Here are a dozen most preferred. 


A November Day


It was a dim and skimpy morsel of weather,

by which I mean, if it were a crust 

of bread, it would have been on the ground—

old, cold, moldy and wet, coated in sand.


You’d have to be hungry to pick it up,

but then it would be a blessing.


We did pick it up, the wind from the north,

coming in off the black Atlantic,

snow in the offing, no sun in the sky,

grey and freezing, a short day,

soon to be night.


We brushed off that metaphorical sand,

ignored the mold and cold wet, 

inhaled the sensation of being alive,

and felt the first flakes on our cheeks. 



Sketch


Mum would be 94 today, so light you might tie a string to her wrist to keep her from blowing away. Not being here and yet being held in memory, she remains ours, a virtual treasure— her eyes, the clearest, deepest, earnest, smiling brown you have ever seen; her voice, an even, loving tone, encouraging. Memory is what you sometimes use to feel right, act right— an anchor of truth that keeps your self from blowing away.



First Orgasm 


As I recall the premiere orgasm,

my tiny, rigid, electric pecker, 

erect, the size of your baby finger,

was as hard as any other bone,

when suddenly, slowly but suddenly, 

it tingled tremendously pleasurably.


This memory, now, is being told, 

three score and more years beyond the event,

and may, in some ways, be inexact,

conflated with lying abed, perhaps,

and pulling on countless other occasions,

but in this case, as instructed by Ronnie

earlier that day in the schoolyard.


It came as a great (really great) surprise

that ran along the following lines:

Yowie! Zowie! And Holy Cowie!

A thrill from within that I control!

Am I ever gonna be happy alone!



Heavy Dancing


When she kicked up her heels by George

you hoped the floor was on good timbers.

A downward-flicking, hardwood-licking

flash of feet she let go, and shrieks


That nobody below would sleep through.

George was bigger than she was, too, 

and he augmented and complemented

as he grunted and bellowed and hopped,


So everything got in phase and wowed.



God’s Favorite Tree


Leaning over my garden is a balsam fir, 

a type little-valued in perfect health,

and this one is not. It is asymmetric, 

bent, bedraggled, rotten in spots, 

its branches spare, strange, misshapen,

sick. It is hurt. The bole is split.


And yet it’s alive, year after year,

and makes fir cones. It may well be 

God’s favorite tree.




Sketch


One day, in a good mood, he set out to check his mail. The walk took him along his gravel road in warm sunlight. He had let his children go swimming an hour earlier and forgotten them. The road passed above some bushes and he heard their voices and looked down to see them returning along a path in the woods. They were wet and shining in the sunlight amid glossy leaves, laughing and talking childish fun. When they saw their father on the road above them, they squinted into the sun and said hello with more amusement. The shock of joy that went through him then was as great as his anguish could have been had he learned they drowned.



Champagne


She goes around like a bottle of champagne

everybody deserves.


There must be a hundred people

who count her among their best friends.

She has time for them and needs their love,

offers her own in advance.

Her gift is to convince them of this—

that they are the funniest,

the most important,

free-thinking, adorable individuals

on earth— to which they agree,

perhaps not always remembering

that she has advanced breast cancer.


To the extent that she is in disguise,

untrue to others and deceptive,

it is only by one rubber falsie.


Otherwise, she is quite herself,

especially in her focused attention,

great affection, and above all, the bubbles.



Ruminating


My mind is almost perfectly still, 

chewing over life on the porch

of existence at dusk in balmy conditions.


My zodiac sign is the ram, a ruminant, it chews.

I butt my wife in the butt betimes,

as she goes ahead of me up the stairs.

She likes it and whinnies appreciation.

Her zodiac sign is the horse.


We are not superstitious at all at all;

these zodiacal signs are by chance,

seen on paper placemats before jasmine tea

and Chinese food, around midday. But

you have to marvel the accuracy.


Oblivion is a thought I crave, and approximate

evenings outside, a lucky Canadian escaping winter,

long, cold, driving snow, drifting, behind me, far behind,

for I've gone south and look, here, at the moon and clouds,

moving across a half-lit sky, bluish charcoal, a few stars,

whiskey, shorts and t-shirt, palm trees, sunset, remote glow.

I think the same thought over and over: Existence,

the world, I am

empty-headed and unoccupied, free,

at the zenith and nadir of consciousness.


Abortion: Reflections On An Early Career Change


I aborted my mind

and it hurt.


You people who know success,

you bore.


I wouldn’t bear,

neither up nor down,

but quit.


It was part of me

that was nearly formed,

nearly loved.

It was somewhat large.


But I,

I got the thing out.


Slimy, consuming,

a mistake best left

by the side of the road,


A gravel road

in summer,

country.



On A Cucumber Sandwich


There is nothing in the annals of poetry for lunch

like a cucumber sandwich in summer.

Its very look is cold mayonnaise

on the finest, softest, factory-made bread.


Lo, someone has cut the crusts off, Lo!

It would have been good to begin with but

now it is Jesus' inner thigh.


The cucumber itself has been skinned

before being sliced (did it melt the knife?)

into verdant tranches,

each containing the moist seeds

of a present delighted to go no further

than thee, become thee,  thee, in thy turn, 

become cucumber sandwich!


The very name wants embellishment

but there is none finer than Cucumber. Cucumber!

Garnish it, boys, with Scottish and English!

Ycleep it mickle, mickle good!

Throw in the Bible!  Praise it full!

Verily is a cucumber sandwich good!


Right now I am having a cucumber sandwich,

and all therein is salt and pepper and:

jumping, refrigerated, vegetable turgidity!

Jesus! What a mickle-moist, mid-rigid middle

of cucumber-flavored cucumber!  


This sandwich is winning me over, I say,

to praise every one of God's cucumber sandwiches.

I cannot go long ere I alleluia.

This sandwich is fit for small church picnics!

Alleluia!



On The Especial Plight Of The Poet In Time Of Illness


The carpenter, on feeling ill, will saw some fewer boards,

Musicians sick will use their skills to strum some fewer chords,

And so on is the workload less for airline pilots, stevedores,

Cooks and cops and seamstresses, and any man or maid with chores.


But lo, the weakest of the chain, the poet, while of little use,

Cannot exert a lesser main, with nothing to reduce.

Alas! In bed he sorely stays, aggrieved by all his woes,

The same as on his normal days, undone by all his foes,


But now, with added anguish in his belly or his bowel,

And nothing more to languish, from his biceps to his jowl,

Nor can the wretch, for love nor spite, neglect his Muse’s voice,

For as to when to rise and write— in this he has no choice.



For Your 29th Wedding Anniversary


We galloped a bed across the floor,

Hurrah! the four-poster cried, Some more!

We galloped a short-legged living room couch,

Yahoo! it squeaked, I’m a bronco!  Ouch!


We galloped a blanket along the sand,

The edges flapped to beat the band!

We galloped straight up like a sewing machine

Spilling clothes on the floor, our tangled jeans.


We galloped and galloped, then cantered a bit,

And slowed to a walk, and at last are quit

Of the need to continue at such a pace,

Understandably, having won the race.



Light Night


What makes the sleeper’s night light

is mainly the crack and peel of thunder

and dark’s eruption into bright,

but also the wine and food earlier,

and a statue of Death by the River Seine,

and prior to that, a flattened wino,

his head on concrete, the anthill of people,

Paris, scurrying around him, me finding

time to pause and pillow his head,

though not really help, before moving on

toward my own full stop, but with a chance to reflect

that very night: on thunder, the flash of light, and Night.