Sunday, January 15, 2017

January 15

I sit
in the chapel of poetry
fingering, figuring
vowels and consonants,
touching sound-beads
with the tip
of a reverent tongue,
feeling for the pulse,
listening for the heartbeat
of the worlds.

I test and weigh.
I scrutinize.
I reject.
I embrace.

I beg the Merciful Muse,
goddess-lover,
to favour me with strangeness,
to grace me with surprise.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

January 14

Winter morning. Sunrise, moonset.
Spidery branches of bare trees.
Lucent blue skies. Eighteen degrees.
Clean sheet of morning light
on which I dare to write the word
in tentative penmanship: joy.

Friday, January 13, 2017

January 13

We idolize honey and syrup,
sugar and sweet chocolate,
rich pastries and sumptuous
desserts. But we fail to see
that we get sustenance
from the flesh of beasts,
from humble roots and plants,
from common fruits, basic bread,
e sopratutto pure familiar water.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

January 11

It's Wednesday, technically. Two in the morning.
Instant coffee and an English muffin with Goober
Grape. Chilly in the kitchen, forty-odd degrees
and damp outside.
                             I complain to Jesus and the four
walls of my apartment. I complain of loneliness.
I complain that there is beauty in the world
that I cannot dance with. I complain that there are
songs to which I don't know the language, or which
my voice is too rusty, too dusty, to render.

I wish I were young. I wish I could sleep eight
solid hours each night. I wish I lived in Wisconsin
or Montana. I want to visit holy ground.

Monday, January 2, 2017

January 2

Strange. I just realized
that Luis the astrophysicist,
my best friend in high school,
will be turning fifty this year.

Fifty: the same age
that my dad was when Luis
graduated from Harvard
and I was kicked out of
U Mass Amherst.

It's an odd mixture,
the eheu fugaces note
and the gratitude
that we've made it this far!

Sunday, January 1, 2017

January 1

The birds of Mrs Álvarez
make an intermittent song
that sweetens this mellow morning.
It is Sunday, New Year's Day,
and a World Day of Peace.
My Christmas stuff is still up.
I send you this poem as shalom.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

December 31

Sitting on the balcony
of this old brick building 
on a gray Hogmanay
I finger blue glass beads 
& whisper to cold clouds
bless the Lord o my soul.

I'm waiting for Mom
to come over so we can go 
to Shanghai Village 
for a cheap but hearty lunch.

My forty-eighth new year.
I'm weary from bad sleep 
but grateful for my family
and grateful for my friends.