Category Archives: Poetry

A Pink Horizon

We know that a red sky [at night]
Portends a clear day [at morning]
What, prithee, does a sky of pink
Foretell? Should we expect our 
Day to show uncertainty rather
Than clarity? Erring [of course]
On the side of delighting sailors?
I tend to think [rather without
Evidence] that the pink is red 
Shivering from the cold, made 
Pale by temperatures too low
For comfort, too high for frost.
Pink sky at dusk, warm up the
Cabin, Captain [and if you must
Sail] wear long Johns and a parka.

In a manner of speaking

When of a sudden I forgot how to
Form a sentence or express my
Thoughts in the language of my
Birth, I felt like the chameleon 
On my great aunt's wall. I had a
New life and a language that 
Consumed me; I had changed. 
I had the words I needed to not
Just fit in but those I use to blend.
Like that small lizard, I blushed
To match the scenery. I took on
The sounds of my adopted place. 
My colors were the broad A's of 
Queens. Translations sat on the 
Tip of my tongue waiting. They 
Would not or could not slide off 
In order to enter the conversation.

Observations

If I could sketch or, paint or,
Build impressive sculptures,
My poetry would be in those.
I mean to say, poetry would 
Be superfluous for me if I had
Those other media to express
My vision of my world. I only
Have words. And I am grateful.
I observe and put it all in my
Words. Little thoughts or Hey
What's the big idea? crop up.
Often they stay around and I 
Can use them to build and
Shape what I have seen or
Done so you can feel it too.
I am sharing the bits and
The scenes, the drama or
The ordinary but beneath
It and out of all that is the
Sensation, the emotion, the
Wanting and the having of 
It all. Of the whole world.

Poetry submissions

Out of the archives

It was hard. I had to resist posting new work to share with you and direct it to the folks on the poetry desk at the New Yorker.

My process, such as it is, has been to let inspiration lead me to a blog draft. There I tweak and rewrite, add flourishes and post an image. I hit publish and share my newly molded words with you, kind and gentle reader.

To meet the criteria for submission, I had to hold back. Rules are rules and the New Yorker accepts only original creations.

My trigger finger may have itched to advance to a self-published state but I mustn’t.

The quartet I created for this project was for the editors’ eyes only. We’ll hear back in maybe 6 months. In the meantime, there’s a large body of work on one or the other of my blog sites that was created like the sample above just for you.

P.S. I am setting aside 5 more poems for another submission to the magazine I love. And working on some poetry to post and share now.

Perspectives

I am reminded of 
Times I envy and
Events I enjoy in
Retrospect more 
Or less than at the
Time. I need to hold
My memories and
Check my experience 
Against a barometer 
Other than time
Passing or time past. 
I am reminded of
What I recall and 
That which slowly
Has changed, or
Stayed the same as
Ever no matter the
Passing of time. My
Time or ours. Point
Of view marks the
Difference in how
We see the past. It's 
A new perspective 
When it's yours than
When it is mine.

The better way

To me, this is the highway 
To heaven, spread out so 
You have to jump from one
To the other like jumping 
Over stepping stones, or in
Tight, marking an ephemeral
Pathway, built of clouds and
Leading overhead, skyward.
Just as we imagine a heavenly
Roadway to guide us, upward
Towards our better or even
Our best selves, this is the 
Highway to heaven. We need
Search, nor yearn, no more

Changes

Looking at old pictures, I am stricken
By how we've changed. Even those I 
Did not know, never encountered but
In photos, are amended as they age.
My mother was so dewy, so fresh as
A girl, as a young woman; that sad 
Speculation in her eyes, now in mine,
Reflected time passing. Her mother,
Staring out of a frame, shows me a
Likeness that pleases me, as much as
My mother's eyes in my mirror do. It
Is heredity, my own, depicted in my 
Face. Even if it is not the same face
I find in that photograph from 1990,
There is something I recognize there.
Something of my own. As we get older
I have said there is something generic
In our appearance. It is harder to hold 
The individuality of youth; harder to
Maintain the vibrance of middle-age.
I am stricken by how we've changed.