A Handful  of my Poems

That Summer-

We dunked worms into the cool water
hoping  as they dangled
on weighted silver
that the shadow passing under
the bridge could be hooked and reeled
We checked every minute or two
to be sure- the worm still wiggling,
the slightest jiggle
an unsolved mystery

We didn’t know
that the hint of dark slipping
through the rocks,
hiding under the mossy underside of pilings
was more patient than the nervous lines we cast.

We thought our time
was longer than the worm’s wait.

Stand Still

said the river.
Watch this.
I'll show you a magic trick I know.
I'll teach you to see
the world in little drops
that plunk from the oak limbs.
See? How they land one by one?
Concentric circles that grow and grow?
Then poof! They're gone.
That's the world winking at you,
                                                                  then dancing away.

On Van Gogh's Sunflowers

He must have held them
in his inner eye,
their petals on fire
dancing in a heated swath
around a center ring
of deep orange and brown.
He must have seen them
pulsating in the field
their eyes straining to
an unseen distance
In the dying light of summer,
he must have tasted
the hot incandescence
of their flame,
blistering to a point
of coolness
He must have swallowed
the roving flashes of heat
that ignited
the swollen August air-
uncertain
where one burning
ended
and another
began.
                          
                    (first published in Flashpoint)

About Van Gough

It was never about the splash of fire
in the petals of sunflowers,
or the midnight sky circling
a starry night. 
Nor was it the incessant babbling of color
that filled an empty canvas with lilies and hay.

No, always
it was something mirrored
in the startled faces of coal miners
as they climbed out of the darkness they ingested daily
leaving the earth
for the painful brilliance of sun. 

Nighthawks

after Edward Hopper's Painting

The big picture window of Phillie's Diner
is a yellow welcome climbing out of shadow
an island in the dream of three am.
Phil is working the counter in white uniform,
old as the place and polite as you please.
You sit at the counter in your red dress,
Your man sitting next to you-
his fedora catches light on the brim-
three am and you in your straight seam stockings
and he in dress coat and tie.
Late night conversation hums
words warm as coffee
contained inside of plate glass.

This is the way it was-
words liquid under glass,
while the avenue was dark with stars.

Wild Acre

Inside you there's an artist you don't know about
                                Jalai Ud-Din Rumi

I knew you in the  Wild Acre
On slopes of wind, you were a feather
Your eyes, like moss gathered on mountains
The rhythmic rain beat through your fingers
You were joy and you were sorrow
Like a bird spread earth to sky
                          
                                                        (Poem first published in Parnasus)

What you are Looking for

You can walk for miles,
walk until you wear out
the soles of your new shoes,
until you weave holes
into both your socks.

You can shop for hours
in the discount stores
that line the divided highway,
buying toasters and yellow hand towels.
You can carry these items with you
for a long time and walk
farther, more slowly

You can watch the rose-colored second hand
twitch under the watch face
circling the glass dome
You can watch for  a long time
and never find

What you are looking for
is already looking out
from under the yellow eye of the sun
from under the soft pearl moon
and all of the stars,
the tender Pleides,
that hold your hand.

Poetry by Poets Unbound

Available at Barnes and Noble

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Available at Barnes and Noble

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