November 2024
Bio Note: I am a retired college educator and author of 4 books of poetry, and have edited 3 anthologies. I also host two monthly poetry readings. Read more about my work at my website at the above link.
A Leaf
A leaf unfolds on the sycamore outside the house—the one I curse
when its seedballs begin to drop, the ones I turn my ankles on,
that trip me. They have been perfectly designed to make me pay
attention to the grass under my feet, when I would rather watch the clouds,
with no enduring form, only the questionable allure of constant change.
Dear Cirrus
One minute, you’re a white bone in a mackerel sky,
then a honeycomb of altocumulus or battleship
of Nimbus, sailing low in a dark and shifting sea.
At times, you’re fringed with virga, abortive
rain showers that evaporate before the ground.
I admire your red-rimmed inverted bowls,
snow sculpted into pyramids or flying saucers,
your ever-shifting shows. I envy your shape-shifting,
the will to wander anywhere, to change so utterly.
And when you’ve had enough of all these changes,
you simply melt into the atmosphere like butter
on warm bread and disappear.
The Director in Residence
From the start, I had a writer or director
peering over my shoulder, determining
the words, the angle of the shot, the music
swelling in the string section of my gut.
I played all the parts, at least in my own
mind. No wonder I stumbled, trying
to manage everything at once,
and I the only one aware of it.
No surprise, things seldom went
as planned, the dialogue so unexpected
I would have to stop a minute
just to take it in, trace the arc
arising in my spine. Sometimes
I wished that inner voice would
just shut up, would try to silence it.
But without it, how would I know
my lines, my motivation, what I
ought to feel? It wouldn’t seem
quite real, and so I learned to live
with it, to talk back: the actor
seizing the pen, rewriting all the lines.
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