June 12th, 2016


Written in NY


His fights were dance and force. The sheen of sweat
On muscle. Wit in eyes. Sharp angry tongue.
He was so beautiful when he was young.
Still so when he had started to forget

And faced his maimed old age with equal grace
As on his day in court great to refuse
A war a name his people did not choose.
His art was punching people in the face.

And being punched. The insults to his brain
Accumulate. We watch we can admire
An energy destruction brilliance fire
And hope we never see his like again.

The greatest and the best his vicious skill.
But greatest when he said he would not kill.

Another NY poem


LIght rain. A cream cheese bagel. Salad stuff.
Outside squatting a bench a mad trombone
Chunters and whines off key. A sort of drone
Never quite musical but dour enough

To be communication. 'Screw your art,
You pretty people with flamingo hair,
Baristas, poets. I was sitting there
Just there with an expresso when my heart

Jumped slightly. I saw failure as the bride
Who sought me out. I blow this horn to tell
Her tatters black and veil seek you as well'
And as he blew his sorry tale he cried

In tears as dark as coffee. And we knew
For most of us it was our tale he blew.

I'm not a believer, but I once was...

... and I know what belief feels like and still have those feelings, just not attached to belief.

for Aoife Assumpta Hart

We kindle at old sights as we come home.
The street sign, street lamp. Smell of rainfreshed grass
Of well-remembered lawns. And as we pass
On childhood paths, life now is foam

And evanescent. Lost in Her embrace.
Ocean is vast. We stretch and yawn and drown
Warm as our blood. She does not need a crown
Essential Queen. We always know her face

Welcome in dreams and giant as a cloud
Floats unconditional and healing balm
Held firm soft triangle of pillow arm
Accepted vast in glory never proud

We wake we leave and know we will return
Grace warmth praise love we never have to earn.