what the
eye cannot which
is the source
of remembrance one
touches more deeply
or allows itself
to be touched
a difference only
in the approach
Knots
Who you are not seldom rises
beyond midnight’s
sum: one strand thrown over
another, looped through
and pulled taut, achieving
tension and a sour taste
at the back of your throat.
Everyone believes this
doesn’t bleed. I lock the
windows, draw the shades,
twist the cord. Even distracted,
nothing comes undone.
“Knots” first appeared here in June 2016.
His Softness
What name would survive
had you not stepped into the water
that day? Memory assigned
a separate word, another given,
and the face I’d placed with you
appeared in front of me
fifteen years later, in another
setting, miles away
and still breathing. How
may I honor you
if not by name? I recall
the gray ocean and how
umbrellas struggled in
the wind, and reading
in the weekly newspaper
a month after
that you had never emerged.
Now your name still lies there,
somewhere, under the surface,
unattached yet moving with
the current, and I,
no matter how I strain,
can’t grab it. Time after time,
it slips away. Just slips away.
.* * *
“His Softness” was published in January 2016 in the inaugural edition of MockingHeart Review.
O at the Edges 