|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
leaning, the curved shade one (love) tree higher than the other (brothers) broken limb
up and coming vine an edge of protection holds the view
flying sand on stones those (dunes) closest to water swivel on mounds
trees with spines of bald teeth
smell of burnt nettles, thistles, burr
*
soft side off side
*
pine needles (of them) siege the corner, bent
felled branch points to a hole a toad fits
*
house nestled quiets the morning
the dead we don’t know are alive at this entrance where the crow drinks
chickens cackle rain they need in Italy pounds the roof
*
words come out nearer, closer getting closer blanket flat
take the wood into them
fir tree stands bare
melancholy but warm the uprooted grow roots
another geography invades dreams
luck demands havoc then part of it slips away
Every day there are seven new directions to take. A tram, a hill, a road to anywhere to think about and find my way back from.
Time in the garden spent circling, unknowingly, the temple, the lake, for you
in Villa Borghese with the poets at the gates with the perfume of the ground after watering with the hissing cicadas, the chattering tourists the cackling goose, the pinion trees with the parts of you I am hopeful to find:
The family of four who ride the carriage bike. The man and woman who drink cappuccino in the café. The bike rider who stops to drink his water. The girl who plays the organ for free. The elderly man who rests in the shade. The girls who walk arm in arm. The couple who wait on line for tickets. The grandfather who pushes the baby carriage. The man selling roses who comes around again and again. The bus driver who stops the bus to drink from the fountain.
If taken from the right side of the Gorgon, the blood was capable of bringing back the dead.
What does a cypress tree contain of secrets besides burnt bark and claw marks of an angel trying to escape stone?
I remember a night air black and round Fresh islands heaved in our lenses Dawn brought a swell drumming us closer On to a more turbulent ridge Out from under came a large fin It thrashed then dove at that moment Fever rose in my throat I was twelve days a christened sailor and New found love in Gorda Sound.
Waking up to a sticking-out horse head happily. The closeness of his animal body, the neighing and whole brown beauty of him framed against the barn yard wall. I can not tell you the color of his eyes and when I do think shepherd he is but a vague shadow beneath a darkened window standing guard beside his bizarre dog. (One time it barked at my open door and cowered before me in a submissive pose). The farm’s owners are active participants. She has her ponies, he has the town hall. Yesterday’s dilemma was water. Village currents turn between bliss- fully peaceful (the chapel’s graveyard, church on Sundays, teas with the postman) and edgy discomfort (the demonic thatched cottage which once locked me in its bathroom. I pounded and pounded until released by my husband who was in the front yard smoking a cigar). I am a tentative guest. This hamlet, inhale it, forgive it its bleakness. The Green-from there I heard a loud humming past midnight. I am sure a lamb can be many things. (A llama with a bad back, a goat with black ears, a hairless dog in heat). We’re on the lookout for sheep heads stuck in barbed wire. Will they stay there ‘til they die? They part like a river when we cross the fields. A checkerboard patch-one brown, one harvested, one dark green. Cypress trees line the road backed by hills. Chiming bells are soft enough to be heard and fade step by step. I hear galloping hooves, no destination, running manically back and forth. Oh I fit wonderfully into this frame.
|
|
©
of
all poems featured on this site remains with the
poet |
