Oratory

The Ledge

We sat talking in a cafe in Juneau,
Alaska. The windows were dark with rain,
black sky in the middle of the afternoon.
You told me a story:  a woman

stumbles and falls into an abyss. She
hangs, desperately clinging to a tree
rooted in the cliffside. God!  she cries,
Help me!      I'll help you, God says,

Let go. You laughed and finished your beer.
We left together. Later, we fell apart,
as friends will do; months I wouldn't hear
from you. You left out the part

about the ledge, the ledge she couldn't see,
carpeted with shrubs, just beneath her feet.

For an audio post of this poem,  go here.
[revised 25 January 02005]

   

March Sonnet

The full moon glides across winter's night
as February now concedes to March,
the month between the seasons, fickle skies
that now are mellow, now are cold and harsh.
The crocus tentatively tests the air
that taunts with whispered hints of summer warmth;
the daffodils, the tulips, debonair,
all toss their yellow heads with wanton charm.
But winter only rests, it does not sleep
and bears still hibernate in mountain caves.
The snow will come again, and cold and deep
will bury woods and gardens many days.
So treasure this fine darkness. Take your time
to sleep and dream till March makes up its mind.

 

The Neighbors Debate

When discovered by the social worker,
the yellow rabbit was nibbling blooming
dandelions, violets and clover
on the neighbor's lawn. The circling

cats did not disturb it. The rabbit hopped
up to the cats and touched twitchy noses.
The cats dashed, lickety-split, and dropped
back into hunting-jungle-tiger poses.

The neighbors schemed. Caught and caged,
unperturbed, the rabbit washed its face.
The prison guard said "Let it go."  "Not wild,"
the social worker warned. "And think, the child

who lost it, crying all night," the day-care
worker sighed. The rabbit combed its hair.

   

sonnet in search of a title

The moonlit field is haunted by the brush
of hunting shadow wings. The field mouse stops --
her heart a frantic rythym in the hush
of grassy murmur, field brook rush, the plop
of water on the rocks -- as wings dip once
then down the sound of owl descending, loud
to ears now straining for the sound of pounce!
that predatory whoosh! that final shout.
Does field-mouse shudder, thick with fear, her bones
astutter as she hears her death descend
from high above? Does owl, the hunter, groan
aloud, anticipating hunger's end?
Or does the field mouse see an angel loom
with love? And owl, a sin he must assume?

 

Swimming Sonnet/a nautical metrical exercise

The pool is long and blue and cool. I dive
into the soothing depth, the wet. I cut
the water, arms a knife, a curving slice,
a turn, another lap, a breath, a pull
and earth below is not allowed to hold
my body down and I am flying free
of ground, my cells expand, my spirit grows
and melts into the chlorine blue, I feel
the stretch of spine and soul, I reach to touch
some goal, it’s just beyond my fingertips
at last, another lap, if I could just
not need to breathe...
      now slow, I gasp and kick
           against the heavy claim of land-locked life,
           so hard, so harsh, so shallow, short, and dry.

   
 

Waking Up in the Rockies

I went out to cut some chives
in the pale morning. On the hill, a herd
of deer, and bees leaving their hives,
coming to the garden, a sweet blur
of insect sound, full of honeyed purpose.
I, oblivious, dreaming of the ocean,
imagining coral beaches, surfaced
nearly nose-to-nose with a doe, stunned
as she, frozen, dazed past reason.
                     It seemed fantastic,
a wild gesture of this maddened season,
as though my dream had stretched, elastic,
to pull me back to this alpine day, blood
to blood with deer, with what is sacred.

   

BREAKING NEWS

Once again my representative tops
the list of the most corrupt. Who will we
be, without the Bill of Rights? What will stop
this erosion of our character, the sea

eating at our coastlines; greed and lust
overpowering the powerful? Needless
wars and careless heat, the coming dust
of devastated forests -- heedless,

we entertain ourselves, evening after
evening, stories of murder, rage and
retribution -- diversions from disaster,
actual and impending -- this sacred land

and others, no less beautiful, alive --
who will we be, should we survive?

   

Poem to the Editor

Dear Editor:

I am writing to warn you of a con-
spiracy that threatens our civil life.
Ordinary poets are blogging on
current events! They are fomenting strife

and discontent with our fine government.
They are everywhere on the internets!
Instead of writing well-rhymed sentiments
on ancient gods or abandoned bird nests

they are composing sonnets and clumsy
odes to contemporary candidates
for public office. They slander Rumsey,
they insult our president. How they hate

America, our freedoms and our goals.
The wrath of patriots on all their souls!