Day: August 27, 2015

Isaiah
Isaiah built a house of cards with one
hundred twenty aces: he found a patch
of dirt beneath a willow tree and that
is where he made his house. A simple house,
but tall, growing from the ground with a steep-
pitched roof, and so many floors, but never
a staircase. No chimney either, for one
slight puff of smoke would blow the whole house down:
the aces would go flying everywhere!
It was delicate work, and Isaiah
was careful to hold his breath with every
laying of a card: glossy ace upon ace.
The boughs of the willow shivered as he
looked marveling at his little masterpiece.

Madeline
She looked marvelous, but a little piece
of dandelion fluff caught in her hair.
Madeline sat down in a field of wind,
picking at the flowers, pulling their roots
like light bulbs out of their sockets – not fast,
but twisting them, making an idle guess
as to when they might come undone. She let
the stems fall into the lap of her skirt:
now and then, the wind would take one away,
blowing it with her perfumed breath to some
other corner of the far field. Resting
on an elbow, Madeline counted stars
until she forgot what number she’d reached,
only to begin forgetting again.

Henry
To begin forgetting again: only
a matter of time until the bluegreen
waves turned gray because he’d watched the water
for so many days. A cold wind lifted
the hem of his jacket, and Henry turned
his eyes to the heavens to see whether
his fortunes were good. He pulled out some things
for writing and tried to unstiffen his
fingers, all contracted with salt. Slowly
he set about the work: images of
words flitted in the briny air, small mis-
remembered ghosts laughing around the ship.
Henry made his mouth in a little O,
swallowed down air, sealed his quiet letter.

Windfall of apples ripening in the orchard:
I count the fallen ones and put them in my skirt.

I carry them inside to the country store,
A wooden box with a jingling bell tied to the door.

A man in a gray hat sees my burden, asks
“How do you like them apples?,” and trembles

With a laugh that sounds like the bell on the door.
He has the face of a child who is very old.

Walking to meet me, he takes off his hat
And fills it with my apples so we can split the load.

I say thank-you in silence as he leads me
Past the shelves of jellies and jams and all kinds

Of remarkable things: a tree made of pencils,
A silver train whistle, a line of tin soldiers

Standing stiff beside a cider jar.
I feel giddy as a passerine bird.

We come to a small room at the back of the store
Where the sunlight is coming in.

Over a table someone has posted a sign:
APPLE SANCTUARY, it says, in red marker.

We hold our breaths, puffed up with suspense,
And let our apples tumble down.

Listening to Debussy

Pedal pedal pedal
The little foot falls fast –
While jazzy hands
Quick shimmy down
The white and blackened street.

Jingle jangle jingle
The town is all awhirl –
A limber man, he waltzes on
And scatters to the air,
He’s caught amid the county fair
Where nothing stock is still.

Now to the dollhouse,
Under-moon,
He stumbles on a tiny room,
Too tired for his head;
And in a thump, or in a boom –
He cannot tell, it’s rather soon,
The milkman’s dancing with a spoon –
The pianist’s gone to bed.

—

The Balloon and the Bumblebee

meandering down the time-beaten path
a little boy stopped to stare
at a round red balloon caught in a tree;
wherefore, he thought, was it there?

the hum of a bumble – a bumbling bee –
cracked wide the yawning blue sky
it FLASHed like the lightning then BOOMed like the thunder
the little boy cried, “oh, my!”

he followed the sound – boy after bee –
until the garden of rose
when, struck by a muse, he sat to the ground
and shrank to a thinking pose.

the meaning of life, the little boy knew,
is really quite simple to see.
to puzzle it out, begin with the small,
like the balloon and the bumblebee.

—

A Note to No One

I wrote a note to no one
but lost it in the breeze
the day before tomorrow
astride the waving Seas.

the inkpot softly tumbled
a dark and deep morass
five thousand words have crumbled
beside the broken glass.

and then the blue-black puddles
should weep in silent song
a pool of poems unspoken:
so long, so long, so long!

so long: a feeble farewell –
since never was I couth
at penning words of good-bye
forsooth, forsooth, forsooth.

the envelope flies lightly
fair child of the seas
jumping clouds with paper trails
(recycle remnants, please).

fast and fast and fastest yet
it flutters by despair
past gloom and glum and errant sum
through salty slipping air.

“dear sir or madam N.O.,
life finds you well this day?
I write to send my sorrow
that you have gone away.

“(to typeset is a bother,
and so I work by hand)
I am
. . . . . . . . yours most sincerely,
Ms. (sandy sandy sand).”

up and up and up and up
then down and down: three downs
let’s jettison the letter, quick,
more verbs! no need for nouns.

quite overboard the man is!
a howl of mutiny!
but, wait, who walked the plank now
into the storming Sea?

the captain of the vessel
hurled back his shaggy head
“of course, there’s been no murder!
for really No One’s dead!”

I wrote a note to no one
and sent it overseas
I am
. . . . . . . . yours most sincerely,
(more postage needed, please).

Read More“Old Childlike Rhymes”

The room that so sweet-seeming is
contracted, as a cell,
and I, in a state of being various,
imploded at its door
and bid the wall farewell –
a kiss to earth
that flappered in the half-life air
in-between the now and then or
hazing in the shushing din
of a dim
forevermore.

—

The squelch of midnight seconds
noises in the corner
while here beside the lamplight
. . . . I bat a tired eye
while there astride the wardrobe
. . . . they sibilate a sigh
while near inside the cradle
. . . . a child sounds a cry
and meantime do I cast
. . . . glancingly at wayworn hands
. . . . . . . . counting moments till they die
and birth out loud again.

—

Improper Novella

Swallowing the whole of time
I eat at a piece of toast
And dab my chin with a paper square
While waiting patiently for despair
To enter on a hobbyhorse
In rooms of madeleines and gorse
Inside the kingdom drear.

And calmly now I bide my hours
I fill a vase with graveyard flowers
To brighten up my smallish room
In which the yellow walls have holes
In which the holes have longer holes
But no one is the wiser
Until one hears a smash and crash
(The vase is all in shards!)
And then we all get on once more,
Asleep in lapis linens.

Read More“Old Poems about Miscellaneous Things”