CrimesPoems are little crimes
committed;
at the same time they are confessions
wrung free without harsh interrogations
of rubber hose & blinding light.
Poems are crimes; all poets are convicts
fleeing the oppression of life's responsibilities.
But there is no subterfuge: the doing is the telling;
The crime is the confession.
I knew a poet once who jotted crimes,
who never once raised his head
while all around him
the world was coming to an end.
What he wept was what he wrote:
Every poem a reason for the unreasonable,
his own cryptic undoing,
a telling away of self-incriminations.
OUTSIDE WAR, WEST VIRGINIA
Along Berwind Lake the stretching pines
reflect themselves on a surface of concentric
circles where paddling ducks disturb
the winnows in their underwater
wrigglings. Marveling at nature we
say how all of this will go on.
Without words in this natural place
you and I watch quiet pines poke a
blue sky, and we swear in the twinkling
of our eyes that we too will go on
forever: our love vibrant and green-eternal.
THE ART OF LOVE
with magic markers one night
we practiced the art of love
drawing on each other's body
pictures that danced
in a nighttime flicker
cast by candle glow
and how we laughed
at the two dark angels
flexing their wings on your thighs
the red rose blossoming beneath
your throat
its soft petals trembling
as you breathed
the horn of plenty
with arrows pointing
and names claiming
joint partnership
friendship
mostly love
much later on
resting in the peaceful waters
we closed the night
washing away the masks
from our faces
blowing out scented candles
holding on to the magic
of love's fine art:
indelible days and nights in
a shared eternity
THE TRUCE OF NATURE
In the interim between light and dark,
When the truce of nature is a billowing
Flag of grey-clouded dusk, the technicolor
Of this November creation drains away
Into a monochrome still life.
Then nighttime ticks towards its proper
First moments: All sky and forest creatures
In synchronized heartbeat hesitate in
A pretense of communal death.
From day-long camouflage to nighttime
Revelation, stars shine light years away
While a saffron moon-- pockmarked, arrogant--
Dominates the evening sky.
Everywhere the plushness of living things
Pays a nightly tribute of bated breath.
SORCERY
This is the green we dreamed of yesterday,
One more April rebirth with red sun crashing
Like a wrecking ball atop purple hillsides
Sparking flakes of fire.
Down below, alongside Highway 23,
The neon sign of Hobart's Café blinks
A short-changed welcome three letters shy
While you sit inside at the only table,
One hand against a steaming cup of latte,
The other absently drumming
A red-checkered tablecloth creased and worn.
Jim Hobart says he'll keep an eye out for your bus.
Meanwhile, across town, in an empty house, if I
Could somehow through some April sleight of heart,
Interrupt your sadness, catapult myself
Into your Friday reverie, I swear this much:
I would conjure up a magic spell
To charm spring and you into staying here forever.
PROMISING THE MOON: A collection of my recent poems: 100 pages, perfect-bound
book, softcover.
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$11.50 regular price.
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