ball and ball
ball and ball
and ball and
thing round, a
head and a
when there are thoughts and
a ball, and
there is someone there, no there is no one there
quite the same
poor thing, how
First published: Folio Magazine. Tala Rahmeh, ed. American University (June 2007): 22-3.
a net of limbs through which
the waters sieved
if our hearts had meshed
we’d have caught fish.
Frist Published: The Literary Review. Walter Cummins, ed. (Winter 2008). Print.
On an afternoon in the first week of January—
or was it in the last of December?—
(time drips slow & gray counted that way)
a tiny crocus on these bleak hills
that flower so reluctantly
in the center of a brown mud track.
We may sense that there’s drama here
in its brief day
out of a thousand seeds
the bruising wind ranged against it
the oblique sun,
and this crocus is the perfect actor:
no need for the director to shout above its head,
Don’t THINK just DO IT!
Would not so small a thing be lost
in one of Edwin’s pictures,
as though he paints on canvases
come ready made with flowers
But no, he takes care with each petal,
the lush patterns dwarfed
by magician, tower, sea.
What about the poet?
He sits in his tent and broods
believing himself scorned.
What could he do but trace in each detail
of its translucent line his own ghostly pain
stabbing at himself?
In fifty years
Turkey will be completely desert.
But life clings yet to these slopes.
If you stood up here above the lojman
on a busy night, what music you would hear!
Rock, pop, jazz, Tom Waits!
Tanya’s Russian melodies, the twins sharpening their bows.
You might even hear Nadine
practicing her guitar.
No one much likes silence down there.
First published: Current Accounts 23. Rod Riesco, ed. (Winter 2006). Print.
Note: photos are not mine.
STATIONS OF THE CROSS
Everything is dying, & nothing dies.
Artists pave the same new way.
Christos! When will you have done your dying?
You sad Madonnas! When will you put away your black dresses?
Her arms spread above her head—
Her latest Christ kneels
before her, muscles tense
for fresh sacrifice.
Frist Published: Current Accounts 23. Rod Riesco, ed. (Winter 2006). Print.
Note: I wrote this after a summer visit to Montedoro in Sicily where I have relatives. The town had commissioned the construction an elaborate Way of the Cross to the summit of a local hill. The image of a man kneeling at the feet of a crucified woman comes from something I saw on TV about the same time.
Oh beautiful, noisy, lonely train
the sole of Italy roars past you
the sea sparkles in starlight as
you chase like a dolphin by her side.
Frist Published: Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. (April 2007).
Matisse at the window
Total pictorial intensity, the stage
spread with expression, the wave
held up for all to see—the circus balance
between feeling & will, the broken
flowing of the dancers, tables arranged
with crystal & oranges, colors
exchanging lines of force like lovers
in lazy luxury of calm desire:
Form from within, worked & re-worked, until I look at last
upon my own mind: until all I see & the world I move in
aspire to be one of my pictures. The blank canvas
easeled near the window waits again
energy of eyes’ urge for hand to answer.
Look how it trembles! The Seine
a plane of light, the church
above the bridge, all a bleeding blue. Ah!
but not the piercing blue of Nice, for where
is the star-bright splash of Icarus?
the tiger’s strip? An image, that’s all
I am to you! I tell her she doesn’t understand. An image,
an image is expression, the form intuition takes,
creates, the refined performance of all I feel & know
of thee. She opposes me, my nerves are bad, my voice
stutters. I feel stuffy as a banker in this shirt.
Shall I strip, paint my body blue
& roll across the scissors?
First published: Nexus 43. David Nichols, ed. (Winter 2007): 49. Print.
Alan E. Cober, 1997
Wind whistles through centuries waking devils—
the wind rattles through walls
shaking down a turbulence of images.
This ruddy, bulbous nose
my ears, senses, eyes, hands—
the flesh of me feels deceptively moored & stable
but I spin in a vortex.
You spin in one, too. Though I show the same face
as the moon, I belong only to the vanishing
instant. I am already my own cadaver.
The calm behind these supple brows is alert
to that certain prophesy.
The wind has bleached the light
spits rain, creates floods, unearths bones—
slits open the brown valley.
How soon these pigments perish. They fade
as does your own seeing.
First published: Write from Wrong. (Sept. 2010). Web. <http://writefromwrong.com/2010/09/14/poetry-september/>
ona bike, it’s easy ta coast
accumulated spiral streets
asphalt for silica, concrete for curbstone
of rock built up, chamber by chamber
melted & cast, moistened & worn
by all the natural processes of memory
portraits of formal elegance in the balance
of dilapidated storefronts
the filaments of lives & histories
in the old attic, what was felt, the
weight of each individual thing
fusions of hands & eyes
dampened reverberations under the steep roof
buzzing summers of nesting wasps
the slight sucking of linoleum
footfalls on the narrow stairs
corroded & yellowed silver inner workings
of the dormer mirror honeycombing an image
a child’s dim face
we collected each morning on the black-topped schoolyard
groups of trousers & jumpers keeping separate
in a calliope of sizes, heaped under heavy winter wraps
’til sister empties her bell & we
fall in line, watching little cyclones of wind lift
streamers of snow, resisting
order & it was easy to see self had no boundaries
zigzags of sisters & brothers shading youngest to oldest
or one saw turning one’s head
in the tiny church vestibule in stormy weather
most everyone one knew, their naked eyes, raincoats, rubbers
mittens, hats & heard all one knows
in their voices down to one’s own thoughts
clutching the same books, anger, laughter, favorite things
the full globe of parish families embracing each other
in their children, Lord, Thou givest them, they gather
Thou hidest Thy face, they are troubled.
First Published: Fifteen Project. Pat Lawrence, ed. (2008). Web. [defunct]
Tell me my lovely camel,
would you prefer to go up hill
Tell me master,
who has blocked the straight way across the desert?
First published: Bear Creek Haiku. Ayaz D Nelson, ed. (2007)