A Wistful Villanelle

A Wistful Villanelle

I don’t remember what it was that wish
Standing below the stairs at Grand Central
Still I can see that star like yesterday

The sky is green in Grand Central Station
Green as the green room where life awaited
I don’t remember what it was that wish

Home from college on vacation that week
Come in to NYC to see a show
Still I can see that star like yesterday

Going to stand in line at the TKTS booth
Imagined it was I upon that stage
I don’t remember what it was that wish

Standing below the stairs at Grand Central
My eyes rose selecting that one star light
Still I can see that star like yesterday

I laid a young man’s wish upon that star
I have to think I doubt that it came true
I don’t remember what it was that wish
Still I can see that star like yesterday

The Poem about a Chair

The Poem about a Chair


Walking home from the thrift shop
I balanced a chair on my head
With one arm, holding, like an African woman

Walking by the the school playground
A young girl yelled out;
“Hey, you look like an idiot!”

Walking in when I got home I
Put the chair on the floor and sat down

Now who’s an idiot ?!

Thirteen Days

Thirteen Days

We will wait,
Until - she no longer mentions when arising in the morning
  “Oh, I was going to ask you where he is…”
Until - I can go down to the basement or out the kitchen door without thinking
  “Oh, check the door, or he might get out or come down,”
Until - I can lay on the floor before the Tv, my right hand not anticipating
  A warm presence, and the soft fur of a tummy to scratch,
Until - I can walk past the grocery store petfood isle without thinking
  “Which brand did he eat, or not eat, last week?” passing by…
Until - it is no longer odd not to feel a cold space beside my feet under covers,
  Were no one warm to fills the center lower half of our bed,
Until - I no longer need to clean our Roomba of its daily bushel of cat fur,
  Collected on its once a morning pounce about the living room carpet,
Until - I stop pausing to switch on a light and look before I walk down the hall to the
  bathroom, ‘cause there’s nothing like cold poops in barefeet first thing getting up,
Until - I walk by the creamer and half and half,
  Without thinking of calling the latter ‘our cat’s milk,’
Until - I stop pondering why ancient Egytians shaved their eyebrows
  When the family cat died, and its plausible relation to fleas,
Until - , at least,
  Say thirteen days? or
Until - , … sigh, nevermind,
  Let’s go adopt a cat!   

Toys at Ease

Toys at Ease

Aligned at the edge of our coffee table
Called to muster to make way for my vacuuming
The soft toys stand at attention
          You see

To clean the carpet isn’t my attempt
Too exterpate him from our house, our lives,
Or to wake the sadness of his lost ninth life
          No, please

The cat toys stand alert for a new command
Stuffed with cotton, batting, herbs of scented nip,
Eyes of glass unable to shed with the tears
          We release

Knowing soon they’ll parade with a new needy cat, who
Need not take scent of our former Tom in fear,
Around the corner, in the carpet, or a drawer,
           Toys; at ease

Ladybird

Ladybird

Two o’clock a Robin is scolding,
Ten o’clock another chatters in defense,
Like a bomber pilot I mark
  The scattershot birds by their hours,
Reference points level on the dial

Keeping the watch, standing the guard,
Making the work of marauders too hard,
They are the sentries, the males, as behind each one
  Quiet as the breeze is still
Sits a hen, low in her thatched-mud cup

As does she, our Ladybird, in the arborvitae,
Black pool eyes all sides of day,
Eastertide come gone away,
  As you roost your treasures cerulean blue,
May I tell you what we will do?

We’ll remain still, dear Ladybird,
It’s just the snaking wind you heard

The Mow Be Gone

The Mow Be Gone

Upon the lawn of Robin Hood green
Appear the dusky Mow-Be-Gone,

They whose planting by unknown hands
Is rarely contemplated, if even conceived

The push mower runs loud on the ears
Its blade unsharpened many years

As each swath of the mowers path
Scythes as cruelly as the last

Claiming the mauve-gay Mow-Be-Gone,
 ‘til none remain save in this song

Narcissus with Wings

Narcissus with Wings

When you meet a swan
  There are always two,
One upon the water, formal,
  The other below, reflected as normal,
Both with their wings arched high, or below,
  Each as Heaven or Neptune’s feather clouds,
Each bird thinking themselves the more noble,
  Dismissive at the sight of their double

These two, though together,
  Disregard each other,
Dipping through the waterline neck to neck,
  Seem to swallow the other’s head
Deep down into their crop,
  There to waive at us while diving
Both tails, up and down,
  One big bird of two head-butts

Conjoined about the plimsoll
  They swim with unseen feet,
Proclaim themselves the masters over geese
  And process as the most adamant of crumb thieves,
Appointing themselves both cheater, referee, and warden,
  Yet to whom we toady bread tossers fear to harden,
For, while unsound (they never speak),
  No mute swan met was ever meek

Scarlet Heights

Scarlet Heights

A distinctive cadence he sings out
  The Common House Finch his vernal song

“How do you like this nest box my dear,
  It’s got a good opening our size”

His call is melodious and an earful,
  A wonder above Nature’s background of baseness,
The rapping of a hard headed woodpecker,
  The gobbling rut of Tom Turkey on the ridge

“The knot hole you found is not as big
  But is safer high up off the ground”

His Hen betrothed merely looks on and twitches,
  She having no mind to announce
To the whole forest
  All their plans and intentions

“A high nest up is surely safer,
  But is there space there for more than three?”

Which nesting place they’ll choose will not be known today,
  For it’s the silent Hen who has the final say

Good Friday

Good Friday

Serenely starts a grave ceremony,
As a woman in white, she’s called a LEM,
  Singly processes with the solemn Cross,
The product of rude New England woodcraft

Cut saplings, one six foot, the other four,
Short over long, and a third the way down
  Are bound together arms to the body 
With hemp twine wound tight, kinda’ Girl Scout-y

The LEM bows as to one who is adored,
Then she lays the cross on the Chancel floor,
  While one by one we all pace up to kneel,
A solemn reverence to our Holy Lord

Invited to touch it, hold it, raise it,
Some just gave at it and are ponderous,
  Mindful of it’s Holy consecration
Transmogrified embodiment, and wood

My turn, I kneel, and with my callused hands
How like a Simon of Cyrene I lift,
  Glad to take its weight off, for a moment
Mindful of whose weight it was, who bore it

As I whispered there a silent prayer,
“Might I share too the sacrifice you bare,
   Might I share too the heavy load you bore,
And bare with thee the burdens of our Lord” 

Looking up brought the great revelation
This simple cross was no benign token,
  But the brand of Roman tyranny, fear,
The grievous tool of mighty oppression

It was the burning stake of the martyrs,
It was the noose and tree for the Negro,
  The the electric chair to the false accused,
The smoking camps of the Holocaust’ wrath

Unable to bear its burgeoning weight
I was forced down by its boot on my neck,
  Pressed upon my back, squeezing my own soul
Usurping my will, denying me breathe

I saw Mother, Friends, helplessly watching,
None could move and neither I, all was lost,
  As the wires of twine tied me to its spars,
And rose me to a height beyond all hope

The sky was sparkling for the lack of air,
A gold mist, deaths’ million shimmering lights, 
  As a voice from the skylights above spoke;
“My Son, will you be martyred by faggots?”

Which revived me with a wondrous inhale,
My arms I pulled against the wooden cross bar
  My back pressed against the unyielding post
As a snapping thunder rent through the Earth

The cross of oppression there was routed
Its arms broke off its back had splintered
  The poles remaining I broke on my knee
And with this God set all His people free

I broke the Ritual that placed the Ritual above the Faith
I broke The Word that said no new Word could be The Word
I broke the Faith that this Faith is mine and that Faith yours
I broke the Law that made the Law above our Love
I broke the Truth that made abuse of Truth our Politic
I broke the Chain that Chains us to Death in servitude
I broke the Contract that Contracts us all to usury
I broke the Lease that Leases us back this Earth, our own
I broke the Conscience that could not Conscience this being done
I broke the False Cross that absolved our obligation,
  to our neighbors, our brothers, our sisters, our parents and our children,
I broke it all because He broke it all
And I broke it all, because,
  I Love You

Under the Access Ramp

Under the Access Ramp

Cane, step step cane, step step cane,
Around the front from in back he walks,
  His left foot matching the right, his left foot never ahead

He hobbles with a metal cane, grip handled,
Quad balanced on four black rubber knobs,
  It’s January and he wears a tweed vest with shirtsleeves under

Walking to the access ramp, the ramp that leads to the handicap door,
Where under he’s hidden trash bags full of clothes,
  Underwear, summer shirts, second hand, worn

Watching him paw through his bags, I fear I’ll catch ‘something,’
The sight of him and his life – rank wretched untouchable,
  Gasping weak – I’m losing breathe, I turn away

I have two coats but dare not give him one,
Have food for giving from last night,
  Yet resentment prevents my offering

Cane, step step cane, step step cane,
On the walk around back again from the front
  I pass him, we walking the same path,
as “Nice Sun,” he says,

I swallow, “Good day”

Untouchable and charity, two thoughts
Unconscionable,
  Immiscible to mind

I’m sorry
I’m scared

The Plumber

The Plumber

It’s the sound of water
Hushing through the loose float valve,
  That balloon arm that moves up and down
And regulates the water,
  That’s what it is that makes that sound

Something ‘bout the flapper stop can’t keep the seal locked,
Water leaks through, when low enough, refills by the ballcock

He climbs now up top of the tank
I’ve seen him bend down and jiggle the handle
  Some days he doesn’t seem so concerned
They say a cat will jump up on a hot stove once
  But of a noisy toilet he’ll never learn

I wonder if he thinks it’s mice holed in the porcelain
What goes on in that small cat brain is nothing of I’m certain

Certainly he’ll never figure it out
Now he’s standing on the toilet seat
  A few times he’s fell in and slipped
Carpeting under his feet
  Would give him better grip

It wouldn’t cost too much to buy and put in a new flapper
But certainly it’s much more fun him staring at the crapper

Bleary Garden Ode

Bleary Garden Ode

Something there is sleepy
About a weekend in April,
  Tall trees persist unleaved,
Faces remain pale beyond belief
Eyes squinting in the garden sun
  While pondering one’s lost sunglasses

Winter habituates weekends at rest,
Now little chores come most tiresome,
  Though not for the novelty of turning loam, or
Seeing Robins on the verge
Watching one’s worm brown hillocks grow,
  While they tenuous scratch at past Fall’s leaves

The last chore checked off
As a new list forms in the mind,
  Next weekend’s, unwritten,
While the legs dopey for lack of winter use
Plod over to a porch chair, where,
  The doze comes on with a sip of cold coffee
 
Pollen?
Up early?
    Catching-up the work week?

No, the cause is simple,
  It’s Spring

At Rest and Play

At Rest and Play

His back feet he kicks out,
High in the air, with no ground to meet,
Like steel traps his back legs bolt,
At something he dream-hunts, perhaps

At something small his front paws grasp
Though there is nothing there at all,
Murrs and low growls pull lips to bare teeth,
At what may be dream mice, or fowl

He slept with ease before his stroke,
Now sleep calmed limbs have been released,
His four paws shake and lash, I watch,
And witness his whole world aquake

From on a chair or on the floor,
I’ve seen him leap straight in the air,
Aerial pounce while sound asleep!
On all fours lands without a bounce!

While he’s at rest he’s more active
Than when awake, and I suspect
He’s not, to sleep, counting small mice,
He’s dream hunting great big horn sheep!

Snow Cat Mailbox

Snow Cat Mailbox

The force of light snowflakes is a cumulative menace,
Flake by flake they weigh no more
  Than does the willow floss,
Or wind blown maple seeds when on the wing

Bur when compacted with a snow plow’s inertia,
Tumble-churned in the vortex of that semi-circ maw,
  It is propelled with the force
Of an elephantine dump truck stampede charging on behind

Sending punch-ice bushels of slush with each passing,
Of which our mail box, but a light and empty thing, at its mercy,
  Is pushed off to the lower drive, 
There to lie half buried in the cold wet sand-scree snow

It’s post, stronger for the buried metal mount
Remains defiant as a tree stump after the storm,
  Open handed holding out its arm and board
Where once our box, now ripped, was nailed

And now it is the discretion of the postman
To lay our bills and letters by our doorstep,
  Out there, naked to the will of the wind,
Perforce to be as snowflakes born away

Thespian, the Cat who Broke A Leg

Thespian, the Cat who Broke A Leg

“What’s that walking on the stage,
 No cat is mentioned on this page
   Within the scene or dialogue…?”

“Ok, no, that’s Thespian, the backstage cat,
 He knows better than doing that,
 Stage hand,
   Please catch him he’s not auditioning today”

“No, wait! He’s perfect!  …
 Did he bring a headshot? Who’s his agent?”

“As I said he’s the playhouse cat,
Don’t know if he’s pedigree or stray …
  He’s been with our company for several seasons

Despite the frequent legs he’s broken
He’s our cast’s beloved luck token
  To stage-fraught actors’ needing comfort”

(con't after/below picture)

“What’s he known for?”

“Mostly, breaking into dressing rooms with serio-comic timing,
To oaths half-dressed starlets scream that defy ludic rhyming,
Of course, his ‘breaking’ here refers to the curtain
  - breaking a leg - wandering on from the side of the stage

Yet during a show when he’s walked out on stage
The audience at once engages
  So many times he’s stole the play

And Thespian here’s upstaged both Olivier, and Burton,
Only to find on the stage are no vermin,
Next then to strut off with uproarious applause
  While he kicks his back toes, mocking scratching dirt paws"

“But, can he act?”

“He’s a well trained cat of the actors studio,
Always in cat character, you know, when on or off of the stage,
Although he’s method trained he will imploy questionable choices
  Such as howling too much, plays death scenes in odd voices

He’s been known to pounce on ingenue’s feathered hats,
He’s oft’ stalked our prop birds, sprayed on gentlemen’s spats,
He can sneak through a birdcage, playing thin on demand,
Despite that his frame’s Orson Welles-ishly grand”

“Has he been employed on stage purposely?”

“One of Thespians’ jobs was that he was the answer
To an issue of concern for our fragile soft-shoe dancers,
If a dancer, dancing backwards, was to collide with the proscenium,
It was Thespian’s job to jump out in between him,
  and it,  bodily, though despite being squooshed,
To protect those delicate dancer bums”

“How is he, with the ladies?”

“When our fair lady cat showed up for the show,
Thespian loudly meowed, then began to howl low,
So we brought him to the vet to have him, well, ‘fixed,’
  Except there we were told our cat was not a Tom,
But that Thespian, was a lesbian …
  Our diva drama Cat”

“Ok, he’s hired!”
“No, she, sir …”

Cleaning Windows

Cleaning Windows

January stirs the restless gardener,
Though these longer days bring deeper cold,
  Earlier rises, later sets, the brighter sun
Dazzle in displays of monochrome and gray 

Yes, and I can outward look, 
I’ll plan new plantings by the book,
  Then with a sky blue cleaning spray
Wipe winter’s sleepy film away

Until with full illumination the snows
Upon my eyes photo-bleach the glow
  Of a kelly green foreshadowing of spring,
Its radiant blaze on everything

As spring bulbs planted yet still rest,
Mid-winter Earth I need not test,
  I’ll clean a window every day,
Abiding while winter remains