Housework

I was simply hanging out the clothes

on a long strung clothes line,

pinning undershirts and winter long johns

with clothes pins in the still cold,

sun lighted air.

There was no rhyme nor reason,

yet I looked up into a sky blue sky,

wisps of inconsequential ice crystals

trailing along negligible winds.

And I thought of you.

There could be no earthly connection,

except the one in my mind.

And the random chance of our first meeting

might never have happened,

and then we looked into eyes

so unmistakably ordinary,

except for whatever happened in our minds.

And did you see the waning moon rising

through bare branches that revealed almost everything

and nothing last night after our guests had gone?

And so early to bed

and late to rise

and awake sometime in the middle

of a night that might never have happened,

except there were plates and bowls stacked,

glasses nearly clinking together by the sink.

There must have been soup and forgettable talk

and leftover apricot bars on the counter.

And as I turned, I saw that you

had forgotten the clementines I had left out for your lunch.

My mind has been filled with sky blue sky,

and love possibly exists in dirty dish water.

Even the plugged-in fire in the fireplace last night,

burned flames only in our imagination.

**

Bonus: Of course, it isn't strictly true, but you can dance, anyway:

Moon Approaching South Park

I like to think of myself as a philosopher-poet. I think, therefore I write. On my good days, I think that I am just a poet.

I am beginning to believe that poetry is nonsensical – that is that it cannot quite be defined in sensical or other more or less rational cognitive terms. Which means that if I get poetry into my writing, I may not quite know how it actually got there. I do aim to write poetry, however, because aiming seems to improve my chances of hitting something. And it is poetry that I aim for because I enjoy poetry when I read or hear poetry, even if my logic seems a little circular. But if I try to write a grocery list, for example, it just seems more prosaic than poetic. And still, seeking poetry is no guarantee of finding poetry. Or so I have found.

In this collection of poems and word sketches I have thought about meaning and about words and about the meaning of words. I have thought that maybe if I try to think more nonsensically, I might manage to find some other sort of sense in places where I wasn’t quite looking. Poetry might be sweet or savory if I could even just catch it out of the corner of my eye. Maybe it lingers or lurks in the empty spaces between the words.

Let’s face it, folks. Some days I’m just a would-be poet. And even my thinking doesn’t always amount to much. And yet, poetry exists. And me. Or I? It all makes me wonder, sometimes.

You can order ‘Moon Approaching South Park’ at Amazon.com. Some copies are available for $10 cash at Aimee’s coffee shop or directly from me if you live near by. I will willingly barter with you if you have something to offer that I want, but please don’t try to offer me live chickens or goats. It would turn out to be a bad deal for the animals. Does anyone want to do windows for a book, perhaps? I’m just asking.

Some of the poems and word sketches have been published before, but most appear for the first time in this collection. I thank you for your attention to my work. I do think that there is some poetry in my words. And some nonsense. If you think that you can tell the difference, please let me know by carrier pigeon or with a note in a bottle. Email or picture postcards might be a last resort.

Here is the last and possibly the shortest poem from ‘Moon Approaching South Park’:

Sensical, anon.

Poor old Bert,

he has let his mind go

free and easy as pie

and pumpernickel.

But, she exclaimed,

it has no rhyme

and reason is severely

lacking.

And then a further

argument of what

poetry should be

ensued.

or cut bait

If you intend to fish for poetry,

you should get up pretty early

and stay out quite late.

A nap anytime almost never hurts.

Patience is important:

a walk can be too fast,

though it is rarely –

almost never – too slow.

But poetry streaks

at the speed of light

and yet it lurks just as well

in the stone cold stillness.

Once a poem slipped through

my dripping fingers

because I had left

my paper and pen at home

and there were unpatched holes

in my net.

I’ve probably jinxed myself

by saying too much,

but it’s not a matter of superstition.

And luck isn’t merely

a matter of luck,

but it’s hard to know in advance

which effort will be worth the time.

The question is something to think about

when you have nothing better to do.

You could – I suppose – say that about poetry.

often itself a kind of question,

but that would likely be a waste of words.

Poetry might be a will o’ the wisp;

it might be granite.

Poetry might be pink socks;

it might be galoshes.

But who wears galoshes

these days?

I’ll say this –

though it goes without saying -

that poetry is not about the words,

but it is entirely about the words.

If there is a melody or a tune,

it must be in your head –

or maybe an errant tuba

or something.

Maybe it’s the crescendo

or diminuendo in the cracks

on the concrete sidewalk.

Flip a coin

and watch it roll

into the storm drain

that flows to the river.

Poetry waits.

You can fish –

or cut bait.

Sky colored river

Blue gray clouds

edged in yellow,

leaking, spilling,

streaking radiance;

holes beneath

rimmed in mango,

perhaps in peach,

dripping.

Colored sky - river

splotching, bluing,

blurred below,

rippled white path

breaks through

melted ice.

Oh very young, what would you leave us this time …

- see Cat Stevens

It is after midnight and my trek takes me near. Looking across a deserted study, chairs facing a blank and silent screen, a feline form rises against a bright night sky as if one approaches from across a great distance. Rita, a house cat, watches out across the way, motionless, musing the night.

The young woman last night was fully animated as she told me of her feelings when a mouse had scurried across the floor, her feet pulled up, her knees hugged tight against her chest. Then we pondered the question of acquiring another house cat. Her cat was just too fat, bowlegged from carrying so much weight and of little use in such pouncing. And I, with brilliant or merely fortuitous timing, said a word and she laughed so hard that

her nose fell off.

Well, surely I exaggerate. And in a thousand years it will not matter anyway.

The riddle of the Sphinx may not have been the riddle of cats and mice; the question that we pondered may never have been answered. And the ones that followed us into the new year about men and women may forever lie watching.

But in the fading night we rocked in our wooden chairs, our eyes flashing a timeless joy for a few moments.

Now Rita has come around and pounced up into my lap, the rattle in her throat gradually quieting, my hand barely tracing her ardent spine.