Posts Tagged poetry
Two mangy dogs down by the Claverack Creek
Insist that, on early spring mornings,
County Road 25 belongs to canines,
Not cars, silence or jogging poets,
So each morning they come at me
In all their dirty, furry little anger,
Balancing their pace with their courage,
Until I turn and jump toward them, arms out,
The sudden star of an Off-Broadway musical,
A move any crackpot poet knew was coming.
I’m no man of headaches and this one took three days
To take off, lifting like a flock of geese,
Clucks and double clucks,
A retired steam locomotive on the Fourth of July,
The coughing and whispering of pressurized air.
My furry henchmen, having exchanged glances,
Steal away, bewildered, as many an audience.
Then, conquering the moment, I stand by the river
Where the other morning I stepped in
And swam against the current, moving and not moving.
Writing is what happens while you’re sleeping
And at daybreak, it all comes floating by —
Familiar voices, a missing paragraph, this poem.
All the poet has to do is the living, the loving,
The exhilarating loneliness of typing.
And while everyone on Earth
Looked to the Moon
For their own shadow
I stood on the Moon
As our fragile little Earth
Covered the Sun,
What on earth we have done.
Love left for another continent
And for weeks, the notebooks have been piling up
On the kitchen table.
Outside the window,
At seven-thirty, the cardinal sings his tune
To remind the world, I assume
That breakfast is overdue.
I’m reading the ABC of Achebe, Bukowski, Camus
Dotting down, in red and blue, sequences of particular musicality.
At sunset, the first glass of wine is exquisite
The second is the name on the label
After that, it’s like doing someone else’s homework.
Feed the cat
Feed the birds
Glance at poem
Change a word
Boil some water
Grind some beans
Brush your teeth
By all means
Turn the dial
Twelve bar blues
God created corn
Then man created popcorn
God created the eye
Then man created Popeye
God created music
Then man created pop music
Then God gave up
And man created a pop-up God
Here, where the surface
Cuts everything in mercurial halves,
I look at life
From both sides, now
Clouds drifting by
The sun on the water
Drawing my shadow on the ocean bed
Ink of sand, salvaged from Plato’s pen
Frail, flickering, down there
In the chicken wire of reflections
But my, how my arms are still strong
Like the legs of a young woman
Dancing, I who never danced
Hustling, I who never hustled
As if they were the only arms
In the food chain.