I have turned over a new sleeve

(for Jain)

I

I have turned over a new sleeve,
Read a new book, imagined a style
Of greatest import. I scribe to
You, for you, of you these pages

In hopes of love through all ages.
In children’s eyes, toys share all
Tales, tell all stories of smile,
And make me mingle and never leave.

I lave lingered alone, dreamily
Above the spell of doubt and horror,
Lost in a time, cast aside I thought,
And within me forged my greatest hour.

I have made amends with the fairies
And the elves, delved in seemingly
Sour mood for months before sunrise
Now let us break the dawn together.

II

Gone before us are the summer nights
Of temperate warmth, worn to the storm
Of times to come, cunning hour when I
In my solitude cast aside my freight.

Now after-dark, moon-sun up before morn,
I can see the ripple of waves coming ashore
And see you ocean, and me shore, sharing
Only the beach for awhile, for a smile.

For, as the waves they beat, beat the shore
To oblivion over millennia, make sand out of rock,
Make me out of a hard-shelled, rigid rock.
I will no longer pass through your fingers.

You move me floor to coast, and children
Construct bucket-shaped towers out of my soul.
Now let us break the dawn and linger together.
I will no longer pass through your fingers.

postscript

Millions
of earth-friendly
stopthechop
"save the rain forests"
conservationists
print their slogans
on Brazilian paper.

on the silent disorder of men

When asked, in a manner
put simply as straight-forward,
a man's knees move toward
raising high a white banner.

Once proclaiming silent peace,
he quickly lowers his head,
his thoughts of the woman dread
that her feelings for him cease.

Being denied of response,
she removes from a sconce
(quite hastily) a torch off the wall,
and blazes a path down the hall,

alone.

dinner at 40

hi how are you?
I'm fine, susie's fine,
she's staying with sarah who's fine,
terry's learning his algebra,
he's fine, we're fine
how are you?

Pass the cheese, please.

I'm fine, Jackine(who's fine)
and I are having another baby,
and Brian's fine,
we're all fine.

taps over norfolk

I shook the hand of my grampa,
it felt of the summer sea
and salty sores of epsom.
I sat on his shore and watched.

His watch almost at elbow,
and lenses resting on-nose,
"He shouldn't have done that,"
he says to his sacred screen.

I lent my ears to his story
of his sea life in the Navy
(while he watched his channel 27)
and waited until his high tide.

7am sunrise

The sweet smell of the barn
begins the day of the farmer,
who tugs cow udders
as the orange sphere
makes the sky slowly blue.

His blue overalls become
soiled with white milk,
as the grey clouds become
brushed with orange and
dotted with white.

He pushes his oxen across
his fields of sweet corn,
never stooping to pick
an ear of Nature's barnyard
trough-laden breakfast.

I sleep 'till noon in summer.

grandpa's pictures

jim(whom Naval officers
never saw peacefully
peeling potatoes in the galley,
the gully of the monster Nimitz, with
thick, black frames around his eyes,

his pant-legs rolled up,

with unseen enjoyment),
who has become quite skilled at feeding others
fancily, especially squash,
(and who spent much time
arranging rugs: birds, panda bears, polygons, puffs and curls,
with thick, black frames resting on his ears,

his pant-legs rolled up),

in a fancily arranged banquet,
feeds the barnacles under-coffin --
(his ship docked in Norfollk for the last time),
with thick, black circles under his eyes.

farmstead blues

waiting notcalmly
for her I'mherecall,
hours after cock-a-doodle-doo
when she was to give her I'mherecall.

letting shadows move to opposite sides
of sweet corn fields, it's now afternoon.

hen is late once again and
rooster pouts.

the spread

farmer poked his foot
while pitching his hay
to feed his oxen
to pull his plow across the fields
and cows to stand and watch his fields
while dirty farmer
pitches his hay
while in his fields grows such sweet corn
to feed his wife
who fixes him dinner and
pricks herself
while knitting him socks
while he pitches hay
the forks to feed her
while she hums in harmony
with his pitching,
dreaming of their first time,
sixteen, out in the hay.

the spread

farmer poked his foot
while pitching his hay
to feed his oxen
to pull his plow across the fields
and cows to stand and watch his fields
while dirty farmer
pitches his hay
while in his fields grows such sweet corn
to feed his wife
who fixes him dinner and
pricks herself
while knitting him socks
while he pitches hay
the forks to feed her
while she hums in harmony
with his pitching,
dreaming of their first time,
sixteen, out in the hay.

haiku

gossamer threads the
hedges, woven gently to
ensnare passing flies

petals, pads, and ponds

(Impressions of Claude Monet's Nympheas, Effet du Soir)

Rising from the surface of a lily pond,
two suns shine in the afternoon.
White petals their beams, they loom overhead.

Lying prone, the blooms of suns
leaving hints of silver on their cumulus faces,
the Pads assemble, their hungry mouths open.

This weight of Petal and Pad
is bornethe the blue water-sky --
which never is punctured by them.

"What saddening beasts you are, Petals,
showing the Greens your mid-day light.
You'll soon wither and your beauty with you.

And you, Greens, your dull lives never
shall blossom -- your fear of the exotic
leaves you starving in my waters.

I am your fertile mother and welcoming father.

I reflect images brighter
than your first Petals' blossoming,
and I outnumber you and all
those you Pads can ever bring."

summer noon

Beyond the grey-moated city,
cows feed on peasants' taxed grass;

pigs sit in brown pools, seeking trough,
anxious to gorge themselves in sow.

They search for a sweet banquet
and settle for the tomato-sour flesh.

Near a sickly farmhouse overlooking
the high-rise highway to the city,

I lie under an ancient windmill,
that whirls like years passing above.

At noon, the wool sun burns, paws at me,
as dogs bark after sheep on a quiet hill.

Oh, to leave the trough and the mud,
and feast on the sweet bead of the mill!

No shade from the windmill,
I watch autos head eastward 70.

münchener sonnenbrille

unbathed bodies
dancing on the grey runways of the old airport,
selling their made in China goods to fellow gypsies
with yellow scarves tied to their unbathed bodies,
wearing plastic sunglasses,
blocking out the sun
that burns their brown skin.

An aging microbus displays "VW"
on its rusty nose.
Outside, unbathed bodies sell sunglasses,
their dirty children tugging at our arms,
showing us a home-less toad they've caught.
Inside, unbathed bodies cook cream of potato soup
over a low
flame.