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The Bike Ride
photo session
The Tale of the Whales
A Lightness of Being
The Door Harp
Sir Real
Life Forms


The Bike Ride

Riding my bike
along the margins of a poem,
I pass the picket fenced lines,
one ^ by ^ one ^ by ^ one.

Suddenly I apply the brakes
just before the closing couplet.
and retrieve a fallen metaphor
lying in the grass.

There in my hand, I stare at it
and soon look upward
to determine from which stanza it

I plant the kickstand,
remove my protective helmet,
and examine the words
as they begin to
fade in my palm.



photo session

hold that pose!

i now have you in my view finder.
let me capture
the warm lightness
that wafts across
your textured skin.
for all the shadows
draped upon you
are exactly
where they belong.

time has been so kind to you.
every valley,
every rise and fall
of your sweet terrain,
and every smooth curve
of your landscape
is captured by the lens.

always, you are truly in focus
and the exposure
is ideal.
for this is our
exclusive f-stop
and you are the perfect model
of my dreams.

magnificently postured here before me,
in a flash,
i long to render
the essence of this moment,
posing possibilities
once only dreamed.

we’ll need
more photo sessions,
creating new glossies,
as testimonials to our love.
i so wish to be
in your pictures
more often ...

now join me
in my solitary darkroom
to develop
sensual snapshots anew.
later, in the twilight
of our years,
we’ll sit and view
the portraits in
our album ……
side by side.



The Tale of the Whales

Jonah, Gepetto, Ahab and, I
all sentenced to the written page
the bellies of leviathans held
and hold still this captive muse.

Consonant dwellers freedom found
the voweled didn’t fare as well
God’s giant fish coughed up Jonah
Monstro, too, sneezed up Gepetto.

But Melville would not deliver Ahab
Moby Dick devoured obsession
anonymous author , what’s my ending
is there an epilogue in store?

I’m on the Pequod in this bottle
My maker left these strings attached
to this life line tied to nowhere
my pine eye view blurs my conscience.

within the bowels of finite glass
I hear night’s crickets whisper,
Asking me who I really am.
By Jiminy, I sense there’s hope?

Do I feel a cough or a sneeze
coming on to free my soul?
Or do these strings of marionette
Have a harpoons at the other end?

Notes for my helpful interpreters and critics:
(1) Re-read “sentenced”
(2) It is the 150th anniversary of the novel, Moby Dick



A Lightness of Being

Lightness has ceased to ascend
beneath the sweep of the lip, shadowed
by the backwash of submerged dreams,
bubbling relentlessly back to the surface
bursting and dispelling --
as do the memories of a lifetime.

Can an inverted lighthouse radiate
sufficient light beneath ocean's depths
that venturesome divers might
find their way past lusus naturae...
finding horizon's safe harbor?

Betwixt a sub-aquatic life formed
by cerebral synchronized swims
performed to aerate surroundings,
and the boulder depths that had dared
a damsel fish to traverse,
there Moreven and Matthew swim,
fin in hand, seeking the light from
that beacon that beckons, "Be careful,
there are a lot of mean creatures down here."

Determined to dive on her own terms,
her lungs struggle.
Unasked, she is lifted,
and as a mouthpiece is shared,
from lips to lip, she is carried
safely to land
on the promise of her own
universal lightness.



The Door Harp

In an apartment, he lived with us.
A door harp would announce
his coming and going
his going and coming
entrances and exits
upon five strings,
he lived with us.

The bouncing balls
would toll his movements
forth and back
back and forth,
a part of our whole
attached by the music of his walk,
he lived with us.

Now being apart meant silence,
but he still lives within us.
His final passage
from this world
to the next,
went unannounced upon that harp
but he still lives within us.

Now each time
the door harp chimes,
he'll still be a part of the whole
as the strings of our hearts
sing out the music
attached to that life,
for he still lives within us.



Sir Real

I am Sir Real and I was invited to
a sleep-over organic cocktail party
complete with poem sandwiches,
multi-grain bred and raised,
followed by just desserts
and misplaced modifiers.

Together everyone ate Dolly Madison
ice cream and clocks
were melting on
grand pianos;

A discussion pursued on literary subjunctives:
what if
.. Flaubert had conjured up Holden Caufield.
.. Shakespeare had written 32 Star Trek
.. J E P and D had also written the Story of O.
.. there never really was a sled named

Everyone retired,
but sleep alluded me.
An iron-clad griffin had perched itself
above my chamber door
making anti-semantic remarks
about the sin tax
another imposed on my own free verse
a run on sentence
was imposed on this poet
unable to receive absolution
from the holy water
from the stream of consciousness
that runs behind
the backyard of my mind.



Life Forms

I wasn't meant to understand it:
  A ripple, then a curl,
  crashes down into foam on the sand.
  It continues inexorably to its end...
  eventually disappearing back into itself.
  Another, then another and then still another
  will follow,
  faithfully forever depositing
  lifeform remnants
  misnamed in death...

You were meant to understand it:
  An idea, then a pearl,
   ages into a poem from a grain of sand,
   inexorably strengthened by time.
  As I look back into myself,
  I will bring forth another, then another,
   and then still another   
   will follow, forever faithfully depositing
  lifeform remnants in my name
  before I wave goodbye.