The Duck

it is late

in the year

the time when

the wind gathers

gray clouds and cold air

an old hermit from the mountains

stands with a wobbly cane

at a carved temple door and speaks

to the morning air through the blue haze

of a smoldering smudge of sage

-better to be woke

than half asleep

clinging to a dream

that fades to white

as if to mark the season

the geese of each great state

move one state south for winter

the dabbling drake looks

to the sky to see what lies at the horizon

his home is the wet glades that stretch

forever into one long swamp

with no skill to dive

beneath the water

to be nourished

by what grows deep

he opens his orange beak

and with his raspy voice

quacks up

Nana

nana is old

and wafer thin but still bakes

amazing semolina bread

and layered cheese lasagna

flavored with red wine

seasoned with oregano

stuffed with pork and beef

she makes our favorite

lemon biscotti

and at every christmas

serves her sweet and airy

butter and sugar cookies

she tends her shrinking garden

in the warm season

but tenderly now

her body frail

so easily blown over as it is

by the prevailing winds

her fingers are angled bone

her ankles and elbows

almost tear through

her taut dry skin

her knees refuse

at awkward moments

to bend or to unbend

and yet she pauses

to reach and touch

the small wonders

of the world

we so often overlook

finds joy despite the dust

in each object nestled

in her modest home

in its settled place

delights in hidden seeds

destined with warmth

and rain to sprout

from tilled rich soil

gives thanks for those

who through the years

have kept their coming back

caresses the hands

of dying friends

in the final days

before what is

starts over again

watches what we do

sorts honest ones

from liars understands

what keeps best

next to her heart

what thoughts

to hold inside

she smiles

when we joke

that if she were asked

to rule the world

she’d do so as solomon

maybe once did

cutting without nonsense

to the quick

but alas

no one ever asks

more and more

it’s just grandchildren

and great grandchildren

passing through

preoccupied on

a break from school

chasing this

looking for that

sometimes we share

with her political views

of the progressives

we regard so well

nana says it's hard to know

we tell her how

the tv personality is running

for president again

nana thinks

it’s not too good

that he’s that fat

says she thinks

he speaks of hope

to frightened boys

in the bodies of grown men

then steals it away from them

during our last summer visit

she surprised us when she turned

and sighed and said

the pleasure of revenge

makes it difficult

for good hardworking

family men to see

that if he wins

he’ll bring a curse

upon their wives

will take away

what they love most

about their lives

usher in the end

The Freedom Caucus

. . . staring in

too mesmerized

to look away

from the gathering

behind the window

the stars surrendering

their watch to the late

rising moon to drifts

of moving shadows

shapes who could be women

appear among the men

against the oak panels

sipping from long stem glasses

priceless red wine

poured from dark bottles

laughing in the flickering

candlelight at what might

be a crude joke

assembling with others

in a widening circle

of conversation

you move closer

to the window forgetting

caution desperate

to hear what’s being said

and then

the waves

of words

like so many

confabulations

whisper

as sudden wind

rushing past

your ears

awash in

guarded secrets

receding then

swelling again

suggesting

to the apparent

arousal of everyone

celebrating

among the finery

that the earth

will not endure

that human life

was never sacred that

the only immutable truth

is power

you wonder if this can be right

frightened and cold

you move slowly

away from the glass

into the night

a familiar voice

silencing the others

a tall man you recognize

the face the hair

in the jaundiced air

eyes vacant as death

a mouth twisted by lust

his glass raised toasting

declaring indiscriminately

through the pane

now is the time

for anything . . .

They Keep Coming

they keep coming

the fernlike stellar dendrites

the hexagonal prisms of ice

we call snowflakes

no two just like the other

how quaint

clinging

to branches

and fence posts

during the storm

indivisible

afterwards swept away by the wind

or simply melted by the sun

no sooner gone than replaced by the flakes

churned up by the next gale

sweeping over the countryside

like the bluster of an autocrat

blanketing the world

in an undiscerning white

for a moment

changing the color

of everything

Cinéma Vérité

in today’s epic cinema

we are led to believe

that the heroes

and great warriors of our age

after bloody battles

and seemingly hopeless

struggles against evil

against insurmountable

darkness and odds

come to journey's end victorious

and are carried away on gray ships

with billowy white sails

to a distant shore

but it is not true

i have seen it

no sooner than when

the ships leave the harbor

the sea begins to stir

first an icy wind from the north

then flashes of cold lightning

then sheets of rain and swirling gales

then rips of canvas and

the splintering of masts and beams

and the crash of anchors loosed from chains

until all is a spiraling hurricane

where ocean and air are one

where monstrous rolling waves

horrible black mountains of water

crash upon decks

sundering timbers and limbs

a few of the heroes and great warriors

float back with the bloated tide

to the sandy beaches of the harbor

painted with bits of seaweed and debris

babies born again from the sea

their minds washed clean of memory and valor

most of the rest sink forever

to still depths of unfathomable night

clinging to a memory of light

only one or two we can hope

cleansed by the bitter salt

baptized by the rolling water

remember the strength of their arms

and open their eyes

and begin to swim

Stained Glass

in a catholic church

on a sunday when

her parents came

in separate cars to pray

she flitted about     

and danced despite

a reprimanding stare

from aisle to aisle 

and wandered back and forth

seen and unseen

in the gulf between them

until they from their separate rows

genuflected and drove away     

mother in the family van      

daddy in the station car

each thinking she

was with the other

and she at last

being a thing so small

knowing she was left alone

inside the granite walls

her bunny underneath her arm

its ears curled down

the last mass of the day complete

and all the lights inside put out

with nothing left to save the dark

except the blinking candle lamps

and the blue light spilling from the sky

through the arcs of colored window glass

the brown-skinned priest

whose sermon she could hardly hear

or understand the words

had closed the alabaster door

of the tabernacle

and locked the sanctuary’s door

with a silver key

tucked beneath his waist

and retired to who knows where

and gazing from behind the nearest pew

at candles side by side in cups of red and blue

with intermittent wicks of fire

she wonders for a moment what to do

then looks again from here to there

and back again

and seeing no one there

she sucks her thumb

and hugs her bunny tight

and does not speak or dare

a tear or smile

but holds the cares

that come from being small

and left alone at such an age

in the same way she holds

the aging rabbit at her breast

and speaks in whispers tender words

that hang about the air

like echoes of the echoes of an angel’s prayer

her hair a halo in the falling light

that filters in from windows that ascend

thirty feet up or more

and paint the sunday light of may

in every hue and tint

on the oak benches

and marble floors

she dances in the quiet

like a candle flame come loose

from atop the wax

and crosses her hands as if to pray

and bows before a statue

that seems to smile

and pirouettes before another

that seems to stare

and plays a game

of hide and seek

in the mottled shadows

of the church

with no one there

and after the footfalls

of her hurried steps

have stopped and left

the lapsing moments

in the empty space

to the silent carvings

on the walls

she curls up in

a corner of the church

beneath a stained-glass window

that depicts the mystery of creation

and sleeps a sleep

beyond the reach of dreams

as the last rays of sunlight

setting through the mystery

touch her first communion

Downhill

well the universe appears

under no compulsion

to make itself

understandable to us

and god too

is in no great rush

to let all be known

it’s even worse when

the two get together

as they sometimes do

over a glass of wine

at the end of the day

sharing their observations

about creation splashing

their ideas across the sky

like some fabulous sunset

then everything seems

beside the point

but nothing ever lasts

in this theatre of decline

clouds eventually disappear

there is that light at dawn and

the hill on which we live

continues its joke about

redefining at short intervals

the direction water flows

curving sloping twisting

this way and that

meandering patiently

to the punch line

as it is wont to do

we are an uninspired audience

building improbable gardens

planting unsuspecting trees

our hearts ever hopeful

even when cold water

pools in the wrong place

for a moment reflecting

the names we’ve given

to a few bright dots

of the sky’s wisdom

last night a

fantastic overture

of uninvited rain ended

followed by a gust

of the great north wind

ushering an artic front

clear across february

leaving morning frozen 

flush with frost

so much so

that we had to wait

for a winter sun

to thaw the soil

to uncover

as wet

follows wet

the latest path

downhill

Heather Nightshade

few remember the music

of the oddly named band

for there are no recordings

(except for the wild vibrations bled

into the fabric of everything)

and there are only one or two

still alive who can recount

haltingly without

distortion what it meant

to be part of it then

of heather

of the family ericaceae

the pink and purple

brush of the moors

long since domesticated

into cultivars

that pay a certain homage

to their medieval lineage

of nightshade

of the order solanales

with the lavender

flowers and the black

berries poisonous

hallucinatory

conjuring images

of the witch

with her cape

and the dark age

that follows

of the small band

committed to the

reverberation

of chords plucked

from the strings

of their guitars

to the harmony

of their voices and

the haunting prayer

of the lone singer

to the name

stitched from

the two flora

that grow together

it is told

like life like death

upon the heath

from abandoned gardens

from muted hillsides

descending to the

rutted roads and

muddy byways of

the scottish highlands

these days

showmen

are all

ambition

untethered

from

conviction

but back then

in those lost hours

in the dying city

by the river

in the candle-lit dark

art was all

conviction unspoiled

by ambition

or any strategy

we can recall

to make it last

La Crème

i lived my life

without the joy

of la crème

preferring my tea

black

then later

green

never acquiring

the taste for the aromatic

coffees

sipped by

the bold partisans and

worldly parisians

wearing hats and scarfs of wool

in restaurants and small cafes

along the maze

of tiny streets scattered

beneath the gargoyles

of notre dame

missed la crème de la crème

that floats to the top of the top

of the bohemian best

the simultaneously

sweet and sour fragrance

that reminds me

on those mornings

when i travel

of the bounty with

which i’m blessed

from the choices

i have made

and the consequences

of those selections

from the menu

for what i’ve missed

The Table

who remembers

when the seeds of

these ancient trees

first sprouted only

the grasses were there then

our new kitchen table

is an old table

reconstructed as it is

from salvaged boards

from the walls and stalls

of disassembled barns

from the floors of

abandoned houses

from frames of forgotten

churches and worn pews

masterfully planed and sanded

shaped mitered piece by piece

by an unnamed craftsman’s hands

a universe frozen in

stained and polished wood

waxed to a brown-red hue

rings wormholes

warps splits imperfections

deep grains counting

the years restored

to a semblance of grace

who now recalls

parts of the table

as living oak

on a windswept hill

at a time when

neither land 

nor sky conceived

from all the mischief

what version

of events

would follow

for us there

were lives

before this life

in which we struggled

to persevere

without the knowledge

we might be

born again

for us there will be

lives after this life

where we might

celebrate our strange rebirth

with no memory of before

but now brimming

with each new grievance

weighted by the fat

of our daily indulgence

there’s only what remains

of this truncated life

sharing dinner

at the old table

drinking good-enough

red wine in silence

a wind we

cannot name

long ago blew

sawdust from

each truss and joist

the joiner’s saw

cut through

termites swarm outside

in the first lingering

warmth of spring

and in the damp

behind the walls

carpenter ants

uncurl from their

black winter balls

begin to chew anew

their way through veins

of dried lumber

to the heart of our

repurposed wood

Notes of the Wind

on this most solemn anniversary

of the destruction of the towers

summer is giving way again to fall

the northwest wind

is moving slowly up the valley

between the ridges

checking the ties and stakes

on the trees we planted just yesterday

admiring the sturdy posts

and foundation of the house

gently nudging

the shutters

and the latches

on the wooden doors

noting what might be undone

with the coming ice and snow

Firefly

the lawn cutters come

one day each week

and repeat the mow

from the week before

what day is it you wonder

what does it matter any more

in august firefly season ends

yet in a patch of brush

tangled beneath the windbreak

one small green beacon

forges on for just

a few more solitary nights

pulsing like the rhythm

of a faltering heart

it drifts blinks

intermittently to ask

the same question

at the end of these

long summer days

you are left to ask