Once I touched a rose that was so smooth
like dew light slid off its petals. Dark-
ness hung like smoke above it – the work
of one who loves a paradox. A work
designed to deconstruct the beauty of smooth-
things and cold as spilled milk on a dark
table. Intrigued I touched this dark
rose, its soft tissue fading, a work
bitter beneath my hand and yet so smooth.
O how I long to forget, so smooth, your dark work.
Consoled by the melody
the old guitarist begins
to change colors.
Putting away a brighter palate
the painter selects pale greens
and shadowy violets.
Then he closes his eyes –
sees only blue
upon blue.
The old guitarist leaves
behind the complexities
of flamingo
bows his head
to play a song
that only
arthritic fingers
can play.
When the last round
sound drifts away and
the guitar strings stop
their vibrations
nothing remains
except this pale image
fixed on a dark canvas.
the cry of terns rises
over the dunes like the sound of the sea
drawing sand into itself surging receding
beneath jagged stars and an orange moon
the air smells of salt and anise while I mumble something
about undying love still you are not listening
to me but to the sound waves make
I dream I am white foam
returning to the sea having left you
risen and naked walking across the dunes
your skin shimmering the color of cinnamon
your voice sharp and distant
as the cry of terns
You love to startle me,
turning up in unexpected places.
You are ever present in salsa,
beneath the mango and papaya
clinging to chopped tomatoes.
In my soup your tiny green leaves
float under the sliced potatoes
spoiling my lunch. I find you in my salad,
camouflaged, hiding among the mint leaves.
Yesterday I found you in Avocado dip.
And then, and this time you did go too far,
your pungent thick odor met me at the door
before dinner. You spent the entire afternoon
alone in the kitchen with my wife.
You appear so innocent, with your tiny thin stem
and pretty green leaves. But you do not fool me.
I have found you out!
You are relentless.
All morning I watched you work,
more focused than a Tibetan monk
bent over a sand Mandela,
slicing onions into thin half moons
gently guiding them into red wine vinegar,
blackening ginger root over guttering blue flame
releasing its essence, trimming
scallions, bean sprouts, carrots, carving
flank steak into thin transparent slices,
prepping nouc mam, squeezing fresh lime
into dark brown fish sauce, transforming it
to deep red, adding water, chili pepper, sugar,
skimming fat from the surface of the broth
for hours, until it is clear and light as air,
adding rice noodles, anise stars, cinnamon sticks,
fragrance of spices filling the kitchen,
and then, while serving,
adding thin slices of beef
which cook as we look on.
So quickly it is gone.
We stare at our empty bowls.
Your Mandela, so carefully
crafted, has served its purpose.
I confess, I hope you will begin again,
soon. Very soon.
A ceramic urn filled with ashes
sits beneath a window.
A woman sits in the room
in silence, knitting.
It’s November and the Sycamore trees
along the river are loosing their leaves.
In the stiff breeze they twist, break free;
the trees are letting go.
Fallen leaves float on the river.
Letting go of air and color
they surrender to the water.
Sometimes my life feels like
one long lesson in letting go.
I remember my father
letting go of my hand.
We were fishing. Twisting away
I ran toward the river.
I still see him behind me,
our thin poles held in one hand.
I practice letting go.
Imagine letting go of all of this:
the urn, the silent room.
The river, the tress, all disappear.
Nothing left but light, then
the light disappears.
It is time to let
go. It is time
to let go.
It is time
to
Before we begin, please
know this about me – wherever I am
I know I should be somewhere else.
.
Where it is I do not know. But
wherever I am your specter rises – pale
as a ghost drifting above dark grass
.
through which I must walk. But O
how I hope I might stay here,
– at least for a little while – with you.
First you notice that her eyes – very large
appear much older than her face.
They look neither at the photographer nor at you.
………………………………..Rwanda survivor reports…
Behind her a child,
red dress and braids flaring
chases sea gulls.
……………………………….that the crunch…
Behind the child the sun rises
brilliant yellow in a pink sky
above a pale green sea.
……………………………..beneath her wheels…
Then you notice that her eyes – very large
look neither at the photographer nor at you.
They appear older than her face.
……………………………..was human.
Under a yellow umbrella
the hot dog vendor stirs
her cauldron of bubbling sauerkraut,
air thick with the smell of sausage.
.
Children running from kick ball
and hop scotch, mesmerized,
stop to watch hot dogs slowly turn
above the glowing orange grill.
.
Adults reading their papers,
pay no attention
to her quiet incantations,
and never notice the moon
rising in her dark eyes.
Early evening shadows
fill the lower valley like dark water
trees sway in its slow moving currents
birds drift like fish.
.
From a gate at the edge of the path
that leads down into the valley
a man studies the lighted windows of farmhouses
gold flecks against the blue-green rise of far hills.
.
A jet passes high overhead,
thin vapor trail shimmering in moonlight.
I am alone- he thinks – truly alone.
Solitude is my home.
.
Three hawklings rise above his head
fly off calling to each other.
He returns to his hermitage
and writes in his journal: happiness.
Poetry Matters 