NOCTURNE


in evening's deep dark liquid light
an old man walks slowly
by a slow-moving river

a spring breeze drapes
his shoulders sloped by age

his thoughts like schools
of fish dart in all directions

and in the profound quiet
of the gloaming his voice
hums a barely remembered

melody by Mozart





JUST A THOUGHT


When I go, scatter my ashes on an ocean wind
while a tin whistle floats a slow air above 
and an Irish fiddle begins low and sweet
and ends in a mad dance where any 
who may be there frolic and roar
with laughter, delight, and hope
that music is still in the world.

Let everyone take a stroll
barefoot in the surf
then go.




​
DANCING FROM MEMORY  

​
all afternoon the wind
blew whatever was available
(leaf, hat, gown, scarf, coat,
candy bar wrapper, beer can)
in a fandango of breath and
whirling movement his partners
changing from one minute 
to the next a swirl of color
and shape filling his outdoor stage

one old woman speared her flying
hat with her cane and deftly spun it 
round and back into her hand
before tying it onto her head
one would have sworn her cane 
tapped a flamenco beat as she 
strolled off to a nearby bus stop
her stride (perhaps hard to believe)
radiated a sultry insouciance

waiting for her bus she swayed
to some rhythm older than her bones
the wind lightly lifted her gown
then gracefully redraped it round 
her swing and sway swing and sway
her eyes were shut her lips seemed
to whisper words only she could hear
who knows what year she was revisiting
who it was her arms reached toward


Previously published in Traveling without Compass or Map (Bellowing Ark Press 2006).