The card i posted to you read:
Never mind the bowler,
we can always have tea tomorrow

Coruscation

Her significant virtue
is finally plump, but inedible,
stealing willingness away
from prickly November.

Morning circles a hard, stately
dampness in her front lawn,
the hinges of the peeling picket fence
a tinny shine beneath the rust

matching the jalapeño bodice
of the sun's warning.

And when the storm finally bears down,
voluptuous squash spoon in their furrows
her abandoned basket of purple beans
watch the clouds
correct their intake of salty breath---
before they sing.

February 25, 2008

After Reading Minnie Bruce Pratt

Now I understand why I followed her
into the dark dampness under the ocean-side pier,
onto the beery musk of the blanket
she had pulled so carefully from the trunk of the car.

And for weeks afterwards,
I followed her home,
doing just what she wanted,
burying what I wanted to scream
until her parents woke up.

February 04, 2008

Augusta Savage

Born Augusta Fells, in 1892, Augusta Savage was one of the luminaries of the Harlem Renaissance. She was the first Black to gain acceptance in the National Association of Painters and Sculptors. August Savage died in 1962.

Ever since a friend asked me
What is most frightening
in being a woman artist,
trepidation worries my house.

I thought of Edna St. Vincent
praised for cadence
adored for her bohemian chutzpa
beaten down by morphine and alcohol.

I thought of The Speed of Darkness,
On Lies, Secrets, & Silence
Kathe Kollwitz seeing her future
in the eyes of hungry children.
Paula Becker painting as deep as she could
to get away from Rilke's clawing narcissism.

I thought of Sappho
falling from that stupendous cliff
into the gorgeous Agean,
Mytilene screaming in flames above her.

I thought of my grandmother
born to a serf in Poland
her mother called to the manor house
whenever they wanted her.

Depressing, isn't it?
The violence of their lives flowing to the sea.
I watch them sailing to the lighthouse,
leaving Mr. Ramsey far behind.

I thought of Augusta Savage, who,
after years of success in Paris and New York
awards and accolades, the acclaim of Washington eletes,
found herself in Saugerties, New York
penniless and forgotten.

Savage was everything she was unlike anyone
born into everything that is cold and dark
in weird, schizophrenic Amerika.

Enraged, savage Augusta:
took a pickax: went to her studio:
and smashed
all her work to smithereens

But before she did,
before she did that,
she wrote:
If I can inspire
one of these youngsters
to develop the talent I know they possess,
then my monument to my work
will be in their work.

Continue reading "Augusta Savage"

Fire & Velvet

Somewhere, it is written,
the hands of a woman
are agile and fiery.

I understood that velvet heat
the first time her hands
ran down my back
like a river.

Apprehension

She wanted something
indistinct, unencumbered
fashionably hot

Walking through that door
into a room pear-scented,
bell tones whispered to her

Offering soft, red leather cuffs
ferocious whispers
all the temptations of language

all the oddities of shattered pride.

But eventually
she wanted something
fine-tuned and subtle

A cup of hot tea
the tenderness of sunlight
random notes of a love song.

September 27, 2007

Postcards from Ocean Grove

May 12, 2007

After a Conversation with Deela Khan

I had never called
South Africa
in my life.

Yet between milliseconds of transmission,
between her voice and mine,
gravity and blood
weeping and running
like a river running from itself.

And then after I hung up the phone
I knew I had found
a friend.

February 22, 2007

The Diver

arousal was

teased by the diver

arched and glistening

before she sliced

and vanished into the crystalline

astonishment of atoms. Post and Read Comments (0)

February 12, 2007

Grammar

Our constellation of life and dream
is faith transposed through diacriticals and verbs.
Parenthetically wicked nights
given and taken.
Sumptuous, rough-drafted declensions,
modifiers, split
infinitives, actualized
and perfectly diagramed.
Translations punctuated
by riotous syntax of sound and taste.
Dominant or submissive,
we decline to standardize our style.
The declensions of desire
melt, melted
melting into
feather, feathered snow
fall, falling light
dancing, dancing.
Wind wandering
music muttering as if it were possible.
Notes incredulous and generous
grappling with tense,
the singular plural of salvation.
The allegorical possibilities
of a new language.

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September 19, 2006

Grace's Eyes

The following poem has been published in the January 2007 issue of Street Spirit a Bay Area publication of the American Friends Service Committee

Old she is
past eighty,
thick eyeglasses
filled with hot sun,

her three-footed cane
like an elephant's foot
dangling from the handle
of the shopping cart.

Stuck in a rut
of asphalt and weeds.

The road to Barre
is a busy two-laner,
strip malls and
super markets.

There was Grace;
five miles to go
before she could
climb the twenty-five steps

to her front porch,
unlock the battered front door,

pop open
that Miller,
fall back
into her easy chair

the world shut out
children gone
husband dead these
thirty-seven years.

Grace is old, smelled bad,
and drank a lot of beer.

She was furious that the taxi
never showed up.

So we helped her out.
Drove her home.
Brought her groceries
up the twenty-five steps

to her crowded front porch.
We waited,
until she was half-way there
and then drove away.

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September 18, 2006

Cora Brooks

Made out of not much more
than dust and a slip,
we woke to give our breath
to the wind
as it wound around the oaks and pines
to toss the crows up over the village.

We woke the sleepers to watch our breath,
we made a bowl to hold an ocean
to hold us, to hold the petals, the pages
of our stories, the poems, the choir
we have become.

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March 14, 2006

Spring Time

The fog greasy grey
Piles of deer scat nesting in myrtle
Black-capped chickadees whizzing
to the bird-feeder.

The thick whoosh of your car
disappearing like a whisper
at the bend in the road
so muddy and sad.

Mondays are like this
pale & wistful in early spring.

But we have a secret
the stealthy deer know about.

They hear us in the soft dawn
nestling closer, touching wetness and sighs
singing that sometimes low lustrous melody
of spring touching everything.

Smiling slyly at the truth
the lovely little truth—
of who we are.

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March 03, 2006

Dear Mother

It is seven am. It is snowing.
From the woods, an occasional chickadee,
on its way to the birdfeeder, flits by.
Booming crack of a tree broken by the cold.
Black shadow of a crow skimming the hollow sky.

Standing in the doorway,
my mug of tea steaming,
I am remembering.

It is four pm. It is windy.
The wood stove is ravenous.
I am too tired to pull my boots on.

It is nine pm. I think of calling you.
How's Father? I would ask.
Still sleeping his days away?

I felled twenty saplings this morning
and hauled them to the brush pile.
Branches etch the most mystical marks
when they are dragged over the surface
of snow.

I think of you wistfully.
It would be so comforting
to have you see how I write.

And now, I've finished my thinking.
I have written this down for you.
I will pull on my boots.

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October 24, 2005

Foreboding

Leaving your father was something I never regretted.
But the custody battle was like crossing a river in a battered rowboat,
oars too short, no life preserver, no compass.

Caught between the footfalls of my choices
confused by how mercilessly friends and family turned
I could barely shield you from all that fury
or bottle the kindness of the babysitter,
who let me visit you once a week.
I was slow to forgive myself for living the life I dared to live.

But memories can be blatant or sly
oblivious to ideal or motive, they drive the difference
between intent and innocence.

And now, you are twenty-five,
my age when you were born.
You live and work in New York.
Walk past buildings I worked in,
coffee shops where I grabbed a cup,
a bagel, or a cold bran muffin.

I follow you like a ghost, amazed at your confidence
fascinated by your independence
and the stunning green flecks in your eyes.

But your pace changes when you reach Church Street.
You preceive some shadows and a faint keening
in the wind off the Hudson.
You remember what you saw, over and over again.

The split visage of memory, when I took you up there
and we saw the world stretched out below us,
the startling blue river, the simple green of Ellis Island.
Ghosts of 9/11
scars of those who ran fast enough
are etched in your memory forever.

Run, I want to shout to you...
Run away and swim that river.
Follow it to the sea.
Surf the waves just like I taught you.
Read the books I gave you.
Tell the truth.
So if they come for you
one day or any day,
you will understand you have lived
the life you dared to live.

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August 26, 2005

Holy Man

You are seen
slinking into churches

shaking hands with the faithful,
passing white envelopes to the deacon,

the hoped-for champion
of the cathedral choir.

On Sunday afternoons
you sit at some parishioner's table,
hands in your lap,
counting,

while outside,
huddled under tattered umbrellas,
God is waiting.

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August 25, 2005

Surfer Girls

Six a.m. pebble against the window
roseola clouds, first shock
of cold we hit the water
sun bleeding gold

You sliced those waves
focused, lithe, and free,
unlike me, afraid of heights
rigid on my board
waiting for a manageable challenge.

Late August evenings after
a swelling Nor'easter, we'd sit out there
surrounded by waves
roused like maddened cattle
spray shattering
around us.

Twenty years later
halfway to San Francisco
I am slouching in a motel room chair
smoking a cigarette in the dark
out of context, stiff with dread
at the thought of seeing you again.

I still remember that morning
toweling off in the outdoor shower
cicadas tsking in the heat,
you said: Funny
You don't smell like a guinea.

Just like that. And then you laughed.
You didn't notice how I froze or how loud
the dripping water slapped against the floorboards.

Twenty years later, landlocked and lonely
the interstate swarming outside
I finally understand why it's impossible to see you again.

You never could have known
how I smelled or how I felt.
We never touched or kissed,
never whispered secrets
or held each other in the dark.

I had only watched
the wondrous mirage of you
slicing the face of a perfect wave.

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Dance me

Shortly after you left
the Berlin Wall crumbled

I went out with women
who taught me how to dance

Very early one cold morning
I stood outside with a friend

The air pulsing
a moon slung low in the frigid sky

She showed me the key
to her new apartment

shining like a jewel
in the palm of her hand.

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On the Docks of Mar del Plata

Red, blue,
Yellow-hulled boats
Snakes of thick rope.

A fisherman,
pipe clenched in his teeth
offers a dripping conch,
life scraped away
From its massive shell.

We could have been endless.
An intoxicating toss of the wave's mane,
The mystery of salt
Speckled, wet heat

Where we touched.

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Vignette

When she told you
you closed your eyes
sighed, and arched your back
as far as possible…

The rolling
glycine tube of a wave
distracted her.

You dissolved.

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August 24, 2005

Coward

There was no other way to leave.

I fled from your car at the terminal door.

Eventually reassured by raging engines

bearing me aloft, over mounds of words

rotting in the August fog.

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August 17, 2005

After Eleven States Passed Anti-gay Legislation

I don't know if they would answer the phone
or stop to give me a ride.

I don't know what they would do
if I had to hide.

We live in the same community
go to potlucks and demonstrations
volunteer for projects
send money to good causes.

But I am uncertain and somewhat frightened
about how easily people forget.

I don’t know what they would do
if the authorities came looking for me.

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Mauve Ghosts

Last September

Mauve ghosts crept into our barn.

They eat and drink nothing

But they love to sleep on the hay

Draped elegantly over fresh cut bales

We decided to leave them alone.

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July 20, 2005

Desire

She was
Big
Dense
Powerful.

I succumbed
To my need.

Everything
Could have been

Perfect.

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July 19, 2005

The Sound of Gathering Density

Vermilion-brushed wind
delirious taste
spilling onto my tongue--
your ocean salt-sweet.

I have rowed across rivers
slept in cold sand
waited--
for the moon
to rise.

Round I am, belly full,
creation ready for the flood.
Sun-ripened peach, tart lemonade,
burst of fig--
quenched.

We drift into sounds
of leaping flames
succulent gurgles
of water raining
of winds flying
of night falling--

That sound
of gathering density

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Amputation

They killed me because I looked at her.

My eyes were thrown to a blind prisoner
Serving time for fraud.

I was buried; she was paroled
Living

Seeing through my dead eyes.

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July 09, 2005

After Running Hard Off the Edge of the City

Four hundred miles
South of where we used to live
I survey this landscape
An unforgiving stretch of beach
I run every day
Out of fear and obligation.

Lines of blistering clouds
Sweep west over the dunes
Hulking, squealing gulls
Fight to penetrate
Heavy, wet wind.

Most mornings along this coast
Breath melts into fog.
Cynical pelicans glissade and
Breakers reach to maul
Their flaccid pouches.

After New York, I lied again.
Blurted the thing without thought
or pretense. Habitual, you told me.
Inevitable, I thought,
Determined. Eyes closed, head down
Arm raised to ward off your words

My pride was the harbinger of
Every frenetic rhythm
I continue to dance
To spare myself—
Imposed to distance myself
From languages I have learned.

Under this relentless sky
Swollen with autumn
I run parallel to the consequences
Of muscle, heart, and conceit.
Inexplicable impulses of an atavistic performance
A memorial to defeat
Uncensored and fragile
Filled with the wailing
Of the rising tide.

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Sunday Morning before the War

Butch milk sweet as mine
Sure of its lean protein
Tender spilling.

Turn slowly, take yourself back
You have soothed me.
I am sleepy, full, and blessed.

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June 28, 2005

Karl Rove Is Not a Genius

But some say
he is brilliant
A strategist who

can tick off
all the stats
dirty trick after dirty trick

elections
ripe in his mouth
like mealy fruit.

But
a genius?
Maybe.

They say
Hitler was,
Stalin was

But, Karl is more
like Creon, who thought
he could trump the gods

until Teiresias
said: uh oh
and told him the real deal.

Yes,
Karl Rove might
be a genius

Dirty trick
after dirty trick
Dubya’s bland round Svengali

But maybe
he is a genus
A category

of biological classification
ranking between
family and species

Exhibiting unusual
differentiation.
A capitalized, singular noun.

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June 10, 2005

Isaac and Jesus

Bewildered apostles crawled from that table
And tried to escape his
Soon-to-be Sacrifice
for the love of all men.
But Jesus confounded all their claims
to His Soul,
Piecemeal,
with brilliant piety.

Confiteor aside, they were nervous
Somewhat inhibited. But, oh! That Jesus!
In the end, he put it all together
Station by station
The two most important Marys
Weeping at his feet.

But remember Isaac'
Poster-boy for history’s almost-child-sacrifice
Saved from his Daddy by a disembodied voice.
Isaac trussed like a goat;
Terror-spewed vomit
All over that cold stone;
No Marys to clean his face.

The following Wednesday
Abe mentioned it to Sarah
Casually, after dinner,
Shards of green lentils in his teeth.

Her baby, her Isaac
Stuttered uncontrollably
For the rest of his life.
Obedient and beloved;
A herdsman, like his father
He slaughtered lambs and sired many sons.

And Jesus'
He came back
Like Swartzennegar;
Hasta leugo, he said.

And all those hungry disciples
Came back too.
They founded a church.
Made the Marys “special girls,”
Slaughtered millions
And sired many sons.

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