Embracing Time With Two Friends
Silence with a slight high wire tone
Like the whisper of crickets before dawn
And the spirit of the friend who embraces
After the theater performance
Of Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”
Sleeps now in another room
I’m in her guest room with
A cold cup of tea and after
A psalm, psalm 65 and a
Meditation before prints of
The artist Paul Klee and another
Sunrise watercolor
A seed that sprouts in her
Garden and mine - maybe her
Poppies the flowers just budding just starting
To open, maybe the arugula
That is not eaten by a rabbit in mine
4:36 A.M. in a wet summer when I
Two days ago almost sprinted
Into undertow and riptides at
Narragannset Beach, the sky was
A smoke sable and the water
So warm and sand rushing away under
My feet as I stood sideways
So not to be knocked down by the
Crosscurrents of the waves which
I rode in and then regained my
Footing pushed myself up from the sea
For another to roll in towards the sand
Sweetly relentless embrace
Of the ocean before intense rain
And on the way home in this other friend’s car
The rain white out
So we had to stop for coffee and
Wait it out then start again
Into the downpour home
Because I am going to live now with the taste
Of that saltwater from Narragannset
Eternally on my tongue
Calling
Falling asleep in the afternoon,
I forget that my father has died.
I anticipate him calling me up,
asking me how my writing is going,
and am I thinking about having children.
Making a joke or two. "Don't worry,
Mom and I will never be lonely."
Then I fall into deeper sleep, he
loses me, traveling in his car, the green
Chevrolet, to old baseball fields,
which are sweet with rye grass
and lush stadiums, his pals throwing
him the ball - "Give me some pepper, Al."
Mississippi John Hurt
I would desire the hands of Mississippi John Hurt, the fingers
just slightly bent and with a touch of arthritis, though he
has spent a life-time caressing that gentle guitar, calling
to his folks you got to travel that lonesome road all by yourself
and the humbleness of his voice, just a touch of a rasp, eyes
that know far more than the eyes of a scholar, glancing up at the camera
now and then only now and then, it isn't really trains one hears
in the blues guitar, it may be a walk with a grandchild down
by the river, or the grace bestowed after singing "Amazing Grace"
in the church near the homes of cousins getting ready to go out
and toss a baseball to the sky. I would desire, as I age, the fingers
of Mississippi John Hurt, which symbolize a life lived without
greed, without any malice whatsoever, any grab to power, and the
unearthly gentleness in his voice, yes, I would desire that.
A Free Ride
If we were held by stronger bonds we would be unbroken. There is a silence I have always cherished,
which comes with the knowledge that a son is traveling far away and safe. Traveling in a bus through
the glistening cities. I have been counseled with the half-smile of a challenged woman, whose face is
scarred, whose music is rising on a crest of mourning. There are no stars tonight. This prisoner was
found guilty and does not weep. But I am one who walks and weeps, in the knowledge of ancient
flowers that speak with the lips of prophets. I am, in a state of grace, witness to the birth of a lamb, one
reincarnated from the pages of the prophet Isaiah, one who has dreams of high places.
Not one soul at the lake, and then
a descent of sparrows to the bone
causes a birth of black stars
and the never-ending list of names
falling like tarnished grins
for the creation of you as a magnolia
leaves me stunned and unable to cry
there is only one sound, that of someone
far away and breathing sweetly
after a sudden thunderstorm
and I will always call you
after a swim in icy waters and a flask
of strong tea, when the lifeguard
high on a wooden post
oversees the rescue of our
camouflaged doe and fawn
Silence with a slight high wire tone
Like the whisper of crickets before dawn
And the spirit of the friend who embraces
After the theater performance
Of Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”
Sleeps now in another room
I’m in her guest room with
A cold cup of tea and after
A psalm, psalm 65 and a
Meditation before prints of
The artist Paul Klee and another
Sunrise watercolor
A seed that sprouts in her
Garden and mine - maybe her
Poppies the flowers just budding just starting
To open, maybe the arugula
That is not eaten by a rabbit in mine
4:36 A.M. in a wet summer when I
Two days ago almost sprinted
Into undertow and riptides at
Narragannset Beach, the sky was
A smoke sable and the water
So warm and sand rushing away under
My feet as I stood sideways
So not to be knocked down by the
Crosscurrents of the waves which
I rode in and then regained my
Footing pushed myself up from the sea
For another to roll in towards the sand
Sweetly relentless embrace
Of the ocean before intense rain
And on the way home in this other friend’s car
The rain white out
So we had to stop for coffee and
Wait it out then start again
Into the downpour home
Because I am going to live now with the taste
Of that saltwater from Narragannset
Eternally on my tongue
Calling
Falling asleep in the afternoon,
I forget that my father has died.
I anticipate him calling me up,
asking me how my writing is going,
and am I thinking about having children.
Making a joke or two. "Don't worry,
Mom and I will never be lonely."
Then I fall into deeper sleep, he
loses me, traveling in his car, the green
Chevrolet, to old baseball fields,
which are sweet with rye grass
and lush stadiums, his pals throwing
him the ball - "Give me some pepper, Al."
Mississippi John Hurt
I would desire the hands of Mississippi John Hurt, the fingers
just slightly bent and with a touch of arthritis, though he
has spent a life-time caressing that gentle guitar, calling
to his folks you got to travel that lonesome road all by yourself
and the humbleness of his voice, just a touch of a rasp, eyes
that know far more than the eyes of a scholar, glancing up at the camera
now and then only now and then, it isn't really trains one hears
in the blues guitar, it may be a walk with a grandchild down
by the river, or the grace bestowed after singing "Amazing Grace"
in the church near the homes of cousins getting ready to go out
and toss a baseball to the sky. I would desire, as I age, the fingers
of Mississippi John Hurt, which symbolize a life lived without
greed, without any malice whatsoever, any grab to power, and the
unearthly gentleness in his voice, yes, I would desire that.
A Free Ride
If we were held by stronger bonds we would be unbroken. There is a silence I have always cherished,
which comes with the knowledge that a son is traveling far away and safe. Traveling in a bus through
the glistening cities. I have been counseled with the half-smile of a challenged woman, whose face is
scarred, whose music is rising on a crest of mourning. There are no stars tonight. This prisoner was
found guilty and does not weep. But I am one who walks and weeps, in the knowledge of ancient
flowers that speak with the lips of prophets. I am, in a state of grace, witness to the birth of a lamb, one
reincarnated from the pages of the prophet Isaiah, one who has dreams of high places.
Not one soul at the lake, and then
a descent of sparrows to the bone
causes a birth of black stars
and the never-ending list of names
falling like tarnished grins
for the creation of you as a magnolia
leaves me stunned and unable to cry
there is only one sound, that of someone
far away and breathing sweetly
after a sudden thunderstorm
and I will always call you
after a swim in icy waters and a flask
of strong tea, when the lifeguard
high on a wooden post
oversees the rescue of our
camouflaged doe and fawn