IL PAGLIACCIO

—for Oscar Wilde—

Come,

Let me hold you warm—

For the winter wind

Plays round the door

And the hounds run wild

In the streets tonight

It is not safe

To wander the mists

In the snow tonight…

But—

Wait!

You are not the man I called

From the night.

He is the elegant

Clown who charms

Such self-laughter

From our blind hearts,

Then soothes our slighted egos

With hints of bright hereafters.

He is the man

I called from the howling night.

He is the man I knew.

He did not have eyes

That have looked on hell

Nor a life to break my heart.

 

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I COULD SING TO YOU

I could begin my seduction

With a gyro undulation

To a spicy salsa rhythm

Or, with my loneliness

Circling you, smoky-throated

In the slant of blues and jazz

 

Then, too, my so brief happiness

Glittering on the air might dance

With ragtime syncopation

 

Perhaps my sorrow dragging

Across the air or your soul

Might wail in a minor gypsy tune

 

Yes, I could sing to you.

But would you hear?

Would you care?

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THE LYRIC FOR WEEKDAYS

1920

This is the way we wash our clothes

So early Monday morning

2020

Monday? No, no, Saturday or Sunday

Or, when desperate, any week night

 

1920

This is the way we iron our clothes

So early Tuesday morning.

2020

Iron? Wash and wear, please.

Cleaners, maybe. Don’t own an iron.

 

1920

This is the way we sweep our floors

So early Wednesday morning.

2020

Robot vacuum, everybody

Sweeps everything while you’re away.

 

1920

This is the way we mend our clothes

So early Thursday morning.

2020

Can’t sew. Never learned.

Toss or give away, maybe a tailor?

 

1920

This is the way we clean our house

So early Tuesday morning.

2020

Pay the cleaners to come twice per month

In between just manage emergencies.

 

1920

This is the way we bake our bread

So early Saturday morning.

2020

Doing laundry, no time to bake

Bless the supermarkets’ artisanal breads.

 

1920

This is the way we dress up [for church?]

So early Sunday morning

2020

Laundry again or grocery shopping

Maybe, if all goes well, some fun.

 

And so the rhyme goes on

Nothing really changes

It’s all work, work, work

With a brief pause for breath

At the finish,

Before it all begins again.

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RIDING THE EARTH

I heard today the tide does not roll in.

The Earth itself rolls forward and away

Allowing the oceans to slide above

As if rising higher by sheer will or moon pull.

 

I am stunned to think it is me, standing still

On the sand, sliding toward the sea

Moving slowly to the East or West

Until the sea touches my toes

And never know I am riding that great force–

The Earth in its daily rotation.

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THE GIRL AND THE TREE

Her bare arms clasped the tree,

Its rugged bark pressed sharply

Against her skin.

Deep in the forest,

Tree and girl were one.

No other voice but hers

Stirred the fragrant air.

She tightened her hold

The solid roughness a biting pain

But better than the pain within.

The tree absorbed her tears

Unmoved, unchanged.

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MOMENTS THAT MATTER

Brief moments

Separate from all others

Lessons learned from mistakes.

Where understanding

Bursts into being from light

Filtering through

Trembling leaves in a wood,

Revealing a path at last.

 

That pause when a choice is demanded

But not welcome or easy.

 

A moment of joy—

That brief dance free of the weight

Of duty and survival

Shimmers like glitter in the sky

Of a snow globe,

Catching the light,

Twirling briefly as it drifts

Down to disappear

Into the flatness that hides

That wonder until

The globe is shaken once more.

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HOLD ME

Hold me

just

hold me

 

the way you hold

a child

who comes

to you crying

hoping to find

love

and loving

while learning

to accept the pain.

 

Hold me

that I may know

there is still

love

and loving.

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PINK

Pink has no more heat

Than a single candle

On a birthday cake.

Pink is fragile

As a flower petal.

Hiding

behind a crusty guardian,

Pink is new skin.

Pink is a timid color

And speaks in a voice

Very like a whisper.

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WAS IT YOU?

For a moment

In the mist

Almost a shape

A shadow

Undefined

Was it you

Remembering me?

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SPLIT FRIENDSHIP

In a gentler hour

Not needing to hide from light

I see truer colors

Some almost hurtful in

Their brilliance

And others whose shadings of subtlety

Are not visible

Behind tinted polarized glass.

 

Ah, dearest friend,

Though there are, gentle hours

When I see you

As clearly as you might wish

To be known,

It is also true

That these moments are too few

To permit a real friendship.

Your love of me is unique:

For you are my mother,

And needing you so to always be,

I most often see the woman that you are

In the shelter of a vision

Colored by your mother love

And polarized by the child in me.

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