NADA AND LOVE

I once kissed a star.
But although I believed I kissed stars,
I did not kiss stars.
There are no stars.
When I believed I kissed stars,
I really kissed my hand,
But thinking I was kissing stars,
I did not feel the kiss on my hand.
I not only was not kissing stars,
I was not even feeling the kiss on my hand.
Actually I was not kissing.

 

IL TROVATORE

The ding of anvils
Forge the sunrise.
In the afternoon
It is morning
With a fantasy
Of Gypsies and swords.
Nothing has an order,
Nothing is sacrosanct,
But revenge.
Death plays its drums.
Brother will kill brother.

But the fantasy is weak,
Compare to the after-performance wine,
And her wedding-ringed thin hand
That can lift lives to the actual
Where there is tragedy
Without costumes or high C’s.

 

THE SNOW THAT NEVER FELL


Snows are our myths,
We surmise
Our arms are blued
By cold buds unfolding
Into cold white flowers,
Even when there is no
Sky-fallen white that whirls
And makes the land
An uniformed color.
To explain our isolation
We claim the botany of the skies
The cause for our being alone indoors,
But outside, only a flight of white moths.
The sky mute, not unkind,
Pares its blue fingernails
Before its cloud-framed mirror,
Never looks up or drown,
Right or left, but we
Claim the sky the cause
Of the coldness in our lives.
We know otherwise.

 

ATTILA THE HUN

In cold weather, the birds huddled together,
But we stay apart in sweaters and overcoats.
The thicker the covering over us,
The stronger protection from the other.
Whether it be fate or human nature,
We know every lover is our enemy in camouflage,
An Attila the Hun, out to destroy the other.
Only a siren on reef or rock can save us
From being placed by our lover on a wheel
With spikes so that we turn, bleed, and sing.

 

HOPE IS HIDDEN IN THE HIGH ALPS

At the time of tomb light, shrouds are loud
As the old body shouts in defiance for eternity.
But gray hairs have carved their initials on the tongue.
Hope sits in a blue rocking chair far away in the Alps,
Singing a fantasy for all to hear
About wild women whirling and wheeling at beer bashes.
Hope, indifferent to both the hanging rope and red dress,
Only excites, then disappears into a foggy night.
We, the bold, pull the braids off our shoulders,
Unglove, to stick a bare hand through the cold hours.