CHRISTINA’S WORLD

  

He labored on that wintry hill for months,

And contemplated her in her pink dress:

Her crippled arms and hands against the grass,

Just like a faded lobster shell or conch

You might find on a beach somewhere. Her strength

Has ebbed forever from the useless legs

That drag behind her, trailing like the dregs

Drained back into the bottle from one’s mouth.

 

She never reaches home across the field

That mocks her with the world’s infirmity

With which desire claws and crawls to be,

Yet faints before a gulf that is too wide

To conquer. Framed against the ashen sky,

The farmhouse stares away from what she feels.

 

IMPEACH THE MOON

  

They were out to press charges

As soon as it appeared,

Waxing its way thru the turbulent airwaves.

 

But the Moon had no substance,

And was always changing:

They wanted to nip its growth in the bud,

Before it became all things to all men.

 

They accused it of stealing their sunlight,

Accused it of anything they could devise:

The tides were too low, or too high;

There were too many loonies out on the street;

Too many cars parked on Lovers’ Lane.

 

Any rumor was good enough

For the Special Prosecutor.

He pointed his finger at the Moon

And screamed, “High Crimes and Misdemeanors!”

 

There was hardly time enough

For them to put their case together.

They had to find or make up something

That would blind the billion eyes

That watched its phases with such wonder.

 

Yes, they needed a conviction,

Before the cursed thing slipped away

And disappeared beyond Reasonable Doubt—

And they would have to start all over again,

Investigating their revenge

In the unimpeachable dark of the Moon.

 

CENTERVILLE

 

 Seven pink flamingos,

one for each day of the week,

smirk at every passerby

commuting through your town.

 

Every Halloween they don,

(just for the “hello-ween” of it!),

those ghostly pillowcases cut

with holes for their painted eyes—

 

mimicking trick-or-treaters,

who wander on their candied ways

to doorsteps where their names are known,

despite their best disguise.

 

     EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE

 

 From dwelling seventeen years under ground

Emerge Cicadas; though unlike the bears,

Whose appetites are keen from lying bound

In hibernation less than half the year.

These insects feed on roots the livelong while

It takes to raise our children to High School;

Keener than adolescents to beguile

The season with romantic interludes--

And much more focused. Rising from the earth

They beat the eardrums with their venous wings,

While news reporters weary us to death

With recipes to cook and eat the things.

(Our Governor himself has fancied them

As colored like the flag of Maryland!)

 

          EAGLE LAKE VIEWED FROM

CADILLAC MOUNTAIN, MOUNT DESERT

  

This oil on paperboard, by Frederick Church,

Is like a window facing toward the west.

A cross of light descends toward the crest

Of tiny Mount Katadhin--out of reach

Of eye and mind, where Nature is not etched

Upon the time and space of Intellect,

And thus composed aesthetically, and set

In order, as the German sages teach.

 

This evening, through this window, Eagle Lake

Spreads deep and clear; quiescent and yet wild.

Before us comes a mother, whose boy child

Descends the ruddy rocks and spiny brake--

While she alone sits gazing down below

At worlds of airy bubbles that she blows.

 

THE FAMILIAR

  

Peek-a-boo, old friend! I see

you’ve waxed yourself to the full,

beside the right triangle

of the Best Buys store this evening.

 

You dance upon the phone poles

beside me on the highway,

and pole-vault with the aerial

when I turn the steering wheel.

 

Tonight before I doze off,

you’re peering thru venetian blinds,

where shadows stripe the shoulders

of the woman lying next to me.

 

          CHINCOTEAGUE

  

I called to the wild ponies of the Sun,

But cormorants and egrets came instead;

The latter standing still as space in creeks

On one leg while the other yellow foot

Seductively allured the foolish fish;

The cormorants choked down their prey with haste,

Not making any effort to be still.

A herd of ponies kept too far away,

Reduced to half the size of my thumbnail

Beneath a group of trees across a field.

I gave up on the thought of ponies then,

And sauntered through the marshes on a trail

That teemed with butterflies and goldenrod,

The Atlantic splashing like a baby’s bath

Upon the other side of the sand dunes,

Where “No Trespassing” signs forbade my feet.

The sika deer revealed themselves to me,

If only for the sake of the wild grass

They munched so heartily. I stood beside

One fellow, and he sniffed at me a while

Before deciding I was not his food.

Behind me the old lighthouse, still in use,

Was twirling its red ribbons up and down

Against the white sheath wherein my sore legs

Ascended steps one hundred ninety eight,

And my un-osprey-like blue eyes surveyed

The island refuge for the pony herds

Beneath the blue immense October sky.

The ponies stayed aloof. Endangered squirrels

Ran out in front of me as I slowed down

The car to meet the posted rate of speed.

I lingered on those shores those golden days

Till time became an issue, and I stood

Upon the beach to say goodbye to all

The creatures of my fancies. What a sight

Delayed me there beyond my scheduled hour!

The horses danced before me in the waves,

And frolicked with each other--just as close,

Or far away, as any sight one sees

Arising from the ocean of the Mind!