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Writing Poetry at Seventy
We’ll write until our tears are cool
And this may ask some sighs,
Along with solace, that these days
Are less burdened with those rules
And expectations for results
That have no hope of old or new success.
The words will flow and the heat will go
Upon the air, dissolved and empty
Of all demand; we shall know
Instead the comfort of bright days
And starry nights undisturbed by some
Agenda and the heat of lies.
Transition is a stage for loving the unknown
In every portrait we have known
And every landscape we have closed our eyes upon;
From one day into the next, and one
Age into the next, we cool our tears in words
That bring us to the edge of time.
© September 28, 2001
Quirky Goosey
Can we even guess
What attention Dr. Seuss
Would pay
To our quacking
Lovable goose
Whose singular claim to fame
Was her quirky color: puce?
© July 1, 2005
"Le Grand Chapeau"
Did I only dream this constellation
Sighted in the California skies high
Above San Francisco, "Le Grand Chapeau"?
Could it be another wonder breaching the endless
Equinox of diversity, stretching itself
Across the universe and reaching beyond even
Milton's grasp of endless possibilities
Into the heady realm of international fashion?
Preening its chic contours with seven
Furled feather-fingers, its modulated
Green crown towers above the brim
To beam the astral light from stars
Invisible, yet purposeful, into the life
Of mademoiselle who wears this, dare I say, hat.
Beauty has an evanescent power on this plane
Of being where Banal and Mundane are king and queen
Of everything. It is a portal into the unknown,
A glimpse of the sublime, a glancing touch of blue
In this pale and somber landscape.
Elegance is a custom honored in the breach,
Rarely in the observance, so we stare
At it when given the opportunity,
Much like the solar eclipse
Heralded by astronomers in the daily press.
A threshold to other worlds? I see a pair of lips
never to be kissed, waiting through eternity
For each of us to find our way
Through the galaxies to bliss.
© Octover 17, Palm Springs
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Diagnosis
Sharp wisdom is there
In knowing the truth of one's
Own mortality.
© August 3, 2001
The Lady in the Pink Dress
The lady in the pink dress
demured by her little lace collar
stares over the sands of time
at the lemon yellow sky.
She is looking for someone,
something, perhaps even me.
I am gone and still she cannot
believe it, the why buried in the lies
we told each other up and down the years.
When I was very young I painted
ladies wearing hats so enormous
they filled the paper to the edge
there was barely any room for them,
or me to understand their beauty.
Did I paint them because my mother's
one extravagance was lovely hats
bought on sprees to stores
where she peered sadly into mirrors,
trying to find a moment's happiness
in a furled felt or stiff straw brim to crow
her pale curls with their artifice?
My picture-lady has thin lips
and dangling amethyst earrings;
you cannot see her eyes at all
hidden by her chic chapeau
that is banded with a striped grey
ribbon in which four feathers,
three white, one black, are stuck.
There is some mystery under that hood,
alone and gazing out in space.
I blink at the memories rushing back
to color the page in muted shades.
To this day I do not know
Why ever did she choose me?
And just like one of my mother's,
the choice she made could not fit her life;
Perhaps this red one would?
© July 8, 2002
after a painting I did June 24, 2002
How To Begin
Shut your eyes tight and breathe;
Open them and let the light
Behind the lashes of your lids;
Swallow it into the dark
Moist hollow of your throat.
Feel yourself in the midst
Of silent music, and smile
At the symphony that flows
Like arpeggios up and down
Your scale of being. You are
Grace-notes on a blank page
That is waiting to be written.
When will you begin? And
Where is your pencil? Where
Oh where is your pen? Even
More important: What do you feel?
That's the place to start from.
Love it as you would the lullaby
You never sang to yourself. Begin!
© July 15, 2003
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