July 21st, 2014


And a poem that isn't really about opera


Passion and sentiment. Up on the stage
these rival queens contending for my heart
voices swoop down at prey. They stop and start
music has pauses, even when in rage

it pierces dagger-like. It is control
even when feigning frenzy. Both near mad
one sulky virtue, one drawn close to bad.
They weave around each other. As a foal

will almost totter, learn its way, then stand
up straight and tall. Music between the notes
as beautiful as what comes from their throats
the thing never quite heard we understand

harmonious from rivalry. It seems
a moment there, then lost, then heard in dreams

Somehow poems come for me in threes


All lovers set us riddles, leave us clues,
threads that we follow deep into a maze
then strand us in their heart. Where letters blaze
firescripts we cannot read. We always lose

these contests. Sometimes we might lose our head.
Old lovers watch from spikes, blind bird-pecked eyes.
Perhaps they told wrong truths, perhaps weak lies.
I'll never know just what it was I said.

Her anger firing poison from red cheeks
that stings and puzzles me, leaves me confused
for moments later on my lips, left bruised,
her kiss. I'd hoped intrigued for that nine weeks.

Love ends in torment, then revives each day.
The sweet pain's passed, and never goes away.