Category: for another poet
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the cloven path
Where two paths ran through kudzu vines both appeared the same You couldn’t jog both and chose the smoother one Dewy footprints betrayed your passing you’ll run the other one tomorrow Meanwhile, you’ll tweet on Twitter how when given a choice You remembered Bob Frost and jogged the path not rutted 3-9-22
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Understanding Robert Frost
(for Tim Conroy) Sometimes It’s good to take the road Less traveled Walk in woods Where no one goes Stand behind a tree And flop it out Because old men Need to pee a lot 9-17-21
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meditations on the killing of Lorca
between the rise and fall the honk and wail of distant sirens high above the drone of ritual leaf blowing by bright vested park employees I still discern the call and response of birds chanting to the morning while on the ground looking up waiting for one of them to make a mistake a feral…
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Brown trout
(for all my English teachers who accused me of not paying attention in class) It took me six decades to learn what, when and how to read. In grade school, I’d read Field & Stream while releasing brown trout. High school came and I’d take a novel to the john, read until my legs fell…
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#3 reading the poet, Robert Bly
neo-cortex laughs at reptile/mammal cage match Robert’s Buddha brain 10-29-20
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Poem before dying
Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…
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The knock
2 am – knock at my window. It was not a raven or ghost of anything past. The wind had shifted and it was only the rain come calling in the night. I told Wallace Stevens to wait, went out and stood on the porch, wondered if my neighbors would be upset, if rain knocked…
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Blue
Neruda and Stevens wrote poems with blue guitars never green or red. Picasso painted a blue guitarist bent, almost broken boney hands on brown guitar. I think I know why they used blue, but I’m not sure. They didn’t explain or ask permission. 10-15-20
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poem before dying
Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…
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a poem for G.K. Chesterton
Relaxing in the dark the moon appears luminous in the trees above my yard. I wonder who started the rumor about the moon being made of green cheese, when clearly it is Havarti curd. I savor a bite of extra sharp New York style cheddar cheese and say, the next slice is for you, Mr.…
My husband's poetry 