POems



WELCOME TO THE FAIRGROUND


It happens, they say

in a most peculiar way:

when the fields are in fog

the stork picks a frog

and the frog is I.



SOURCES OF OLD


Under rainbow's left paw sleeps coiled in the sand

a snake all of gold, say Sources of Old.

After the storm last Wednesday I went

as far as the glade they call Trollop's Lament:

raindrops with sun, but gold I found none.


Father thinks I'm bent, of course

just straw in the head and go feed the horse

but Granny insists on a second mission

for if it's not gold, perhaps it is Vision.




PAST LESSONS


Where Icarus drowned

a feather was found

afloat in mid-air.


Where Jason sailed

a mermaid betailed

found one golden hair.



SHADES OF HONEY


Shades of honey

like shifting sands

echoes of summer

when days were long.


Deprived of cloth

and necklace and rings

and what else made you older

shoulders arched backwards

diamonds and sun-sparks

falcons and skylarks

draughts like fire and wine.


And deeper within

a path through shaded blue forests

to sunlit and silent plains.



BEANS


In my dreams I have been

a king in velvet and lace

who, with detached grace

spread Aubusson tapestry

of truly French finery

under his light-footed queen.


But apart from its dreams

it seems there's an odd quality

to this day-lit reality

since I, at Sisyphos' pace

plod the suburban maze

towards bacon and beans.



OLD SOLDIER'S GOOD-BYE


In November, perhaps

when afternoons are grey and crisp

like promenading nuns


when here and there

some tumbling leaves

turn suddenly ablaze

in sun-swept intersections

like burning kites

like deadly lights


when we have done

some finer weaving

seawards, windwards

in the heavenly looms

like cirrus silk

like mermaid's hair

like griffin's wings.


In November, perhaps

a different place

some misty day

with frozen fringes

we meet again

and talk of spring.









MOUNTAINS AT DUSK


The world seems a beautiful woman

robed into shades of purple and gray

with Venus faintly upon her forehead

at rest in the palms of all sky.


Dim echoes withdraw into nowhere

six days the Weaver has toiled

for me to see and to come here

to sleep in her folds like a child.



TENEBRAE


Alleys take strange directions today

houses lean empty against the sky

pigeons disperse into sudden rains

jesters converse with lucid twains

of dancing shadows.


Columns shift quietly through pools of light

mirrors recede into specks of white

candles that mark the border between

regions of daylight and realms of dream

descend into shadows.



SWANS


For the Sovereigns of the Lake

night has spread a carpet

of indigo and Prussian blue:

God"s living clouds, these two

sober and silent and holy

sailing to herald again

sunrise's unbearable beauty.



THESEUS AMAZED


Around corners through archway and gate

sensing forever the enemy's mind

poised to avenge the innocents' fate

but a mirror was all I did find.



MY SECRET GARDEN


It is dawn that carries the mysteries

when life takes shape in a shell

when light unfolds within transparent trees

and silence is as deep as a well.


It is morning that breezes magnificence

when lakes are of silver and silk

when swans give an early audience

and mist rolls on rivers like milk.


It is I who rests in splendor and peace

when time for moments is none

when mind and all Your infinite dreams

seem quietly to merge into One.




BLISS


As the fires subsided

a slow turning of stars

and the song of a night-bird

and you asleep in my arms

and our hearts

at the Heart of the World.



EPITAPH


He was a flea who jumped by mistake

not on the dog but into a lake.



KERMESSE


You mount this fine painted stud

and I'll try that boar over there

as for falling off and into the mud

your Mom has said clearly: Beware!


Swinging at chains in midair

and both we stretch our arms

two birds suspending the fair

riding on magic and charms.


Look into the House of Mirrors

take a drink in the Dancing Hall

for the Moustached Lady on Pillows

you are still a trifle too small.


Bless me, our coppers fade fast

where is the ice cream-seller

this guinea must be our last

and not for the fortune-teller.


See, the sun's already sunk

give me your hand and take mine

it seems your father is drunk

with childhoods sweet wine.




MORE


A handful of pollen flung into the light

a space and a time and sun and night

an interesting journey, but hardship galore

a clear perception of wrong and of right

a host of beautiful things to adore

and in the end to be all this ... and more!



MEMENTO MORENO


Me, Pepe Moreno

of songs longtime past

was a flame of some sort

to his folks and the Lord.


Me, Pepe Moreno

of straw and of stars

had blisters when younger

drank cider in summer

gave seashell and pebble

shared pumpkin and apple

kept kisses and scars.


Me, Pepe Moreno

of joy and of pain

of hope and of rain

of sun upon rivers

did never complain.



THE BIRTH OF AFRODITE


I am

as the tree is

and the stars are:

Love!