|
Daybreak unfolds
like an unexpected dollar -
while break
ing fast I budget my morning
down to its last bright penny
_______________
Picking up the dime
from the sidewalk she shows
the bird nest
between her breasts -
and then her beard
_______________
The wee crystal ball
from my son's marble bag -
the whole of those
muddy, moisty, green-veiled,
pussywillow days
_______________
Hearing your fame
on the radio, I go
walking streets of leaves -
longing to see you, I ache,
having no success to speak of
_______________
All morning
the mood of the otherwise
forgotten dream -
the backs of maple leaves
turned silver under water
_______________
Staring at
the kitchen linoleum,
I can still find,
after all these years,
a familiar face or two
_______________
At twilight the flame
in the bush is candlelight
caught by the window -
nothing more, nothing less
- is what you make of it
_______________
Again tonight
along the color ribboned river
I feel its frail insistence -
this hunger, tissue thin
behind my breastbone
_______________
Stark from the shower
to answer the phone,
she dons a robe
of the finest distance . . .
the girl with spring desire
_______________
And the autumn woods
so lovely that you want
but don't know what it is
you want -
it only makes you sorry
_______________
Looking down
on that distant page
of meadow -
a railroad train straight as a sentence
and I too mountain high to read its noise
________________
In the face
of the approaching pedestrian,
I see something,
something to wince about -
then hear the crash behind me
________________
We did what we could
read their letters, figured their taxes
good neighbors they -
now just a cellar hole
and the lilacs in spring
_______________
In his tree house,
red as the rose that newly sprung
this June
he blooms with shame -
having blurted out his secret
______________
It's something
to realize you're nothing
to somebody else -
blue smoke rising
from a farther hill . . .
_______________
Bittersweet in such plenty,
an orange-and-yellow mist
that wants telling . . .
if she will not answer my letters
if she will not
_______________
Looking up, I gaze
at the faded reds and golds
of an autumn hillside -
the story in the old tapestry
not at all what I remembered
________________
To the east
the fiery windows of sunset,
in the slush at the curb
a dead pigeon . . .
what's done is done
_______________
Along the winter streets,
the lifeless streets
of yellow window lights
and leafless trees, I pass
- a click of cleats
_______________
Her skirt brightens
in the sunlight at the door -
quick! quick!
her scissor shadow
cuts me through
_______________
Selling flowers, she wears
nothing but the briefest briefs
beneath her dress -
but her snippy way withers
my fine bouquet of notions
_______________
We argue,
yet this other sharing
of our differences -
such sweet
pornography!
________________
Standing in the green-dusk
of the woods looking out -
how bright the meadow . . .
how odd this reluctance
to step into brilliance
_______________
As twilight gathers,
the white boulder in
the stone fence
grows luminous -
some things take a lifetime
_______________
When I think
that we may never
meet again . . .
this hillside of aspens
endlessly fluttering
_______________
This bit of woods
its hush, its russet carpet so smooth -
enchanted it seems -
if there was one thing
we might have agreed upon . . .
_______________
These first cool nights
a neighbor burns apple wood . . .
it's not so much memory
that comes wafting back,
as a trace of legend
_______________
Cold stars, white moon,
the crunch of snow underfoot -
how it pierces
to recall a kindness
rudely refused
_______________
Geraniums in a windowbox,
a young wife leaning out
to tend them -
when did my heart
become a fist?
________________
A wicker of branches
holds the bluish fog
of a December afternoon -
again, in the flat below
a woman is weeping
_______________
Frost-stars on the window,
hills in the purple distance . . .
if I thought
it'd do some good I'd rave
of things invisible to see
_______________
A thistledown floats
over grass and Queen Anne's lace
this yellow afternoon . . .
and what have I to do
with tumultuous times?
_______________
A drizzly day,
with yellow leaves pasted
to wet black pavement -
returning the library books
she left behind . . .
________________
A flickering
uncertainty, this candle
teased by a draft -
somehow I just don't feel
like sharing anymore
_______________
In the night-fog,
a yellow bruise
where the streetlight was -
any truth is better
than indefinite doubt
________________
Reaching up,
she touches the first lilac bloom
of the season -
"Even if I'm meditating
let me know when you leave"
________________
Using the wind
by allowing the wind
full play -
this butterfly--not much more
than a folded piece of paper
________________
In maple shade,
trying to match mind to pond,
thoughts to trout . . .
this wrong
too often dwelt upon
_______________
I look up from her letter,
my worst fear realized,
just in time to see
a goldfinch leave
the thistle's purple bloom
________________
The tilt
of her head to undo
an earring -
fortresses crumble into
winter moonlight
________________
Her laughter
trails out the window -
a bevy
of blue butterflies over
the moon washed city . . .
_______________
Rorschach tree-scape
and moon fleeced clouds . . .
how unlikely,
against a yellow windowshade,
this perfect female profile
_______________
Fist poised to knock,
I hear two voices within -
the irises nod
and whisper as I retrace my steps
along her flagstone walk
________________
Streetlights
illume the maples
from within . . .
was it so much, my love,
to expect the truth?
_______________
Eyes squeezed,
the tabby in the bookstore window
sleeps -
I imagine you here,
your arm through mine
_________________
Fast clouds,
autumn leaves swirl
in the street -
I almost sob to see her happiness
wrapped in such a shabby coat
_______________
The girl
could have done better
in White River Junction,
than run into my arms
and the set-
ting
sun
_______________
I've come again
to this oak-gripped bank -
who knows why?
recalling our last time here together,
I watch a red leaf drift out of sight
_______________
As in a singer's song
this stretch of railroad track
diminuendos into distance . . .
the distance
of impossible longing
_______________
In eternity
how can it matter much -
but still,
that dim December afternoon
I might have been there
_______________
At the chapel's plain-glass window
the wind-stirred bittersweet . . .
lately,
and I don't know why,
great age seems unnecessary
_______________
As night takes over,
the chirring of crickets . . .
a knee-high sea
of sound that I
could almost walk upon
_______________
_____________________________________
|
Collected Poems Online:
the longer poems of Larry Kimmel blue pulse (ebook)