S O L S T I C E 2 0 0 9

Definitely!  Those grackles on 

     the deck sound like mynah birds!  

Old salts celebrating 

     the oil-slick boat slips and 

channel marsh at sunset.  

     Vinegar fries and your thighs 

nestled in mine at Cap'n 

     Sunfish's, the old clock tower 

in the west is just a shadow, 

     and in the east, as the lake chill 

blows in, and the fishing boats 

     sputter in on low choke, marsh 

geese natter and complain, the 

     boozehounds here are happy on this 

midsummer night braying, cackling, 

     lowing, whinnying,  you can 

see the stars radiant in their 

     faces, these cake eaters!, 

the wind behind their eyes swirling 

     like the heavens, water stirring 

in the reeds, their souls.  And so 

we are reborn, naked and sensual, 

drunkards, philosophers, swingers, 

     refugees, survivors of the 

hunt a wumpus, the ancien

     regime.  

 

AFTER THE RAIN

After watching the tugboats 

     pushing time around 

          the river's mouth and eating 

jambalaya, we headed back   

      to work on the riverwalk

           talking of poetry and soul, 

the voice of the human spirit, 

     and it was then, sizing up 

          all the boats moored at the slips 

that we saw the floating 

     milk bottles, the water-logged trees, 

          the used rubbers, and then 

the bloated rat floating 

     on his back, a buoyant blimp, 

          his feet rigid, delicate and 

exquisitely chewed clean, 

     his shriveled tail limp  

           bobbing in the slow current.

MORNING INCIDENT WITH ROBIN

Yesterday I was on the deck 

reading the paper, drinking

 

my coffee, the usual usual, 

when I heard the thump, then the 

 

crash, a copper-headed robin,

it just missed my glass bowl of yogurt

 

and blackberries, he lay there, stunned,

 staring at me, shrugging his shoulders. 

I knew he would die.  There was no use

 getting up, no use calling anyone,

the crash was too hard.  Sure enough, 

in exquisite silence, he rolled 

 

on his back, gasping but not 

gasping, blind, wings thrashing 

idiotic.  Then his legs stretched 

and stiffened and his claws 

curled like tiny fists.  We sat there 

as the sun warmed us.  I thought of 

my friend I’d talked with the night before, 

how we’d perched in the fading sun 

until the lake chill claimed us, and words

didn't matter.  She was seeking

 

a window to crash in to,

and I was  thinking Hey, 

C'mon, straighten up and fly right.

DREAM OF DESIRE

I dreamt of the two girls 

making love in the cottage, 

all of the windows open, 

the sun gentle on their 

bodies as they frolicked, 

lace curtains billowing 

with every slow delicious 

tortured breath.  It was my job 

to witness, to circle 

the cottage, snaking through 

lake weeds, and try not to spy

on their lascivious wrestling, 

how they clutched and stroked  

with ardent fire, how their 

Innocent fingers and toes 

splayed on the sheets.  

I tapped my temple and 

tried to bury myself 

into the pleasures of 

ontology, gratifications 

of ruminating sophistries,

the still life of succulent

peaches and the sweet 

indulgence of syntatic 

sibilance.  And when they 

were finished they stood 

on the porch all spent and 

bent naked, satisfied 

and leaning against serenity.

The one with lavender hair 

grabbed her cheeks, still wet with 

lotus-eating and love-tears -- 

as if to wipe away her joy -- 

and then she peeled back her skin, 

slowly unzippering her flesh 

to reveal, like a chrysalis, 

herself, her stunning perfect 

nakedness, and I stopped 

to admire this miracle 

of becoming, her shoulders 

and breasts baring themselves 

to the sun's sweetness, and 

when she shrugged herself free 

from this soul-slip, this enraptured

suit of honeysuckle 

tongues, she invited the lake's 

stray dog to munch on her penis, 

to devour those wet petals 

like a chewy caramel 

while her strawberry-blonde 

lover looked on, in mild 

amusement, almost 

amazement, smiling at me 

as if I'd never know 

their pork-pie serets, 

their bald-faced lies and 

surely their cocky lustre.