My Words My words are like autumn leaves They follow the wind And seize a last ray from the sun To gather in my garden. Do I burn them? Or Let them work their seasonal way Into the ground, composting, Fertilizing my thoughts, Retiring in wintry silence? The sprouts of spring In my garden, announce Flowers, birds, and bees Words reworded Lines rewritten Paraphrased and edited And I hear, I listen to The rebirth of poetry. My words are like the summer leaves Invincible, solidly attached Basking in the sun Washing in the mist Dancing with the hummingbird: They have life! They aspire to be read, To be the voices in the head The sticky notes on a door That give you pleasure. I give you my words: They are to be planted In your garden. Mes Mots Mes mots sont comme les feuilles de l’automne Qui suivent le vent En recevant un dernier rayon du soleil Avant de tomber dans mon jardin. Dois-je les brûler, Ou Les laisser faire leur travail saisonnier Se décomposant …
There was no end to the rainbow being borrowed and altered in states of diversity. The rainbow offered a whole gamut of visible and perhaps even invisible color without judgment or interpretation and criticism. Sun rays coming on earth at high velocity bounced inside raindrops and ended their mad race on thin retinas, brain matter exciting brain waves floating around and avoiding concussion. I shut my eyes to keep the rainbow inside and make it mine, my own continuum of colorful ideas, hopes and aspirations. My rainbow, following the rise of my eyelids, gave color to a gray world nostalgic of its black-and-white era of gray dresses and gray suits and mustaches. There was no end to the rainbow, beginning here.
It’s just an old sweater of yours That I found In memories of our common past. Little did I know you would appear in a plastic box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d return it to you Wrapped in a cut paper grocery bag Write your name and the last address I have for you Take it to the post office, take a number, Ask for nothing special See it thrown in a bin full of other packages Should I include a letter? What would it say? I saw you receiving an unwanted package and a letter maybe, Throwing this sweater in a bin for Goodwill With all things from me, the past, this town. Your scent having long left the soft wool, Chased away by mothballs, I washed it in cold water and delicately Dried it flat and for a few days It lay near the back door The object of my curiosity, softer to the touch of my passing hand Until each of the threads caressed my arms and my …
There he is, dead, alone Silent and undisturbed And you think that’s how he wanted to leave it. You look above for signs of an angel Taking away his soul As in the image in catechism And you see the image of an angel Cleaning the slate of your soul Showing indelible cracks From your fall Causing eternal pain Causing unmanly tears always retained. Your head bounces on an aluminum locker Spins about unsaid words and questions, Fragments of life locked in forever, Mysteries unsolved Wanting of Faith and Honor. You venture the back of an index finger On his one-day beard Remembering lips prohibited long ago From the freshly shaven cheek Reserved for the good housewife Now watching your gesture And deeper you withdraw Into the heap of puzzle pieces That will never come together To complete your picture.
The deserted pier floats away In silence And the town shrinks behind Soon a model in a museum Then blurred impasto Destined to decorate memories and The traveling theater of your dreams. For now there is only doubt In the silence of your mind For even the seagulls have left. You navigate on seas now calm then rough Counseled by ghosts and gods Against pirates jealous of your light purse Guided by the stars Confused by the clouds Siphoned by currents You reach A new port, outside your map Charming you with strange music To set foot on dry land Behind you the horizon Absorbed your history and silenced the voices of the past So far away now That you take a new name.
Ropes curled, neatly inside The disenchanted serpents of your skiff Floating away in the silence of a deserted pier The town shrunk to museum size Then blurred impasto Destined to memories and The traveling theatre of your dreams You navigate on seas now calm then rough Counseled by ghosts and gods Against pirates jealous of your light purse Guided by the stars Confused by the clouds Siphoned by currents You reach A new port, outside your map Charming you with strange music To set foot on dry land Behind you the horizon Absorbed your history and silenced the voices of the past So far away now That you take a new name.
There he is, dead, alone You cannot disturb him any more And you think that’s how he wanted it And you think your puzzle is incomplete. You look above for signs of an angel Taking away his soul As in the image in catechism. As in the image in catechism You remember the angel busy cleaning your soul But yours had cracks in it Caused by a fall Caused by you Causing eternal pain Causing unmanly tears retained Your head bounces on an aluminum locker Your head spins about unsaid words and questions Locked in for eternity Another mystery, as they had many You had to take for granted Your finger ventures its back On a one-day beard Your lips prohibited long ago On the freshly shaven cheek Reserved for a good housewife Now watching your gesture And you withdraw deeper Into a mound of puzzle pieces That will never come together.
Her fingers dance along The steps of her favorite waltz Coming to her ears Floating on a legendary river She counts: One, Two, Three And enters her reverie She sees the soft green eyes Repeats the dizzy spell Of a night in her distant past Rescued by his agility The strength so subtle Of a charming dancer Whose name she forgot It feels like New Year in Vienna The images of people in black and white The angels of her mind Counting to midnight On a monumental clock Their feet glide unencumbered On the powdered floor A fine dancer, she thinks The palm of her right hand Barely touching his left Their fingers curling Towards a desired embrace If only she could break the rules But the clock strikes midnight Her eyes open to the present Darkness she recognizes Aches and discomfort A reality she can evade Counting: One, Two, Three To see him, touch him, feel him Once more Waltzing into infinity
In this mid August night Enrobed in wool Wholly surrendered to gravity against the earth I watch in the dark sky Shooting stars coming alive Each meteor begging for attention One I follow from birth to extinction Says to me: “I am but a speck of light in the vast expanse of your vision. Why do you pay attention to me?” I cling to the uniqueness of my star As others display equal if not superior spectacle To the underdog of pyrotechnics And I make a wish that You, the unlucky winner of fewer summers in the lottery of life You, who take an uneasy step every day on a fallen staircase You, beautiful one, robbed of your youth be my star. Let me try to pass you The olympic torch and hope that one day you will run and illuminate the sky. Until then I replay the memory of The night of the shooting stars in mid August.
The Birth of a Neo-Expressionist Painting Memories clog the channels of the mind The fingers twitch from the need to paint Alerting sensations to the task. Eyes sit on the subject A mantra meditatively clearing ideas on a false start. A tentative dip in color An adroit skin tone begins In softness imagined, moisturized and hydrated. A dissonant vase made and cracked in a virtual world A nest in a corner of what could be love Unseen notes from a singing voice Floating to the suggested ears Give the body a frisson. A timely switch to a less dominant hand blends in A quasi medieval being massages the back, invisible Thrusting the body towards the viewer An unintended provocation. The painting is unfinished.