Poetry
Old age does not happen slowly but all at once, in the head. The body takes its time getting there, but the mind, clinging to youth flashes suddenly — behaving as if it were still …
Jazz is there and gone. It happens… That simple. — Keith Jarrett Scent of Shalimar, perfume from my youth. No one wears it anymore, but someone does tonight and it’s a jazz smell — sultry …
I watch as he tells a woman that her dead mother is on the other side, happy and safe, and the woman is smiling and teary eyed a little and so so pleased and then …
“Why do you wait at your door, woman, Alone in the night?” “I am waiting for one who will come, stranger, To show him a light. He will see me afar on the road And …
Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have set us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at …
Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread; Now that I am without you, all is desolate; All that was once so beautiful is …
I have been informed that in New York City, At the corner of Broadway and 26th Street, Every evening during the winter A man solicits money from those passing by So a few homeless souls …
All night I wrestled with a memory Which knocked insurgent at the gates of thought. The crumbled wreck of years behind has wrought Its disillusion; now I only cry For peace, for power to forget …
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and …
Do you know me? I am the blonde in the white convertible. Have you seen me cruising up the coast on a mango day? Top down, honeydew bandana holding back my hair, juicy fruit lips …
A boy with a shaved head and a wiry girl, black ponytail trailing, flash past the window on this perfect May afternoon, Monterey a purple outline across the bay, like the slope of a thigh …
While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire, And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens, I sadly smiling remember …
Through the yellow roses on the coffee table I peer at the ball game, tired of Whitman, tired of wanting to be great. “Holy cow,” roars the announcer, “walk him walk him,” Dad hollers, my …