April: wild Jack was in his pulpit,
wrapped in a leafy hood and hidden
from our view, preaching a foul sermon
that attracted only pollinating flies to him.
September: transformed into too-early poisonous Christmas ornament.
The Moon Is An Errant Thief
stealing her white light from the Sun,
lighting its cool, pale fire to hearts
on Earth and attracting emotions like waves
breaking at our feet and distant shores.
This bewitched light that shows your nakedness.
[Allusions here to Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens:
“The sun ’s a thief, and with his great attraction / Robs the vast sea; the moon ’s an arrant thief / And her pale fire she snatches from the sun…”]
In Media Res
and then she turned sharply to me
and said, “Do you still love me?”
as if this was on the quiet path
where we were slowly walking our words.
Not from fears or doubt , but anger.
Purple Martins
They came to us as early spring,
and like Labor Day beachgoers, they left.
Off to the top of South America,
following the warmth. Snow birds. Senior citizens.
Frequent flyers, amassing miles for next year.
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Mirror Image
That new poem you wrote about me,
is about you. Not all ars poetica.
Art of the self. Me in you.
Looking in the mirror can be dangerous.
That reversed reflection looks so damned real.
Woman Standing in Front of a Mirror, 1841, by C.W. Eckersberg
