Up northwe glideon clear watersmeant for loonsYou in the bowmuscling to shoreI steer-am stearnafter hardportage stumblesyou pull I pushwe move in synclike swans-it appears effortless to those watchingwhile underthe surfacewe churn a deepwe cannot seethis journey, my friendrugged and smoothwe move toward shorethe shoreline moves us
Ground
Each foray nowa little wonderThe brush wepiled last fallheretherea rustlingthen rushrabbit runsto the bank& awayand I no longerafraidof eyes watchingfrom underthe heap offallen ashsit& the log singsa symphonyof beetlesthe sound mayapples makepushing up fromwet earthall breathsquish & gurglegentling melisten
Whenever it Ends it Ends Like This
There’s a girl in the war they make pictures, glossy black and whiteHard times come again no more.I gaze, tears glaze, cannot look awayIt is gloss and grit, so sick of itThere’s a girl in the warShe holds her brother’s hand, her father’s rusted shawlAll that is left is rubble and dust, hunger, rageHard times … Continue reading Whenever it Ends it Ends Like This
Preparing to Meet Maestro
Siinnnnngg-Ah, emphasize the ng abuzz in the nosethe four descending notes on Ah, listen to thoseOur director pushes us higher and higher up the scale in a warmup that leaves me dizzy and cold. Lately, I sing Tenor and had forgotten the fun of readingtreble clef, transposing an octave down, the thrill of carrying a … Continue reading Preparing to Meet Maestro
Road Trip Ghazal
We ride west for miles past tall windmill, prairie dots, anxious eagle eyesgun signs, god signs, broken fences, white sky.Crosses at the crossroads, this America is unamusedholding on to some misremembered past, a blinding white sky.Every metaphor, destruction, every forming thought fizzlesno break from a killing silence, dull road-ache, the white sky. Humorless you at … Continue reading Road Trip Ghazal
Not I
The day they lined us up,siblings 1,2,3, and interrogatedthe vandalism of our father’s lunch box twinkies, one-by-onewe claimed innocence and no one cracked under the cracklingglare of the grownups accusing silenceNot I, I swore, and it was truththat time. In fact, the culpritwas a mouse and all the littleliars went free, hoping forreward later. Sadly, … Continue reading Not I
Play Like You Are About to Start Crying
The clock keeps time tic toc Round and round again, our ordered nonsensetracks like a fuguey finger exerciserattles our bones, we play like we’re about to start cryingwhile the tension of a steady beat, beats steadyhalts the nonsense of tears, shakes floorboardsand walls instead. Woman at the window watches rain waters rise and the land … Continue reading Play Like You Are About to Start Crying
Tell About That One
When you moved again,deciding which pieces to bringwith you took days. Disappearing roomsdisappeared objets d’art. Yourfamiliar touchstones were spirited awayalong with your memorieswhich still totter in a multitudeof worlds lately, but you hold onto a familiar question: “tell me a storyabout that”.We saved a few treasures in the purge.The too-large postmodern painting of adistorted violin … Continue reading Tell About That One
Why I Am
Remember the spooky French Horn theme in Sergei Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf (Op. 67, a “symphonic tale for children”)? The sound of the wolf brought tears to my eyes and so of coursea few years later, I asked to play the horn. “Musician!”, the grown ups proclaimed, and so I was, finding myself lost … Continue reading Why I Am
I’m Talkin to You, Julius
Isn’t it enough you eat your sister’sfood before she gets a single bite,and you cry like a wounded bansheeand slink around all day like a kohl-eyed teenager in a phase, and rideour shoulders like Cleopatra, and hog the chaise like a recliningModigliani nude, then wretch upa hairball cocktail, and walk away like it’s nothing, leaving … Continue reading I’m Talkin to You, Julius
Early Morning Poems 