WA-27, US-195
Hills like the sea, and
Big shadow-casting clouds
Keep the scenery interesting.
You’re snapping the Kodak
In the back seat
While the music blares
And we all sing along.
Blue pine mountains
In the distance,
Laced with still unmelted snow,
Peak just beyond the brown-green hills
We’re weaving through,
Bumping along the highway North in
A bright red Cherokee.
“Loneliness swallowed whole by beauty”
I scribble briefly in my notebook,
And the car fills with a cheerful vibrant scent
As you peel an orange in one twist.
Happy Birthday
A bonsai for you
To sit on your windowsill
And be seen, not heard.
laundromat
seventy five cents
means having to choose between
dry clothes and dinner
sunday night, michigan weather
sitting downstairs in the kitchen
on a stool beneath the open window
listening to the freezing rain
beat a lonely haiku into the ground,
book propped up against the counter
next to a hiccuping bottle of dishsoap
a gleaming pile of plates
and a few empty eggshells.
half studying for a midterm
half keeping an eye on the oven
and wriggling my bare toes impatiently
as i wait for the timer to go
and listen to blind pilot telling me
that sweet sad west coast story
of things none of us can recall,
intermingling with the rain outside
and the bubbles shifting in the sink.
The Lawn, St. John’s, Annapolis
I lay my weariness
At the foot of a tree
Which dips into the cool earth
Pressed against my back
I remove the glass frames
Which confine my vision
To twin ovals of clarity
And stare up at the leaves above me
No longer leaves, but prismatic pieces
Of green, blue, yellow–
Is that the sun?–
That wink at me
From an indefinite height
I sigh
I breathe
I am at rest
History Lesson
You wish you lived in the sixties,
So you could wear two piece suits,
And watch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.
I think you would enjoy the fifties too,
The birth of rock and roll, television,
The golden age of gender roles.
I’m not sure about the forties,
So much war and unrest, and
My short hair would have been frowned upon.
I’d have to go back to the twenties to be accepted,
Where you’d be a nightclub owner,
With a staff of doormen and bartenders,
Or an old time crooner, wrapping your soulful voice
Around those jazz hymns to love and mystery, and
I’d be the failing debutante to your washed up entertainer.
If we start going much farther back,
I can imagine you, in a powdered wig,
Creating wild symphonies,
Me, fingers ink-stained,
Scratching out poems in an attic,
Poems that no one would read.
To a Black-and-White Movie Star
I wonder what defines you:
The rolling velvet of your voice,
The strong jut of your chin,
The cheerful boldness of your manner,
The toned energy of your body,
The careful cadence of your speech,
The great love of your heart,
Or the utter immensity of your life?
An Exercise in Thought
Lay still on your bed,
With your eyes closed,
And your mind wide open.
Reach out with your arms,
Strain to recall the happiest moment
Of your entire life,
Remembered—
Like that fourth grade teacher
Who was sure you had talent,
That early spring,
Your first kiss,
A broken arm,
And the headache you got from
The only cigarette
You ever smoked,
Remembered like all these,
But more vivid.
Is it the memory of that sunrise on the beach,
The touch of cool brick beneath your bare feet,
The sound of church-bells ringing out?
Sometimes
What should be fleeting
Will never fade.
I’m glad.
