On a Blind Man Walking in NYC

6/12/11

On a Blind Man Walking in NYC

There was a blind man who walked in the city,

--Among the people, and cars, and buildings, --

He walked with a sand-tan stick

With a black tip,

And never let it go,

For that stick was his eye

And his excuse

Whenever he walked into a stranger,

Or stumbled down a curb,

Or stopped just to think

And to smell,

And hear, and taste, and feel

The cool blue air.

The stick saw and spoke

While he did the rest.

One day,

He walked from the brown-grey buildings

To a peace-green park

And lay in the grass

Among the trees and perfumes of flowers

And, smiling, slipped off to sleep,

All-knowing the smell of bark

And the nectar-taste of green.

Standing on Cadillac Mountain in Maine

6/12/11

 

Standing on Cadillac Mountain in Maine

As I stood above

The mystic

Snail-shell curled clouds,

Who brushed their tails like waves

Against a green tree shore,

I looked out to the genius

Of the remarkable sea –

The veritable

Blue, green, black, velvety, yellow,

Ocean –

The face stained

With the colors of the world,

And purple waves

Crashing white against tan.

I looked deep, deep at the waters,

Into the waters,

And beyond all blue,

Green, black, velvet, and yellow

Saw the reflection of my eyes

Shine white.

Chess in the Park

6/8/11

Chess in the Park

Sitting in the park,

Surrounded by black trees

And white stars,

Playing chess with a friend,

Listening to Christian prayer music –

Yes, this is what I do for fun.

The night creeps onto us

On silent cat-paws,

But we ignore it.

Everything is silent,

Only our fingers speak

And our brains scream.

I look him in the eye

And punch him

With the rough smack of the rook

Against the table.

He slaps his bishop against my pawn

And it drops

Somewhere into the depths of darkness,

Among the black trees

Below the silver stars.

Everything is silent.

Why speak at all?

The trembling of the finger

Or the distracted blink of an eye

Explains everything.

Who knew that night was so…

The trees sway like women

And the stars glitter their eyes.

Leaves in Autumn

6/5/11

Leaves in Autumn

Friends come and go

Like leaves that fly with tattered wings

In the autumn air.

The tree can only hold its roots:

All else,

Even the mighty branches held up in triumph

One day fall.

The leaf flies like a bird without a home

And searches for a nest

Or a purpose,

Only to land in a barely-green patch of grass.

Purpose comes and purpose goes,

Drifting like dead autumn air

And falls, and roots itself,

Always into something new.

I Did Not Write This Poem

6/1/11

I Did Not Write This Poem

I did not write this poem

While walking by a river,

Observing the myriad wavelets spinning

Curving, and rubbing their watery selves

Against shore

Or in the forest, hidden

In the sanctuary of trees,

Safe,

Listening to birds chatting

With the trees

And the air.

No, I wrote this poem

Sitting in my basement,

Drinking Pepsi from a dull red can

While the walls slept.