Washington D.C. Poem
Winter morning,
twenty-degrees of cold and grey,
outside there’s no snow, only silence,
in here I drink bad coffee
with quick sleepy thoughts
in a warm bed,
out there in the world
men and women walk to work already
looking for everything or just a meal,
many missed by no one
or forgotten or wanting to be forgotten,
and I’m here in the East Coast
writing this, reading Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara,
laughing at these wistful nothings…
A poem inspired by my reading of the great Scottish poet Norman MacCaig
Ignorance
I remember standing quietly on winter rocks
looking out to the Pacific,
a child
in El Salvador
near La Libertad, the port of liberty,
where I was had sandy beaches in summer
but winter brought a stretch of rocks
and silence,
Standing there
that morning, watching birds
I couldn't name
playing and diving
Into the blue playground
I smiled at my ignorance.
OXFORD
Sitting on a bench
several leaves fall
one by one
expressing great disdain
for this cold Oxford summer’s day,
the smell of rain comes
and I write
between the taste of coffee
and the loneliness of trees.
THE SCARS OF POETRY
Empty shot glass left on the bar
whiskey gone
and now for the silence
that will walk me home,
maybe I’ll hum some old tune
or quote some poems,
perhaps it will be Edward Thomas
meeting his destiny at the “borders of sleep,”
or Stephen Spender will chat with me
about "The very great,”
I’m sure I’ll pause to ask the night questions
about the clouds above me, or memories of Frank O’Hara
may come as well, his parties and a New York City poetry long asleep,
maybe I’ll hear the sound of a pretty voice
coming down from an apartment high above,
filled with the cadence of love and beginnings,
or maybe an old line I’d forgotten
might remind me to collect my yesterdays,
regardless of all that I’ll have company
but not the kind that leaves lipstick on my cheek
and shirt but just scars across the heart.
Untitled
Morning hour
deepens the communion
with silence,
no raindrop
no wind
here,
no face
no voice
to chat with,
just clouds
and winter dreams.
FOR KIM
(After Frank O’Hara)
I would write you a letter, yes old school,
if
I knew your address
in the darkness of sadness,
but
You left only a date
in my journals, a wistful dismissive
ending
So, I’ll write that letter on this sidewalk,
among the dirt and grit of loneliness…
ABSTRACTION
I sit alone with the memory of love
and rain falling outside,
it could be an abstraction of something deeper
something that Camus might have written
reflections along the fences of memory
and suffering
on a page
on a word
on a face,
But that too is nothing, there’s just this silence
with a long line still unwritten
but thoughts try to find their moorings
without tears,
seconds passing
to more rain
to hot coffee.
