Sunday, May 29, 2016

when days pass with a past now forgotten and a soul feels the sorrow of that, there’s bad poetry, like it or not

awaiting a storm
I had hoped for the storm half-promised
but woke to half-light, light rain,
bad dream.
Warm and muggy, windows cracked,
a search for night air, but it’s
dawn and stillness, flecked
with song, a sprinkling
of bird song, nothing
raucous, rather
quiet, still,
folds of grey.

Mosquitoes swagger
through heavy air.

I hope for a storm
(now eighty percent promised),
a clamor and crash,
a rumble and break,
a flash and a sweep of wind.
I think to watch from my front
porch that powerful gust of hope,
to watch it sweeping through like a marching
band of crashing cymbals, baton flashing, ascending
high then hurtling low to be caught and waved, I think
if I were to see that, it would be as if victory mine.

And maybe bad dreams,
blow away.

the next day
rain without storm leaves
world lush and lyrical –
birds sing –
a carousel –
but bad dreams –

but hey! it’s apple blossom time
Taking the garbage down the drive
in the peeling red wagon
I notice:
It’s apple blossom time.
Along the drive, along the road, in the fields.
So I think:
I must visit the old apple tree, the oldest I know.
It’s in the overgrown thicket where
maybe an orchard used to be.
Remember? We’ve been there before.
Take a right at the old boot.

Follow a faint trail.

See the trunk?
Riddled with holes.
Now look up.

the thing about poetry is
and the thing about poetry is,
you don’t have to say it all,
at all.

listening to the band
Waking up last night
to a drum of rain,
all sorrow beat
back to the ground
to grow again
another day,
(Though there is nonsuch word
as “non-remembrance,”
though there is nonillion –
which entails many zeros, the
exact number of which depends, it
seems, on which country you are in. Who
knew when traveling from here to there,
from to to fro, that your nonillion was
gaining or losing masses of zeroes –
who knew –
and then there is non possumus
which one might think has to somehow
be something about possums and keeping them
out of the yard – I can see Josie now hurtling
off the porch with a bark to beat the band:


but that’s not it, not at all –
it means we cannot –
[tolerate possums?]
and then there is always –
But, non-remembrance? No.)

can hardly wait to wake up,
to write another poem,
to sketch another poem,
of lonely life so lonesome.

Oh my. I saw my first moose.
Out there, off the road, in a wood
now a field as some years back it burned
over, or so it looks—kind of eerie, a lot
of stubble, and there is this moose, munching on stuff.
Lucky that this stretch of road has
passing lanes so cars slowing down and
pulling over, people standing along the
highway gawking, at a moose,
taking pictures, of a moose,
no big deal.
More people slow down, pull over.
Because seeing a moose—big deal.

“All these years coming up here and
this is my first moose,” someone says.
“It’s my first moose, too,” I say.

Humid and heavy all day. Now, sprinkling, lightly.
The moose lumbers this way and that, munching.
He looks up now and again. People take pictures,
get back in their cars, drive away.

“That’s a big moose,” I say.
The eyes of the guy next to me widen.
“Yes,” he says.
“And ugly,” I say.

My first moose. By the side of the road.
Memorial Day Weekend, 2016.

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