Artiste

There are secret messages
in my poems, a cryptic flow
just below the surface.
One moment I’m strolling
barefoot on grass,
the next, I’m meters above,
perhaps millimeters.
It looks like I stride on blades
but a slight cushion of air
separates me from earth.

An ant would have to wedge
into the space. Sometimes
he does. Then I’m walking
on an exoskeleton
and no one knows,
not even the ant.

My wry smile remains a mystery,
to all around. Misdirection,
shading of art
delivers deep satisfaction,
no matter how thin.

An Early Poem

Wrote this when I was 18 or 19.

Still can’t decide if it is tolerable or just bad, but it is March, so I post it.

–

View from the Third Floor

Under the gray awning of a late March sky,
The grass grows green and knows not why
While people tucked in plastic sleeves
Glide fast upon the walk—fitful streams.

Brightly colored umbrellas sway—
Hide bobbing heads and torsos.
Voices echo soft between
The aged buildings of the green.

Wanting More

through removes

the grain
of these ancient hardwood floors
layered paint on walls
weathered entry steps
the shifting levels
of sidewalk slabs
stippled wear from rain
and countless shoes
the atmosphere, turbulent and wild
translucent blades of grass
which bend at my tread
wrought iron fence standing sentry
incised letters
and numbers cool to the touch
the accommodating earth
my own breath and bones
through spirit transoms
I call and hear no response
but the sway of the jack-in-the-pulpit

I wish the song of one turtledove

You Never Know

Approximations

Letters of the alphabet.
A photocopied face.
A rose in a rainstorm
filmed from all sides.

Your form.
Hair falling in your eyes.
Arm extending outward
for a moment.
Breath on your lips.

We cannot know
if the green lawn
we walk upon
is seen or felt the same:

Please speak each blade,
cool and smooth,
pressed by your padding foot.
Tell the pulse beat
present within smooth curve
of slender wrist.

Say what you will.
I shall listen
rapt in your
approximations.