Tonight the taste of frost is in the air,
a brittle, bitter taste that bites the tongue,
and though the grass is green and marigolds
still bloom the shadows of the fevered trees
grow thinner every day. A flaccid length
of vine with unripe fruit lies draped across
the fallowed fields. I have a fear of frost.
The night has gathered close. The air is thick
with sleep. Thoughts scatter on the hollow wind.
Dreams whirl and swoop like warp-winged birds into
the brittle stars, and febrile memory fades
like colors in the autumn fields.The flesh
returns to earth as pallid dust.There is
no beauty in the simpleness of death.
10/1/85
*********************
One Born Every Minute
(Listener Participation Poetry)
You will not like what I'm about to say.
I've written this in simple words so you
won't understand. You'll think they lack the strength
of syllables to bear important weight.
The images are not diffuse, profound,
complex. They show a picture all too clear,
to sharply focused to discount them as
obtuse. Their modesty will shout at you!
About this time, your mind will start to trail
and at that moment I will rob you of
all satisfaction. As the last words pass
beyond the final period, within
that pregnant silence, you become aware
that in this nonce, I haven't said a thing.
2/25/87
rev. 10/17/13
****************************
Love has the strength of rope, two souls entwined
against the current churning passed. A line
so taut that tears dew from the strands and slide
the angle down into the froth. Enrapt
in love, the bond pulls double-strong. Flesh binds
to flesh in harmony of one. Without
a bond, coarse fibers frayed, the ends confused
get tangled in the world. They whip, unwind,
and snag on rocks where shallow waters run
too thin. But love, enrapt, will bear the strength
of rope. The tears are swept away. The flood
subsides. The anchor holds. And eddies, smooth
and cool, release the strain upon the line
to leave the gentle, rocking sway of love.
5/31/87
********************
MEDITATION; SEPT. 21
This is a season lost. The white-capped gulls
have curled their wings around the sun and flown
to sea. Now only breakers hiss along
the shore and ring the sands with foam.
The air, subdued by twilight, barely fans
the grass. Beyond the waves, where eyes can only
see a thin unyielding line, clouds rise
to fade in purple-orange. We are so small,
so pitiful. We ponder how the stars
maintain their flight, we wonder at the gloom
of purple hills, and still we dream of times
when giants roamed the Earth; the rumble-crush
of rock, long-valley strides, the terrible gait
and stalk of those who walked tremendously.
May 25, 1988
rev. 3/1/12
********************
BOGIE, BACALL, AND MICKEY SPILLANE
I knew she had to go. I knew I'd let
my feelings flow up from my stomach, pass
in one hot breath into the air. Her jacket
crumpled in her fist, she leaned in one
smooth curve against the door that stood ajar.
The dim light from the hallway crept into
the room.
"I'm leaving now." She turned to go,
pulling wide the door.
"Wait!" I cried.
She turned again and dimly stood cross-armed
against the light.
"What now? I have to go!"
A silence fell between us.
"Well?" she asked.
Confused, I hesitated; lost for words.
"The pizza, dear." she said, " You must decide!"
"Get two." I mumbled. "Pepperoni, please."
4/19/89
revised: 9/9/10
***********************
Last night your rolled and mumbled in your sleep
and called my name and fumbled in the sheets
to clutch some object hidden from your grasp
then with a sigh you pulled the blankets close
around your neck, pursed your lips between
sleep-swollen cheeks, and stuck your cold feet in
between my thighs. I know you'll not remember
what you said or how your dreams rolled through
your mind; and though a half-remembered touch
or lost love's face could wake exotic passions
lurking in your dreams, the years behind
us tell me you would never lose my love.
I hear your soft breath whistle in the dark
and know the mundane gladness of our lives.
12/30/92
rev: 3/20/10
*********************
I would not be the source of your contempt,
so cast a softer role for me to play;
and in this fairer part I would attempt
another mien more pleasing to portray.
These sullen eyes, this frown, this darker face
are not an angry visage, harsh and cold,
but sorrow rules what should be laughter's place;
and love restored will cast a seemly mold.
So set the stage and let the curtain rise,
and let us play our parts upon the cue.
Our stiff facades and stilted steps devise
a denouement of passion to imbrue
suspended disbelief that for awhile
will let us masquerade a common smile.
1/17/93
Appeared in The Lyric, Fall-20009
*********************
Begin in flesh! Each second tumbling from
the yawning womb will rise, the blood will rise,
will rise to burst into the turgid foam
of birth; and time, not resting in nostalgic
light, is born again to meet the past!
A shadowed voice sings dim beneath the blaring
Sun. The frailty of hope reclines
upon the veil of churning years, but in
the fading liar's light a clear-eyed vision
gleams. The silent way is touched upon
the edge and shimmers clear soft notes that sing
a quiet simple song. Begin in flesh!
And know the whole disciple of events
is held within the tragedy of Christ.
8/8/94
rev. 2/8/00
********************
Between the period and capital
a thought is not profaned by simple words.
Between the period and capital
the absolute of silence can be felt.
All possibilities abide the nous.
Between the period and capital
the first and smallest petal-twist unfolds,
foretastes the kiss of ink upon the page.
A thought is not profaned by simple words.
Between the period and capital
the anther and the pistil merge into
a shudder of the birthing breath of sense.
A blossom unfurls into entropy,
and thought is not profaned by simple words.
4/9/09
*******************
Frost to Cox: Letter 19 - December, 1914
"You should have seen her standing there that night."
He arched his eyebrows, pursed his parted lips,
his greedy grin grew broad before he blushed.
"You should have seen her standing there that night."
He scowled as his tongue pushed out his cheek.
He bit his lower lip and turned away.
"You should have seen her standing there that night."
He held the yellowed snapshot in his hand.
A little girl in tights smiled at the lens.
Though syntax of a line remains the same,
a vital sentence means more than its words.
The ear recalls a vivid sentence form
and sounds of sense give meaning to the words.
so be content with content of the line.
7/17/10
***************************
MaD(r)EN: BLeNK VEiRSE
(for R.S.)
Now revelers dance a quick two-step in three-quarter time,
or stumble through an awkward two-four waltz,
or make a pot of soup and call it bread,
but things are never changed by naming them.
You cannot toast the soup or water down
the bread. Their qualities remain the same,
and so a six-foot line or one of four
defies the blank verse prosody.
Each generation builds upon the past
but feels a need to re-invent the wheel.
Be Bold! Be Harsh! Be soft and gentle, filled
with effervescent, muted reverie,
but let the beating of the Human Heart,
a yard plus two feet, measure out the line.
6/3/10
(This poem was written in response to some experiments in contemporary poetry which re-defined the traditional prosody of blank verse.)
SONNET ON AN INFANT'S DEATH
(Two studies. To be read aloud)
Remember how we carried separate loves
within ourselves in seed once joined, now spoiled.
Our lives rolled down to one small grasp of life.
Was such a fragile life to carry weight,
and life in birth renewed, bore birth in death.
The green grass spares a yawning place to seize
forever sleeping, flashing time. All years
are lost, and darkness weaves a thick void in
our sweating hearts. Our death-spelled minds will lurch
away with stalling steps to search a softer
place, an echo calling back of life.
We share a part of grief's remembered love.
Our squint eyes blaring in the raving sun
leave dormant love to drag the weight away.
4/9/90
revised: 3/11/10
Remember how we carried separate loves
within ourselves in seed once joined, now spoiled.
Was such a fragile life to carry weight
and life in birth renewed bore birth in death,
an echo calling-back of life that writhes
as laughing, flashing memories are foiled.
With horrid motions of despair so sate
we rasp.... we choke.... we grip our shallow breath.
As green grass spares a yawning place we shun,
all years are lost. With stalling steps we shove
our death-spelled minds to stumble, lurch and sway.
With squint-eyes blaring in the raving sun,
we share a part of grief's remembered love.
Our sweating hearts will drag the weight away.
3/11/10
5/30/13
(The blank verse poem was written when I was reading Allen Ginsberg. It also was written as a specific exercise of writing a poem while laying on the couch watching television. Normally I can have music on when I write, but television is too much of a distraction unless I am writing with a mechanical typewriter.)
a brittle, bitter taste that bites the tongue,
and though the grass is green and marigolds
still bloom the shadows of the fevered trees
grow thinner every day. A flaccid length
of vine with unripe fruit lies draped across
the fallowed fields. I have a fear of frost.
The night has gathered close. The air is thick
with sleep. Thoughts scatter on the hollow wind.
Dreams whirl and swoop like warp-winged birds into
the brittle stars, and febrile memory fades
like colors in the autumn fields.The flesh
returns to earth as pallid dust.There is
no beauty in the simpleness of death.
10/1/85
*********************
One Born Every Minute
(Listener Participation Poetry)
You will not like what I'm about to say.
I've written this in simple words so you
won't understand. You'll think they lack the strength
of syllables to bear important weight.
The images are not diffuse, profound,
complex. They show a picture all too clear,
to sharply focused to discount them as
obtuse. Their modesty will shout at you!
About this time, your mind will start to trail
and at that moment I will rob you of
all satisfaction. As the last words pass
beyond the final period, within
that pregnant silence, you become aware
that in this nonce, I haven't said a thing.
2/25/87
rev. 10/17/13
****************************
Love has the strength of rope, two souls entwined
against the current churning passed. A line
so taut that tears dew from the strands and slide
the angle down into the froth. Enrapt
in love, the bond pulls double-strong. Flesh binds
to flesh in harmony of one. Without
a bond, coarse fibers frayed, the ends confused
get tangled in the world. They whip, unwind,
and snag on rocks where shallow waters run
too thin. But love, enrapt, will bear the strength
of rope. The tears are swept away. The flood
subsides. The anchor holds. And eddies, smooth
and cool, release the strain upon the line
to leave the gentle, rocking sway of love.
5/31/87
********************
MEDITATION; SEPT. 21
This is a season lost. The white-capped gulls
have curled their wings around the sun and flown
to sea. Now only breakers hiss along
the shore and ring the sands with foam.
The air, subdued by twilight, barely fans
the grass. Beyond the waves, where eyes can only
see a thin unyielding line, clouds rise
to fade in purple-orange. We are so small,
so pitiful. We ponder how the stars
maintain their flight, we wonder at the gloom
of purple hills, and still we dream of times
when giants roamed the Earth; the rumble-crush
of rock, long-valley strides, the terrible gait
and stalk of those who walked tremendously.
May 25, 1988
rev. 3/1/12
********************
BOGIE, BACALL, AND MICKEY SPILLANE
I knew she had to go. I knew I'd let
my feelings flow up from my stomach, pass
in one hot breath into the air. Her jacket
crumpled in her fist, she leaned in one
smooth curve against the door that stood ajar.
The dim light from the hallway crept into
the room.
"I'm leaving now." She turned to go,
pulling wide the door.
"Wait!" I cried.
She turned again and dimly stood cross-armed
against the light.
"What now? I have to go!"
A silence fell between us.
"Well?" she asked.
Confused, I hesitated; lost for words.
"The pizza, dear." she said, " You must decide!"
"Get two." I mumbled. "Pepperoni, please."
4/19/89
revised: 9/9/10
***********************
Last night your rolled and mumbled in your sleep
and called my name and fumbled in the sheets
to clutch some object hidden from your grasp
then with a sigh you pulled the blankets close
around your neck, pursed your lips between
sleep-swollen cheeks, and stuck your cold feet in
between my thighs. I know you'll not remember
what you said or how your dreams rolled through
your mind; and though a half-remembered touch
or lost love's face could wake exotic passions
lurking in your dreams, the years behind
us tell me you would never lose my love.
I hear your soft breath whistle in the dark
and know the mundane gladness of our lives.
12/30/92
rev: 3/20/10
*********************
I would not be the source of your contempt,
so cast a softer role for me to play;
and in this fairer part I would attempt
another mien more pleasing to portray.
These sullen eyes, this frown, this darker face
are not an angry visage, harsh and cold,
but sorrow rules what should be laughter's place;
and love restored will cast a seemly mold.
So set the stage and let the curtain rise,
and let us play our parts upon the cue.
Our stiff facades and stilted steps devise
a denouement of passion to imbrue
suspended disbelief that for awhile
will let us masquerade a common smile.
1/17/93
Appeared in The Lyric, Fall-20009
*********************
Begin in flesh! Each second tumbling from
the yawning womb will rise, the blood will rise,
will rise to burst into the turgid foam
of birth; and time, not resting in nostalgic
light, is born again to meet the past!
A shadowed voice sings dim beneath the blaring
Sun. The frailty of hope reclines
upon the veil of churning years, but in
the fading liar's light a clear-eyed vision
gleams. The silent way is touched upon
the edge and shimmers clear soft notes that sing
a quiet simple song. Begin in flesh!
And know the whole disciple of events
is held within the tragedy of Christ.
8/8/94
rev. 2/8/00
********************
Between the period and capital
a thought is not profaned by simple words.
Between the period and capital
the absolute of silence can be felt.
All possibilities abide the nous.
Between the period and capital
the first and smallest petal-twist unfolds,
foretastes the kiss of ink upon the page.
A thought is not profaned by simple words.
Between the period and capital
the anther and the pistil merge into
a shudder of the birthing breath of sense.
A blossom unfurls into entropy,
and thought is not profaned by simple words.
4/9/09
*******************
Frost to Cox: Letter 19 - December, 1914
"You should have seen her standing there that night."
He arched his eyebrows, pursed his parted lips,
his greedy grin grew broad before he blushed.
"You should have seen her standing there that night."
He scowled as his tongue pushed out his cheek.
He bit his lower lip and turned away.
"You should have seen her standing there that night."
He held the yellowed snapshot in his hand.
A little girl in tights smiled at the lens.
Though syntax of a line remains the same,
a vital sentence means more than its words.
The ear recalls a vivid sentence form
and sounds of sense give meaning to the words.
so be content with content of the line.
7/17/10
***************************
MaD(r)EN: BLeNK VEiRSE
(for R.S.)
Now revelers dance a quick two-step in three-quarter time,
or stumble through an awkward two-four waltz,
or make a pot of soup and call it bread,
but things are never changed by naming them.
You cannot toast the soup or water down
the bread. Their qualities remain the same,
and so a six-foot line or one of four
defies the blank verse prosody.
Each generation builds upon the past
but feels a need to re-invent the wheel.
Be Bold! Be Harsh! Be soft and gentle, filled
with effervescent, muted reverie,
but let the beating of the Human Heart,
a yard plus two feet, measure out the line.
6/3/10
(This poem was written in response to some experiments in contemporary poetry which re-defined the traditional prosody of blank verse.)
SONNET ON AN INFANT'S DEATH
(Two studies. To be read aloud)
Remember how we carried separate loves
within ourselves in seed once joined, now spoiled.
Our lives rolled down to one small grasp of life.
Was such a fragile life to carry weight,
and life in birth renewed, bore birth in death.
The green grass spares a yawning place to seize
forever sleeping, flashing time. All years
are lost, and darkness weaves a thick void in
our sweating hearts. Our death-spelled minds will lurch
away with stalling steps to search a softer
place, an echo calling back of life.
We share a part of grief's remembered love.
Our squint eyes blaring in the raving sun
leave dormant love to drag the weight away.
4/9/90
revised: 3/11/10
Remember how we carried separate loves
within ourselves in seed once joined, now spoiled.
Was such a fragile life to carry weight
and life in birth renewed bore birth in death,
an echo calling-back of life that writhes
as laughing, flashing memories are foiled.
With horrid motions of despair so sate
we rasp.... we choke.... we grip our shallow breath.
As green grass spares a yawning place we shun,
all years are lost. With stalling steps we shove
our death-spelled minds to stumble, lurch and sway.
With squint-eyes blaring in the raving sun,
we share a part of grief's remembered love.
Our sweating hearts will drag the weight away.
3/11/10
5/30/13
(The blank verse poem was written when I was reading Allen Ginsberg. It also was written as a specific exercise of writing a poem while laying on the couch watching television. Normally I can have music on when I write, but television is too much of a distraction unless I am writing with a mechanical typewriter.)