Written in the airport while waiting to go back home.
—
Joy, joy!
All the pretty buttercups.
What fodder for the mama hound
And all her little pups!
—
You’re not my favorite pianist.
You’re not my favorite poet.
You’ve missed the mark in sundry ways–
I love you but I don’t know it.
—
How to tell a robin
From a turtle dove?
Just hold their feathers in the light
And pray to God above.
The last hyacinth of spring bloomed today,
Like a child born beautiful and sad.
I look back on all the joys I’ve had—
I sit with them, remembering, and pray.
Why is it, dear, that you never could stay?
Was it my poems that made you mad?
Or did I simply never make you glad?
I thought I could chase your demons away.
But, dear, how the time likes to pass us by.
Soon the rosebushes will be in flower;
My hyacinth will live, and then she’ll die
In her gloriously appointed hour.
What sadness in her death, and yet, my dove—
What longing, what sweetness, and, oh, what love.
The candle in the church
is glowing yellow-bright.
What about the lonely trees
in open fields
that shiver through the night?
How cold they are,
how distant from the light.
Hand-scrawled in a journal quite a while ago.
—
A man and his boat went to sea
…….to sea
(Oh, his boat he called LUCY LOON)
But the sea was as green
As the split of a pea
And his boat was shaped like a spoon.
—
If Tim likes Sally
And Sally likes Pip
And Pip likes Mary Lou,
Then all the math
In all the world
Can’t tell them what to do!
—
Window flash in a cupboard house
clamoring, cupped in a covered door
carrying the cold to a careless couch
collecting cobwebs from off the floor.
—
What a ghastly wall!
…….What ennui!
I stared at the space
for half of a day —
…….What a waste!
Not a whit I saw
but a cob of dust
and a piece of the wind.
…….What a place!
I’d forgotten my name;
oh! even the fly
disdained to be so disgraced.
FIN
How long can we hold out our hands, waiting for the bread, or the rain?
Our faith is getting thin, like the last scraps of cloth cut from the weathered kite.
Where are you blowing, Brother Wind?
You have taken our clothes away. It’s too cold to stand here idly.
Where are you going, Sister Road?
You have tired us with walking. We don’t know the way.
Our faces have turned gray—they long to be touched
By light.
The cherries were picked from the tree a long time ago.
We are waiting for the harvest now.
We are waiting for the blossoms to break upon our darkness
And unfurl.
We planted the peas
In summer and spring.
The rain came down in silver drops,
And you and I would sing.
We planted the peas
In winter and fall.
The snow fell hushed upon the roof–
We didn’t speak at all.
Once there was a grand convention, held in a sparkling ballroom with vaulted ceilings and gilded walls, and all the dogs in the world were invited to attend. Dalmatians, retrievers, collies, and St. Bernards; terriers, hounds, shepherds, and poodles: dogs of every pedigree came prancing or bounding or meandering in (as their temperament decreed).
Now, this being a convention of some distinction, certain formalities were observed. A team of Great Danes stood by the entryway and helped the guests to remove their coats. (For no one wears a coat into a ballroom, after all.) Soon, the coat closet was brim-full of furs: curly and straight, golden and white, coarse and sleek. Never before had you seen such a variety of colors and textures and shapes!
Then, after the dogs had doffed their coats, they entered the ballroom to find their bowls and plates. Dogs, as you know, are hungry creatures who love to eat. Therefore no one at the convention had troubled to plan boring preludes like slideshows or handshakes or speeches. Everyone had agreed that the best thing was just to start with lunch.
And what a lunch it was! Mutton pies and ribeye steaks; biscuits spread with marrow; uncooked trout and roasted salmon; peanut butter and blocks of cheese. It was a sumptuous, and very messy, feast.
But in-between mouthfuls (and gulps of water from the hydrant), a sharp alarm went screaming through the building. “FIRE! FIRE!” a German Shepherd howled, and suddenly there was a stampede of dogs rushing out of the room.
Barks and yips and yaps and whimpers filled the hall and bounced off the vaulted ceilings. The smoke appeared in clouds that were gray and thick. One little terrier in the back could be heard crying that her tail was singed. Everyone was making straight for the outside door.
Oh, but first the coats! The closet by the entryway was so dense with so many hundreds of furs, that it would have been impossible to sort out whose was whose. Every dog rushed in, grabbed whatever coat was in reach, slipped it on, and rushed out, into the cool, clear blue day.
The fire department was called, and the Dalmatians stayed behind to put out the flames. Meanwhile, the rest of the dogs could not flee the convention fast enough. They ran off in all directions, into alleys and apartment buildings, cafés and parks. There was no rhyme or reason to their scattered retreat.
Thank goodness, all the dogs escaped the fire unharmed (except for the poor little terrier, who had to have her tail mended by a nurse). But, in all the chaos, no one managed to claim his rightful coat. That is why, even to this day, you see dogs sniffing every other dog they meet. They are looking for their coats which were mixed up at the convention so very long ago.