Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
Willing suspension
You appear at my door
with tales of your latest shipwreck
complete with the dripping seaweed
that proves you were where you said
you were.
And the intoxication of your latest
narrow escape is the cape
of no return whose hazards swirl
around your shanty tales,
but still it’s the haunting ballade
that opens my door yet again
and I can only make a path
for your sodden return
and swab the steps you leave
as you stumble into rest
and wonder at the song you seek
that sends you always back
to lay your head upon my breast.
Stationary cat
My cat resents the scratches
of the pen that I lay upon
paper, the obligations of etiquette
that require a hand of some accomplishment
So I write with the constraint of a cat’s
jealousy of my attentions
to other obligations,
which alters my hand to the extent
that her attempts to pin my pen
affect the interpretation
with paws that chase
the scribbling
and cause the idiosyncratic
turns of the text that
create the disconnects
of furry interruption
cornering my script
but I must say the proper things and lay
the words with some restraint
while she tries literally
to catch my drift.
When one is tired of cats, one is tired of life. But sometimes they would like to be given a bit of a rest, for the metaphor's sake. But just one more..... LOL
the cat complains again.
A poem should curl
around our feet,
rubbing us from all
directions with unexpected
turns and twists keeping
us just a bit off balance
escaping in the nick of time
as we trip and fall,
escaping without damage
to itself and proud
of its effect,
unmoved
by our distress.
She is my cat and she did not approve the following
Fall out
When scarlet stitched the fabric
of our day to the dark line of night
and the buzz of the honey-coloured
clouds that swarmed in a haze
around summer’s sunset,
stung the darks advancing edge
we salted the watermelon
that we ate all the way
down to the rind,
its flavour of hot
lingered long, a touch
upon our own
sunburned skin
salted with sweat
melting into
dissolution that streaked
over our scarlet flush
of too much sun
and embarrassment
the sound of words droned
to the moan of music
that drifted over dusk
letting us know that the house
was still awake
radio- active its attention
diverted even as we glowed
in the dark.
So we dared up until
the white moment
when the porch light
snapped on
and we scrambled for cover
that clothed us after the fact
but irritated the tender flesh
of our overexposure
that sends you always back
to lay your head upon my breast.
Simple, soulful, sympathetic, ...just so lovely!
It should be set to music. :)
Drive time symphony
Silence signs off on every story
like a reporter who concludes each newslet
with his name and reminds us that the moments
between completion and ovation
are just cataclysms collateralized
by an appeal to approbation
The morning commute proceeds
watched over by eyes in the sky;
reports complete with the obligatory
eighteen-wheeler that has drawn
the short straw, becoming the tip of the day,
the author of delays to avoid but enjoy
as we contemplate alternate routes around
the intersection of engineering, speed and enterprise
that flicks trucks over on their sides at high fives,
just about the same time every day.
Riding with windows up, radio on
closed to the rumble of schedules,
drifting like the jet predictably
into the municipal airport, our reverberations
are damped by great insulation and covered
by the movement of news, traffic and weather.
we quietly glide losing altitude, shaking off
the suggestion that something momentous is about
to stop happening which we won’t know
until long after it didn’t make the news
and accidents that are the crescendos
of antecedents unfold no doubt as they should,
reported in close-to-real time till we turn the car off
to take inventory of the silence, grab the notes,
the coffee, the phones and the menthol lozenges
while wiper blades clean off the last traces of rain
in the parking garage, applauding their own efficiency
as the morning jocks laugh at their own lame jokes
every day, and announce thru snickers the news while
(its raining, there are delays, the weather is coming up)
Once
no, twice
oh, many times
i've sought to set
a man to dream a dream
or run a race and win a prize
not for need to ever offer
myself as the intended
trophy, wanting only
the joy of seeing a
man set free to be
to dream and do
that one thing
for which he
was created
sure, i am
the world
is better when
men dare to dream
and dream of daring
yet, if he dream of me--
oh! if i were to only be
the muse and dream of such
who'd see my heart fair and fine
full worthy of a daring chance
no! if he not hear this--my siren song
my pleasant invitation to ruin
then might he survive...
and surely never would
he dream again
but merely
sigh and
swim for shores
more gently favored
Bitter seeds
hard and dry
stick the heart
make it cry
i spoke
the words
of a picture
one thousand
times
regretted
and re-thought
bought off
the initial
greed
for a difference
if-erence
about
tomorrow
i remember the folly
of hats
and flowers
bound
on your head
and in your heart
what moment
reproached
the consequence
of your dream
and what knight
could refuse
your slumber
silent
matted
in a frame
of your making
flight
is the momentary
hesitation
between
been there
and done that
I remember Mrs Jones
meet him on the corner
she wore the red satin suit
with the floppy black velvet hat
the black gloves
smelling like a department
store perfume counter
turning every head
walking tall and sexy
her heart hid the dried flowers
while her eyes never offered
a glance into their depth
just play the part was all
she could do
and kept pretending that
she was valid in any life
most of all her own...
Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé
Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d’étain:
Un courant de sous-mer l’emporta très loin,
Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
Figurez-vous donc, c’était un sort pénible;
Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
From Dans le Restaurant by T.S. Eliot
J’essaye répondre
venez avec moi au bord du mer
rechercher les morceaux de verre
qu’ils ont été ballottés
jusqu'à tous leurs tranchants
ne puissent trancher jamais plus
Dépêchons-nous seulement
plus une fois danser dans le brume
et je te dirai "n'aie pas peur
de mon embrassement en souvenir du passé,
il n'est pas l’étreinte mortelle et d’or
d'une etoile de mer
et tu mon cher, et tu
n'es pas une palourde "
Puis, tu me dirai que tu préfères
l'argile de Sancerre
(pour nous rien n'est dérangé)
Allons là à la breche et cherchons de nouveau
les étapes de notre innocence perdue
celles qui ont disparues
dès que nous les avons étendues
dans le sable et l’eau
examinons la déferlante
pour les bouton-perles des marins périlleux
pour nous rappeler que la mer elle-même,
fait employer peu pour le travail des tailleurs,
Et peut-être nous apprendrons
que nous ne pouvons pas raccommoder
le tissu de l'eau qui se déchire
autour de nos jambes.
Elle se rejoindra en moment même
où elle se sépare, et sans nous,
passe à faire sa propre réparation
enfin portons là nos memoires
de les lancer dans la golfe agité,
comme les bateaux du temps anciens
et les lestons avec nos désirs
et notre cargaison de dédain
qu’ exigent d'une vie de noyer
nymphs
Patterns that replicate
the idea of the irresistible
wound with imitation
gold wires and real fur
making something that
waves yoo-hoo flexible
in marabou that
looks fishy and probably
isn’t as attractive
as we might think
not being fish and all that
but good enough for
conditions of limited
visibility.
It’s still not a sure bet
that we will catch
what we are after
cause hunger isn’t
self selecting
and success is more about
timing and attention
depending on the
delicacy of touch
and knowing when to set
the hook since allure
is just a stage in the cycle.
Missed calls.
The technologies of communication
keep the immediacy of disconnection
in comfortable isolation,
a message left to be retrieved
at the convenience of the caller
relying on voice mail to take care
of delivering the easy let down,
guilt free since the impact will never
be recorded.
and oh, I was ripped
back then
he said
you should have seen me...
she smiled
holding her breath
in awed amusement
to see his lanky frame
of passing years
still holding forth
wide at shoulders
narrow at hips
slouched just so
like a perfect David
in a distant gaze
surmising his chances
at victory
wry smiles and loving hands
call him down into her bed
she, in all her doubtful beauty
sees all she needs to know
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