Sunday

Over at Jim’s, across the street, they are still

asleep, but the trees dazzle, blossoms

blowing in the Sunday wind. The soft

down of grass has been culled into shape,

the dandelions removed, the pansies trained

into neat little rows. Even the maple seems

to be obeying some grand design.

In the mid-day sunlight, the greens glisten,

the yellows sparkle and pop, the oranges

blaze like dying suns, the reds bleed and bleed.

I observe Nature here, in the urban garden,

a blinded muse, a bound dancer, a slave.

I am no master.

(the first word of each line is taken from This Poem) 

to fast: v.

to go without, to postpone, to defer,

she fasted that she might be furthered

to hasten, to proceed quickly, to heighten,

she fasted that she might arrive

to increase, to displace, to prolong

she fasted that she might want

to hunger, to yearn, to need,

she fasted that she might desire

to bind, to fetter, to fix,

she fasted herself that she might persist

to worship, to mortify, to meditate

she fasted that she might be pure

to elevate, to seek, to pursue

she fasted that she might find

to arrive, to discover, to escape

Self-Portrait as Lucian Freud's "Double Portrait" (1985-86)

Am I the woman, artificially still, arranged as if in sleep,

or death? Am I the dog, nestled beside her, its jaw tense,

dreaming, ready to snarl or bite? Am I the paint, deep

and patchy, ridged  brushstrokes blowing from edge

to edge? Or am I the canvas, flat, transparent, and square?

Am I the navy of her dress, her pale buttery skin, the grayish-

pink of the dog’s vulnerable belly? Am I the paint brush, the hair

Of rabbit, badger, or horse? Am I the shadow beneath the weight

of her arm, casually shielding her eyes, or is her pose a defense

against the artist’s gaze? I’m the suggestion of a wall, the blank

bedsheet, the too white bed, the dog’s mottled fur, the sense

the world is one indecipherable scene and art makes it think.

What, exactly, is it the subject of this painting? That which we see:

woman, dog, paint? Or the space between the painting and me?

Sonnet

I like this one, so I'm reposting it here.


Sonnet for an Absent Spouse

I almost wrote “an empty house,” but it isn’t, still three of four

on site: Son, and dog and me. In your absence, I chauffeur Son

and walk the dog. I text “I miss you.” Is that the vodka (80 or more?

calories) talking? Or maybe it’s the delicious and necessary wine

(5 ounces Merlot = 120 calories) that makes my thumbs light.

When I miss you, I drink whiskey (110 calories), I let Son spend more

time watching “Firefly” on his computer to avoid the nightly fight.

I imagine expensive additions to our home: a deck, French doors

opening off our master bedroom and into the backyard, fertile

with rosemary, tomatoes, chard, sunflowers, and orange poppies.

When you are gone, I am uncharacteristically morose. I wile

the hours away reading actuary charts which forecast our untimely

demise. It’s not wise, the way I spend my time. Wait: that’s a lie.

I imagine the hours we’ll spend, sipping wine, until we die.

National! Poetry! Month!

Welcome to April, in which two poets test themselves against time, meter, rhyme, and the days that demand poems. That's right, it's National Poetry Month which means that HighTouch and I will be writing a poem a day, and you know what that means! Lower those expectations. Let's go!


April Fool

Perhaps there is a spaceship where astronauts
grow tomato plants in zero gravity.  Perhaps there is a zip code
where anyone can live, their mail circulating in some imagined zone
Perhaps instead of a tax refund, I am buying you an air conditioner
or a refrigerator or those teal shoes that you love.
 I am leaving them on your front porch, surreptitiously,
for you to find.

Perhaps I am pouring water on you to wake you from your sleep,
only it's a pitcher full of shredded newspaper,
confetti of the displaced, the forlorn,
the slightly out of date.

Perhaps I am beckoning you near with only a whisper,
trying to dump water, soapy and warm,
down the front of your blouse, rendering you rain-
soaked, stained and foolish.

Or maybe I am a lie, a single red tulip,
planted years ago in a patch of dirt beside the house
that bursts forth unexpectedly every year this day.