The artistwho really knew how to ballslammed his last dunkposthumously orchestratingan exultant waveof humanityslanging it all skywardlooney-tunes constellationsraining his name earthwardwhile wecontinue marvelingon the free throw lineat the exquisite contradictionour petite giantof arrogant humilitybestowed upon uswith purpose and accidentallystumbling it all back home
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,Such seems your beauty still.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 104
I recognize myselfin the epigraphto your book of poemswide-eyedwishing to be rememberedas beautifullike you areGone more than twenty years nowwhile I am feelingpainfully mortalI was that girl tooattracting gazestaking literally the admonishmentWhat you gonna do just sit there and watch?Lately I’ve softenedlet gofallen into bedabandoning grudgesbecause somehowI know you(and Prince)would have wanted me toThe violets are up in the backyardtheir faces to morning sunI am thinking of youwishing for rain
April’soff the railscoughs & spluttersPoet'sgotta endeavornot to worry too much
Thank goodness it’s International Haiku Poetry Day. Here are a few seasonal snippets:mild uncertaintyturns in springtime airto wild insecurity* * * * *windows wide to springcat fur smells like open airbury your face there* * * * *spring air reminderwhat happens to us is trueand discernible
And this one from last night, demonstrating my frame of mind:
cold medicineon Saturday nightI know how to get down
Soon comesthe implosionwhen distancefinally digests itselfsecreting apprehensionlike so much fertilizerand I will be leftlooking backtending the fragile thingthat once(or was it a dream)was a firecracker
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| Photo by Karin Gustafson |
wild, wild Friday nightnew battery in her book-lightfinds her own delight
He saidabout Aprilwhat anybody would sayabout such a monththat it breeds colorto beat back shadowsscent to tempteven the most staid merchantto hookyThat is what April doesand we all know itWhy else songscelebrating winter’s endin the muddy throes of AprilWhy else a new signignoring an otherwiseportentous horoscopein favor of new bloomOnly in Aprilis lilac-breath acceptableeven encouragedSo when he says Aprilis for loversApril carries my tunein its gutI shall wait until thento sow my seedsit is April’s gardenof which he singsWe all know the wordsand sing along
Once I was ten years oldand you are ten nowsuch a big girl nowIt’s wrongto call you big girlyou’re a young woman nowI don’t remember nowif I felt like a womanwhen I was ten years oldbut you grew up fastYou had to grow up fastI think I grew up fastbut wanted youth to lastfor youSoon I’ll be 50 years oldNever thought I’d be so oldDon’t wanna be so oldOnce I was ten years oldand you are ten nowI hope you keep playingeven as you’re agingI don’t remember playingPlease, please keep on playingI want to play with youCan I play with you?Let’s play
Come, my best girlto our marriage bedmy whole worldfrom youth to deathAnd if I should diebefore I riseI’ve lived my lifereflected in your eyes
Coffeeat the kitchen windowconsideringwriting lines abouta circus of sparrowscompanionably chipperingup the rose hedgepeeking in my kitchen windowas if to saywhat’s all the yammering aboutin there
BecauseI knew youunder a pseudonymeventually I lost youto the hills of VirginiaI thinkSometimesyou went by Alice Paulbut that won’t help me nowLast time we spokeyou looked around my roomand said you keptexpecting a cat underfootI said you’re so right
1.Your hairis a tall talefantasticundercurrentsbarely contained2.Yourscascadeslike headwatersseeking confluencein your heart3.And yoursstrokes yesterdaybehind your earsoverflowsin favor of someday
It’s time to whisper, as the birds have cometo folly us with song at morning’s breathand tease our dream-scapes with relentless sun.
Wake up! They cry, the time for dreams is done!Wake up your sleepy head, it’s well past death-time, now whispering, and the birds have come
To bring us joy, to bring incessant funagainst our will, against our early breath,to tease our dream-scapes off with endless sun.
Such sunny days are few, and only oneor two are worth this elegant throat-catch;It’s time to whisper, as the birds have come.
Let’s turn our voices to forever-done,tune in to birdsong, tune out all this mess,embrace our dream-scapes and relentless sun
In exquisite display, my mourning one.For you and me, forever-ness, unlessin time for whispers, sweet, sweet birds have cometo tease dream-scapes away with endless sun.
If you could talk to me,what would you say?Curiosityin your small eyes,you seem ready to chat.If you’d hear, I’d tell youabout sand and shells,mama scolding mefor swimming out past the buoy--now she has me tetheredto shore.Wish I could fly outbeyond beach towelssand castlesmamaabove the breakerswith you
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| Photo by Margaret Bednar |
Every kidin the neighborhoodis outon the basketball courtIdyllic as helldribblinghanging in clustersunder after-school sunHow’s it decidedwho playsand who hangs backunlikely there’s a lotterydrawing straws seems datedWith a crackfrom the god of thundereveryone scattersleaving one scrappy teamwetshooting hoops
