SIMONE WEIL'S LAST WORDS

The raindrops on Sunday
resume to fall on your roof
perspiring at the wellspring
from her last words
in her vocation
were as a fathom of letters
swaying under her raised arms
carrying a knapsack's
spiritual cover of her volume
from an bas-relief of leaves
of an art's phantom photo
on your commentary in the Illiad
of a hushed lover Patroclus
looking over Achilees
from a larger parting cloudy sky
children are rushing by the river
for a frisson of laughter's
leaping faith of excitement
Simone stares at
her opinion's proof
that the wind touches us
by smiling at our belief
that God has not abandoned us
after confessing your sin
when you heard the flocks
of birds sing a chorus
away from demon hawks
haunting gulls at their nest
as a branch leaf trembles
on water drops faintly warm
by the sea rocks on the beach
reaching out to the sand
for shells in her skeleton hands
emerging soon as shadows
in this mirror of afternoon
hearing church bells
far from guns and weapons
not welcomed anywhere
during the storms of Occupation
as a night exile in the country
writing between imagining
Janus and Jesus
on an island with bread crumbs
content amid vigorous sun dunes
you are self martyred
whose praise remains with us
as ransom with your insight
always feeling like a wanderer
or a stranger than a mystic
a contrary philosopher
or literary critic
to atone in your own convent
with a new horizon for saints
by bright argent stones.

EVA HESSE
(1936-1970)

You survived fascism
in Germany
and came to America
on a short journey
to discover art
and sculpture
of which you were
a master of minimalism
staking her own part
in the free forms of culture
we will remember
those flexed circles and squares
in latex and bric a brac
and gorgeous fiber glassware
you could cut with a knife
of which only now
discover who you were
and not pass over
that we were unaware
how a new art was conceived
that which we take to heart
from Eva Hesse in our culture
to share and retrieve
your wonderful sculpture,
you fearfully became part of us
in your brief precious life.

JASPER JOHNS VIEW


Jasper Johns
changed how we view
the business of his pop art
as he is listening on the radio
in a confluence of music's part
introducing a new language
beyond the classical
screened for our critical age
spawned a lyrical minimalism
as in John Cage's technical part
who opened up to me in his studio
with a jazz solo number vibrating
in attraction of eternal magnetism
by greeting and speaking to me
of his blistering personal romance
now trembling on the piano
with its skull of Hamlet
let loose with words of meaning
'To be or not to be,"
for his reality show rehearsal
as well in our dancer's meeting
in flow free expression's heart
when Merce Cunningham
starring in a solo performance
emerges from his own life span
landing on a new form of rehearsal
covering a horizon
of the outdoor stage
that all the stops were changed
and altered by a rocking sound
of the Sixties underground
from a wide range
of our distraction still slams us
as live  trip wire
of extended witnesses
in art, music, poetry's satisfaction
when at a party in the Big Apple
tears drop from our eyes
as we question what we saw
or when we wrote of our times
our rendered words recognized
now by quoted by millions
from realized open pavilions
in San Francisco Beat time
from a flawed yet exciting era
expecting a call of many changes
casting all art chimes to meet us
as we chant with a recital dance
when John Cage's cow bells ring
by shimmering rhythmic feet
from a past of preferred professions
to a new era of liberty for us
where we were once all merged
in a chorus to belong
for we poets wish no longer
are to be lyrically estranged
from a choral song
but represented in part
as in Homer's oral tradition
from the ancients' throng
in a show boat floral procession
with questions to follow
on a displaced float
getting an answer on canvas
stayed on a variety of location
as to why art was directing you
Jasper, to monitor, install
and capture innovation as we recall
your vocation in our celebrity
cultural society for all
representing an art of  tomorrow
on our corridor's graffiti wall.

A FRIEND FROM ASPEN

With Beth a friend
and former student
invigorated by a mile run
raises a poetic glance
with an open ended smile
despite her accident
in another marathon
a while ago in Aspen
holding a bunch of flowers
now here in Boston
always wise
with the right answers
in class to analyze
she messages her knees
as a former ballet dancer
after our brunch is done
with red wine
and hot butter croissants
of Danish cheese
as she collects her breath
in an hour's exercise
others spot her sunning
by the vines of trees
to wish her success
as a champion runner.

SECRETS OF LOVE

The lost at sea from the shore
as sleepwalkers on the plank
cannot fold back day dreams
ship shaped on the ocean
rolling on the forward waves
tossed over by oars in midstream
from a May day call in the sun
with blankets to mask themselves
to wait in the docks shade
hearing the bells listening
over the Cape's church
to escape confession's closure
for what they have done
or how they have behaved
and hide their exposure
by dreaming of us
in the long sun
yet on the dock give thanks
awaiting to search the Caribbean
for Baudelaire's and Coleridge's
albatross over the bridge
as jazz players poets and sailors
often trodden down
or crossed out by life
among these rocks
wishing for love secrets
not judged by effect and cause
awaiting for double knots
of strife and trouble along
the softened ocean spectrum's
direction of the weather's flaws
about us the twin albatross' wings
hiding and biding time like Esau,
jealous for his lawful heritage
from his just brother Jacob
or in his criminal inheritance to wage
life's awesome double -mindedness
but we search for juice of carob
on these leeward islands
expect to be blessed by God
in our forward direction,"West",
to be saved like a bird's feather
from a wandering rainy journey
of kindly saints to launch us out
who sing over our sailing perfection
covering from the belonging nest
in the amazing wellspring of nature
by a chance to wish for rest
over the fishers riverbed
we hope to be delivered
egged on by a shivered connection
with a crown reserved for kings.

SPRING DAYS

Spring days
when the sunshine of reverie
shadows the ocean waves
consoles and bends me down
to try to make up
for a lack of exercise
on my landless exiled back
having a laughing wonder
that a bard survived
all the surprising
starry blizzards and storms
in a winter of rough
breathless snow
now in a binocular sunlight
over a long ship wrecked night
swayed by winds on  every side
now eagerly watching upon
my orange kayak
a weary poet behaves
with guts and grace
in open palm and hand
watching mirrored faces
of swimmers and fishes
will also return to these waters
along the deep corridors
off the wellspring of the Cape
Poseidon appears on the Bay
suddenly with his wife Amphitrite
in Ovid's imagery with their son
hidden with Triton
his son among mermen
and twelve pagan deities
with shoulders barnacled
having a gold arm band
carrying a  cold conch shell
he blows like a trumpet
in his spiteful mouth
to calm the strong waves
when a sailboat overturns
near the edge of the sandy beach
and two crew souls start to sway
in the handy arms of their oars
yet rise to reach me
without delay
I am content as a clam
O daughter of mythology
along the imagery of the sea
in the excitement of  early May.

MAY I

May I say, may I
chanting by the may pole
in my sighs and allergies
for the lilacs of spring
as I sneeze on the back porch
here in Vermont
you need not decide
anything today,
just say May I
in any variant of language
across the soccer ball fields
with screams and shouts
in spring's first game
by the morning salt marshes
as you put your back up
it's not your fault or blame
for wanting an enlightened shield
from the insects
on the potted plant
your friends have bought you
as you wonder at the bench
at the French brunch
with a day dream all winter
to enjoy all these gifts
of spinach croissants and cheese
since on the ski lifts
here in Burlington
with this rain and thunder
on the open pavilion
as I play a few jazz riffs
and ask my motionless lips
to let this dawn just play out
and take up all my needs
as sunflowers are falling in
with butterflies
all over the ground
as Linda, a student
of English next door
asks me about a poem
she just wrote and can't ignore
tells me it's like love
an adjusted
and carefully timed atom bomb
yet she fears to attend
the junior prom tonight
going with Vincent
the boy next door
who out of a lame shyness
of his dyslexic syndrome
masks his real fears
and may be a no go
she is sorry for bothering me
an old friend of the family,
as she starts to cry
wanting to go home
blaming herself
as we eye Vincent
with the soccer ball
who manages a goal
and a magnificent win
for his team even as I tell him
his human choice of a wish
will succeed in athletics
despite his anguish of language
that he will be distinguished\
as he asks for a more fluent voice
which makes for more discipline
as we wish Vinnie well
knowing at his masked age
how self confidence ranks high
when Linda and Vincent thank me
and we all say goodbye.

MAY DAY

On a ship
in perpetual motion
among the salty spells
retelling of my poetry
from trembling footprints
from my clattering snorkels
among jelly tongues and wings
along the mysteries of the sea
my eyes on landscapes
of memory and mercy
circling between oceans
writing this Thursday
in my monologue 's diary
which like Melville's log
sustains me on my journey
as I speak in a Browning dialogue
over maps of Forbes-Burney
exploring light and dark continents
as we move haltingly underneath
the docks along oceans
by a six-gill shark shaped
with locks of teeth
hidden beneath a vampire squid
a draped Atlantic wolfish pair
and a swimming Pacific viper fish
as we were ranged unaware
even with a laughter's monologue
by strange wonderful creatures
moving in a thousand leagues
in thinking of a sax
rhythm and tempo
the waves are teasing us
pirated by drinking truants
as an express call and wish
in an alliance and allegiance of hope
now caught between the energy
of pleasing rains
featured on the pivotal
scales of taut justice
in a call to save the whales, dolphins
mammals and creature
sighted in a bright ice fish flow
knowing that my journeyed
self entangled remains
on my wishful treasured rope
over my environmental journey
by a shelf of poetry
hoping for the horizontal chance
that from their colors and shapes
they will survive and dance
in a clean environmental space
to rescue right whales, turtles
under this gentle bubbling Cape.

SHAKESPEARE 23 2016
(My epitaph)

Your living history is intact
though we do not know
all the facts of your creative
passing time on earth
but for us we will not bury
your talented memory
though even the closure today
of your four hundredth anniversary
many are claiming your legacy
but we know your genius
from your plays as a narrative
in the quality of sonnets, or lines
from rhymes of your divine poetry
we still sing,in this my epitaph
for Shakespeare whether writing
of kings or a reunion with beggars
by laughing with Falstaff
or drinking cups of wine
with everyone
or playing his part and folio
around the table
with Malvolio, a feigned Puritan
pretending he is so honorable
that he has no sin
claims he hates games and fun
under the sun
as a disciplined steward to Olivia,
as Will quivers with baited breath
waits up for Lady MacBeth
to shame her until her death
or weeping with his character Lear
or discovering Hamlet,
Laertes' daughter
with Ophelia's tears
that brings us close to the stars,
today there is still regret
from the world's amnesia
after our trespassing years
which seems but a day
yet there is always pleasure
for Shakespeare never done
from an open clever departure
of you in our leisure of the stage
who never will culturally age
this anniversary afternoon
at the bard
of Stratford upon Avon's
fulfilling voice
we sing kyrie elison
in the dawn of
our multi-culture time
yet bestowing his lexicon
in full choice of disclosure
as the moving of the sun
or in a contrary passing
of a turning blood red moon
we act in yearning scenes
learning your precious odes
in his nomenclature
among your strenuous choice
in delicious repast moments
in the wit of Measure for Measure
feeding us food of the gods, ambrosia
along the river bed neighborhoods
to deliver you a rose of Sharon
from your literacy shed
at the Globe theater
on the wrathful provocative stage
of your critical language
from your Elizabethan poetic lore
taking a knife to open up
your literary history's heritage
leaving us from Tudor strife
for an unknown country
and offer and urge the span
for us to inherit  your humanity
in a solitary path for literary poets
on every librarian's page
from death to a life story
you own this inglorious stage
in our sorry fate's seclusion
as we play our fiddle
and hear from our partisan chorus
in barren disbelief after
a Will Shakespearean farewell
of a star celebrity we bless
four hundred years to the day
with a dirge under your cover
in the conclusion of our grief
of our reality and confess
urging every gratis of disbelief
for author and lover's vocation
to remember you
who leaves us in middle age
at fifty two
forgetting the funereal view
satisfied at
your invitation's success
in more than a thousand counties
of the English commonweal,
let's largely celebrate this day.

Ni Yulan

You, as a woman, Ni Yulan
won the international award
for courage yet a prisoner
in the Beijing jail
still disabled,
May you be set free
though man may fail you
in your still hours
from troubles for civil rights
your fight for liberty is ours
as you will sit with wonder
under a Yulan Magnolia tree
with a bouquet of flowers.

EARTH DAY
April 22

The ocean needs
to be spring cleaned
bristling with salmon
leather back turtles
and right whales
below the hills shadow
we forge the light
of living bodies
who wish to swim
out in the blue waters
as the sun is out
on the back roads
as climate changes
in the open air
shielding my poet eyes
open in rivers immersed
with man's junk
no wonder
we are in a funk
as my cry on this earth day
gestures my hands
to my sisters and bothers
on my bicycle
that we may see nature
in all its beauty guiding me
through Bays and parks
with a child's enthusiasm
to recycle
full of my sleeves with words
now green to plant
and listen to a nest of birds.

RAPHAEL ALBERTI
(An Elegy)

Undercutting the wonder
of a Spanish translation
whether in Paris, Madrid
or the Argentine
your personality
is as thunder to us
yet close to mine
in its poetic way
will never vanish
in the showering rain
readily reading you
for hours along the Bay
you may please a lover
from the ease
of nature's idiom
or take a critic to cover
in the form of language
discovering a heroic figure
sums up your age, Alberti
in the chronology
as we students
turn the page
of your elegy.

APRIL COLORS
(For Thomas Merton
in memory)

Spring is roughly timed
for this particular sunshine
as a frenzied drone
suddenly falls
from the blurred sky
as a sailor on watch
calls me over me on the beach
I'm reaching for shells and stones
gathering star fish bones
for our souls are often
still bound
by those in dereliction
who have sinned
by speaking fiction against us
whom we forgive
as we look up and live
or as we are reckoned
by a second wind
quickly changing direction
as the weather vane shows
and blows to Oak Bluffs
dazzling in a morning's daylight
by the emerging trees
waiting on weather's contradiction
staring at prisms of a sand pile,
here two children on their knees
once waited to focus
and in one day created
a castle standing very close to me
in the same summer place
of a once St. Joan statue
and St.Nicholas snow man
just a few weeks ago stood
now April colors are in green
will motion us to catch
the guff of a castaway poet
in a French blue beret
along the glassy shadows
moving along the Bay
here on this misunderstood poet's
most favorite bench
stranded as in a lotus position
as a red blackbird sounds
seagulls are in a fullness
of flight
over the Cape's bandstand
as a newly painted gazebo
shines at first light
this writer meditates at dawn
as cicadas are heard along
the kick ball graffiti walls
at the edge of bird song voices
when no longer snow squalls
are heard
by Martha's Vineyard's shore
hoping that red salmon
will soon strike
by the river bed
and snatch over onto
my old fishing rod,
I'm selecting for a Sunday lector
a contemplative prayer
directed to the Holy Ghost
that angels be sent out by God
to protect those along the Coast
as my eye closes
over the anchors of boats
held in these still
uncharted wintry waters
children are watching
an injured swan
now packed away in a crate
in slow motion
by being rescued on the ocean,
as my alto sax blows tunes
of a jazz sonata's improvisation
for an understated gig tonight,
searching to stare at a nest of birds
in the light of my language
of my binoculars clarity,
I'm offering daily bread
for these restless sparrows
hiding over
Maple wood branches
of the gathering homeless
among the beachcombers
St. Francis would bless
I'm watching people go
to celebrate the Passover holiday
at the local synagogue
who have invited me to play
my music at a charity event;
may my riffs be resurrected
live on for a call to life
for all those who reason in an abyss
in a  new season's metamorphosis
addressed from a remnant of spirit
that rises for all from the dead.

REMEMBRANCE
(For Emily Dickinson)

You have not been here
a moment ago
in a resemblance
of enfolded fresh jonquils
when the snow is gone
on the threshold
of the now green lawn
a trove of trees surprising us
with as a single purple crocus
in our April flower bed
emerges by a benefit chance
to focus on us to sum up
a singular lover of words
still with her spirit's momentum
by the Amherst Common
as we visit Emily Dickinson
away from tumultuous crowds
of college students from Maine
and ski country of Vermont
which made this discerning poet
feel the thrill of an hour
of wanting reinvented knowledge
knowing that my annual return
is a pleasant metamorphosis
wanting to bring
more long stemmed violets
for her resting place
above a shower's jet of rain
as one of our prominent
public critics
recite her belief in poetry's lore
facing the sun in a private lane
of learning about her lonely folklore
that all acquainted with her belief
has concealed a reinvented quatrain
we are reacting to this spring
as we seek a season's relief
in the peek of the sun
to primarily view new saplings
that awoke us but not in vain
as turning over a new leaf
sweeping up any earthly deficit
of our authentic memory's revealed
but never fully contained.

 BACK ON TRACK

After a bitter cold season
sitting on a park bench
watching the Boston marathon
yet knowing my running days
are darkly enfolding over
and seeing the college students
speaking Spanish and French
vanish on the finishing line
so many  veteran memories
like the plover scanned
on the Charles river
or the last flowers or first fruits
define my wind of words
in hours to live well
as time passes me over
under the university bridge
fulfilled without swagger
as the young invade my space
rooting for colleagues in Boston
Cape Cod or Cambridge friends
in their miles of the great race
who gave me
their running numbers
on their sweat shirt
so I could watch their run
on the telephone or fax
on the course of patriot's
or tax day
a poet walks by gardens
unhinging clinging vines
in the glorious sunshine
still with a sense of wonder
without a sense of holiday
reading Emily Dickinson
yet knowing her pardon
reaches our pavilion.

MOTHERWELL'S IBERIA NO. 2

We both loved Blake
Picasso and Matisse
as you spoke
of your painting
"Cape Cod"
at the first art lectern
in my adolescence
with your sense of open
spatiality of your soul
from a blue ocean of ink
in graphite and charcoal
all the artifacts and prism
of world culture
in drawing humanity
of the Platonic and Judaic,
minimalism or Sephardic
from primitive to abstracts
pop,graphite or monochrome
and the baroque yet processed
he visits a Spanish home
in time of Civil War
with a personal invitation
now along the mural walls
with fresh
cosmopolitan innovations
vanishing in a cerulean motion
of him hunched over
brushing strokes
in its  cultured totality
drowned in an ocean
a free fall imagination
of the learned from Vienna
or newly found eidetic sound
as  an object d'art in his memory
of burnt siena discerned by critics
fueled by a critic's learned language
outlasting his "Iberia No.2"
ground in deep concentration
from bards like your comrade
Frank O'Hara whose lunch poems
you carry with his poetic mantra
logos, symbol and signature
from the New York school.

UNHINGE ME,EMILY

Unhinge me, Emily
from the past
embrace me
with our family
in a brambles space
where a fawn
seals me in April memory
of his noted presence,
unify me with all animals
muscular mammals,
right whales in the ocean
and minerals left by the sea
speak to me
as poetry in motion
by nature's revealed language
in my own vernacular
at the ferryman's edge of shore;
rescue the leather back turtles
in our hand to hand rescue
with our humanity in a quick eye
of a daisy chain of solidarity;
leave me satisfied
with my musical portion in life
to still hear the lyrical cry
of those tossed overboard
in distant boats of harbors
those who are devoured or lost
on the high uneasy waves
from old maps of recollection
along our Coast
hear of the poor offering
in the flavor of my bread
to discover me with the birds
in the Evergreen branches
overhead, as we recall
St. Francis' voice in his words,
Forgive the unloved,
the one not savored or favored
let all those divided in anguish
yet wish for hidden hope
among these forest homeless
who sleep here in the woods
resting in the shade of asphodels
and purple Iris of our eye,
let us welcome spring together,
Oh Emily, New England's
word gathering daughter of earth
hear a thunder shadows
in her small world
as we picture this bard of Amherst
gingerly writing
who is often ignored
or cursed by her neighbors
by passing showers of reverie
after her unveiled soft sleep
as she labors over the balcony
along the white stone steps
where farmers still plant seeds
in the dark apple orchard
near her own cemetery
as she writes about nature
in her Thursday diary
about a metamorphosis of season
here in her vineyard
remembering this daughter
in our kayak or swan boat
floating along the dark waters.

ALONE AT THE BAY

Nothing but expansive light
in my murmuring words
under the weight of stones
my vision is unlocked
from the persuasive corridor
for my Raleigh bicycle
treading along familiar paths
by the Cape's green greeting
receding from icy winter winds
as the earliest tourist boat
disperses to the home harbor
under a glittering April sun
under the gazebo's pavilion,
here alone with my cat
purring on the back bench
near my orange kayak
anchored in the harbor
the sleepy dawn gleams
at a poet tenant on the earth
going out at daybreak
to discover a new bird sanctuary
along with expansive wings
climbing up near an Elm tree
as a wandering sojourner
who collects pine combs
and an earful of sea shells
disturbs an echo
as the sea sounds
in the open air
contemplating the sand.

T.S. ELIOT'S SUNDAY MORNING

Here at the docks
the snow bluffs have gone
we have not turned
the clocks back but spring
forward here at the rocks
watching the runners prepare
for the Patriot's Day marathon
awakened by scents and shadows
at T.S. Eliot's Sunday morning
as crowds here watch sports
near the baseball field
a poet sits by St. Ann's
sighting a sorry wounded swan
along the waters
near Cape Rockport
as veterinarians drape him
before he is examined
for to be all alone
is not ever easy
even with emerging sun
simmering like stars on the ocean
by the greensward pavilion
Eliot knows his memory
is not shaped but had begun
as an American son
from St. Louis
even as his wise realization
as a British high churchman
forgetting an old business so long ago
of trying by religious sublimation
to forget his disguised ego
searching between two loyalties
of state and expatriate country,
suddenly he stars to quietly sing
acknowledging the Almighty
enduring the silent chants
while clearly thinking
of his middle aged fate
from his dark pew
remembering Brother Lawrence
of is washing dishes
was his worshiping made new,
or thinking of the Little Flower
who cleaned the dirty floor
with a mop as she prayed
or finishing a thirty year task
in a sanctuary's hour
for no one need ask St. Teresa
about her ordinary ease
while writing a French diary
baring a future good fruit
of her love offering weighed
with faith ,no doubt
bending on her knees
imagining old Joseph's coat
with cuffs on his suit
of many of nature's colors
she could sew and mend,
and how he was sold
into rough slavery then freed
when his family was in need
T.S. Eliot wishing for peace
along a well known bench
at the ocean by Evergreen
he has visited before
overlooking the flowing sea
in a cathedral's miracle lore
of reaching Gentile and Jew,
recalling Odysseus
from a fiery frightening
yet smiling Circe
and of Hermes persuading
our sailor to go to Calypso
and his own hours of journey
teaching him to be enlightened
he was once a wanderer too
in a world without end.

BAUDELAIRE'S YOUNG SHADOW

Maybe the unanimous light
on this sunny Thursday's dawn
runs as the river by him revealing
the Seine's snakeskin's reflection
at daybreak hours feeling tired
as a somnambulist wades in
by the shade off shore
his red eyes glance open
slightly weary in oblivion
with an uneven balance
wanting to be more animated
despite his early morning nausea
sketching a slender drawing
of a Delacroix under a passing sun
and admiring the tiny Renoir print
in his last lady's salon
walking in from her boudoir
he suddenly remembers
that returning hesitancy of feeling
when receiving communion
at last Sunday's kneeling
in his short white pants
yet retaining a confessing belief
of the Three in One,
when he followed a sparrow guide
outside the church
from the high cathedral window
he is still overwhelmed with grief
in his messy narrow adolescence
when days are not assured
trying to hold onto a belief
Baudelaire's young shadow
covers the ceiling floor
and cathedral stained window
as he surly confesses to the priest
in that dark room
of his adamant clenched soul
from his mistress' scent of sorrow
in a perfumed hint of nausea
still leaving an accented memory
at the smallest slight at school
fearfully spent tearfully wailing
already in beds of tomorrow's pain
as only a worldly poet knows
at he stares at his dreary dress
dreaming of his prisoner's fetters
as the river wind stirs
his itinerant notes on his pad
he will rewrite a quatrain
of quoted lines on "fraternity"
over a park bench
feeling like a sorry cad
writing a letter in  his diary
resenting his sore sexuality
as he sentimentally swears
 "Merde", pouring the word
out loud in angry bitter French
as he plans his itinerary
to the Morbihan shore
on an April rainy day's leave
and confesses a respected oath
to visit the Lioness of Brittany
acting out his perfected poet's part
actually believing he will never
ever be foolishly tempted
to whore again and in retrospect
pretends to be one of Moliere's
never aging clever fools
upon a long staged corridor
imagines he is whispered about
at a lonely dressing room door
leaving on his vacation plan
as he still wears his thermals
and weeps with an alley cat
half asleep in a ditch
he picks up on the way
to the city terminal
with a cup of red wine
in hand which spills
over his mother's photo
in her woolen winter hat
on the lorry of the train.

GUSTAVE MOREAU'S SYMBOLISM

Animated from musical symbols
in balanced lyrical glissando
as the nave of noon time bells
chime in the rain's shadows
are heard on the church's steeple
by the sun stained window
Moreau waits by the Paris metro
drawn with a search for color
as his model is not embarrassed
to pose along the bubbling Seine
waves to him faintly
near the lover's green meadow
as Gustave watches people
along the stream of the river
by ferns and dark willows
in the light April rain
his model in the new midst
of her ruminating position
picks a rose in bloom flower
at the crocus edge of shore,
Moreau paints captive images
as he covers his wooden canvas
for the next showing
of his painting "The Apparition"
choosing to be understood
by a Muse of knowledge
yet will live in a scarlet abyss
voices his wonder
of a circled body
that each epiphany has an identity
that has implanted a carnation
hid in deja vu romantic kiss
in his new found modernity
as he seizes at his off hand chance
in a recreation of such madness
which reaches the secret nuances
of his studio mistress
yet teaching us how glorious
is a yellow gentian inspiration
by the hummingbirds and bees
at dawn shapes him in a wellspring
in signs, mirages and myths
as Muses of Clio or Apollo
are breathing along the cracked wind
by grackles on bushes of trees
from a cave's neon butterfly
who rises with geometric wings
as spring shadows are rejoicing
from songbirds on nature's ease
along the exiled woods
an ecstatic blackbird sings
for a half hour
advancing new bones in her nest,
we understand a sibilant tone
to an art which will not rest
on any ancient laurels
here on the high museum walls
watching as Moreau thinks
he is elated from uneven dreams
on his "Oedipus and the Sphinx"
in a balance of purple colors
combing by a new picture inks
his last violet and azalea drawing
of strange angel dream flights
later to be stained
in his "Jupiter and Semele"
from scant vibrations of angels
we picture his working culture
in a chorus line for us to know
tattooed "Salome" in his tableau
in a vast silence of ardent mirrors
whose images of Gustave Moreau
falls on his beloved Galatea
wooed from Polyphemus
in Ovid's "Metamorphoses"
with celebrated presences
along long high corridors
visiting his hallways portfolios
while hearing a trio in a cafe
play viola, cello and violin
from a musical tempo
playing in an exposure's chin
swaying for us con brio
critics quarrel about his future
of pre surreal cultural autonomy
as his geometric shapes
a retrospective colors to imagine
"The Seascape of Brittany"
from the ocean's sea '
and star shells
along small figurines
cups and jars
to open our glowing eyes
motioning us back
to whom we symbolically are
as he drapes his painting
still hearing and laughing
at the piano bar's language
along the Alps
knowing hidden images
are collapsing in an eyelid's glance
of a whitened avalanche
knowing there are islands
searching for lighthouse scenes
where the wellspring leaves us
like a hidden enlightened bird
wakes us in Moreau's paradise
waiting at last
for an April birch branch.

ROBERT LOWELL'S DATA

In the Widener library
in Cambridge at Harvard
a younger bard
is going over your data
seeking what knowledge
you gathered in your way
in self revelation
assured that your wandering
words of language
shadowed your long suffering
in the breakdown lane
now forced to taking
heavy medications
at the mental ward
of suburban McLean's
reading of your pain
that drew me near
though younger
when I froze
writing my early poetry
on paper planes
inscribed in Latin
as I returned my clothes
from the laundry
after playing Chopin
and attending matins
with bread and wine
running into Lowell
on Beacon Hill
being humbled
without resentment
thrillingly telling me
to have courage
though I was trembling
in his audited class
over a sunlit window
instructing me
from space and time
electrified by his poetry
taken off the shelves
from the shadow' s abyss
catching a language's fire
that will outlast
times and moments
past comprehensive ages
hungering on the shelves
in an expansive hunger
needing your compliment
in an offbeat arbitrary desire
that was not intimidating
from a fictional discovery
by my climbing ivy into sunlight
your hands open to shake mine
inside the lexicon's dictionary
suspecting to be certainly
at the library all night.

SEAMUS HEANEY'S VOICE
(1939-2013)

His voice in highlights
is an eye in the night air
catching a saying of words
at his dark flame of height
gleams from a voice
whispered in Gaelic
fulfilling into his April birth
it was a glittering dawn
of an itinerant spirit
choosing a poet's abode
in winsome whirlwinds
overheard by Ireland's poet
by spaces outside
as the first sparrow
in the space of a window
who motions us to history
by your overcoming shadow
in the dust of your glory days.

APRIL WIND

The last snow is gone
wrapped in a cool sunlight
as an Arctic April wind
intervenes off the coast
which makes me shiver
as a poet by the gazebo
nears the last swan boat
with the oars of a kayak
reaches in the back
for new beach sunglasses
a poet questions his path
in his day's diaries
listens to an F.M. radio
playing Bach and jazz
now at a poetry workshop
hearing a noon theater reading
gives a neighborhood ear
to Amy Lowell, Sylvia Plath
Ben Jonson and Shakespeare
now doing a half-mile run
by the Charles River
in a ten mile marathon
from an abandoned field
as a melee of rookie players
playing hooky
in woolen yellow jackets
after an off school night
not caring about their grades
play boisterously at bocce
from their heads to their knees
having their own bacchanals
making a fine racket
reacting as unruly renegades
hypnotized by gritty wine
and strong Sam Adams beer
demanding a group of tourists
leave and out of sheer spite
take cover over Audubon land
full of blue birds in harmonies,
yet this breeze is cast in respite
passing by an hourglass of fun
this poet leans on Evergreen trees
by the Public Garden swan boats
waiting for the starting gun
over the overcast sky
for the Boston Marathon
with boats along the sea
as a cruising ship floats by.

WALT WHITMAN DROPS BY

In the Civil War of brothers
not embarrassed to be here
in Virginia
encouraging the wounded souls
where still bleeding soldiers rest
upon makeshift hospital beds
reading Walt Whitman
whom like a miracle drops by
as the early April snow dries
on the roads there is still ice
now their guest comforts the sick
as an American poet will light up
every translated spirit in the room
from his enlarged empowered eyes
transfigured from far off highways
he travels alone as a witness
knowing all are painfully young
his fated words never outdated
with no coward's sacrifice
in a deep poetic voice we atone
for those who witness death
among the scattered gravestones
and see their own deaths twice
for such is a war's terrible sacrifice
on the surly warring battlefield
of barren darkness and gloom
yet devoured with clay images
with stony path by unsung tombs.

Today whether we are under
Paris' sun or stars, or Belgium
or Boston's marathon or
in Japan or at Jerusalem,
a pacifist poet proclaims
his international verse
like bearded Whitman
with extended arms for peace
knowing we too
are part of one chain
of light to release
for if one is hurt
than we are all stained
under the darkness
of an unlit lamp of liberty,
whether you are by a fireplace
of forest wood
or hear the blasting from
shadows and shade
we still welcome Walt Whitman
to pass by
with his "Blades of Grass"
to make our neighbors
to at least understood his life
of reaching out American hands
over choice mountain ranges
in the Ganges of India or Burma
on heights or eddy of Afghanistan
or by the fountains of Istafan
or ports of San Francisco
by Fort Hood or San Bernardino
or whatever neighborhood
we still need Whitman to comfort us
in the spirit of a dream voiced poet
beyond any penny dreadful
bending from his knees by the bed
of veterans in loving imagery
for all races who long to be free
here among the wonderful branches
on twigs on every country's trees
we will pause for those in need
as we listen to their suffering
caused by war, hunger or poverty
with his comforting words uttered
by the screens of a narrow bed
masked only by a curtain
cast by first light in our shed
with whatever consuming cause
to save our harrowing lives
from whoever is arraigned at fault
we rise in his ordained presence
along Walt's chosen path
near the still river's nearness,
as we let his fine voice be with those
who survive to deliver us
from all of man's salty wrath
as his poetry still bathes
in a wide bird chorus of eternity,
we too can be recognized
by his fiery baptized speech
as he still searches us out today
to reach and realize the near divine
of all humanity
as a mourning dove sings on the Bay
for us in our worthy time
of widening a way
from every awakened breath
we too can be wisely divine
like our Lazarus or St. Francis
in the litany of the church
as God asks us merely to love
on earth as bread and wine.

BEN NICHOLSON'S TOUR

Abstracts in
a downcast reaction
to form as art
in a geometric shape
partly from the absent breath
glowing on a cubist canvas
keeps your past illuminating
on the pastiche of a wishing wall
of the British museum
opening as my resisting eye
among the lasting stones
casts an elemental power
through the museum's shadow
of the noonday sun.

PIERRE REVERDY'S DAYS
(1889-1960)

A glittering shiver of branches
on a wide wellspring garden
by the greensward river vines
as Reverdy's days hide to wade
in his nocturnal dreams
missing the winter running deep
as the fine dawn snow flakes
fall over the Seine's shore
makes him feels almost bewitched
by the rippled breaker wind
he pardons his frozen scarf
over his lips scattered breath
he returns from the countryside
among the city's stepping stones
wrapping him in Monet faces
in the pastel mirrors pool
constantly wishes he may atone
as a first of April fool
in the ways he has past behaved
fishing for coins in the wellspring,
acting an an adolescent
as the wind untangles
the lost strokes amid showers
of a Paris boatman
who faces a loss
as two black birds fly
over the Tuileries
from the height of trees
in a blue sky cross over return
in the vibrations of the swing
at an endless breeze
in an embrace
of a yellow gentian
along quick eyed eddies
on his metamorphosed delight
as flowers grow under a full sky
on a pure poet's insight
who pauses his reflection
to paraphrase his lines
watching a sure sail's direction
in a belief of reflection
of Reverdy's newly written words
on a pale linen handkerchief
by the garden of asphodels
watchful of the seasonal birds.

NO MATTER, OH BEAT

No matter, Oh Man, O Beat,
my Whitman children
get on your feet
you who witness for justice
or with a kiss of peace
sing out,young or octogenarian
in a Gregorian or zen chant
or if you a April Fool's truant
skipping school for the sun
let's move on the dance floor
with a wonderful kiss
scattering as jazz riffs run,
we are no like that lost pigeon
who took our secret love messages
from state to state
now missing from this slate roof
without a forwarding address
we have not yet found him
in this April darkness
without any proof of his mate
but if he asks we will say,"Yes",
nor are we Beats hung up
on the rungs of a ladder
by merely being a Rodin sculpture
and not moving madly
in a Paris adventure
rather we are free  to request
an invite or free bite
for any guest in the counter-culture
for what matters is language
in eating up the pursuit of truth
this night
from a cup of wine or vermouth,
to be a choice clairvoyant
with an ear like Rumi
or Van Gogh
with a dissonant voice we know
will in the future
be on the street a clear dissenter
to romance, sing or jam jazz
on a sleeve of underbrush snow
sounding our airs on a wing
abounding like a troubadour
to shape every geometric word
as we make it on the dance floor
having a caress of understanding
from lovers showing on swings
or brushed by on bare trees
on the First of April spring,
hearing Ginsberg's epiphany
of Kaddish and "Howl"
read by a student
with flower power from her lips
who rushes to stay here
to be clear and have cover
hides in a landscape nest of birds
among birds and owls
to escape with her runaway life
out to San Francisco
rather to have her name
in an adolescent gossip column
saying she was on an energy trip
to escape her father's solemnity
from all his wealthy friends
for Marie does not wish
to go to cotillion's high society
or to be a restless celebrity
and live constantly
for daddy who appears
weekly on a T.V. comedy
but for herself to make amends.

WALLACE STEVENS MEMORY
1874-1955

What grieves in my sighs
when reading your verse
fructifies like a fresh orange
to remake my life better
when feeding like a sponge
on your youthful words
in your recollected letters
who believes like Keats
that "Beauty is Truth"
from an intimate universe
can never forsake us
but makes us stronger
when hearing a siren or bird
your phrases wait on a me
like a weak nurse a sailor lured
by lovely maiden tears
dissolves in exiled waters
as a missing son or daughter
realized in a forbidden cry
of freedom and rescue
from an old Ovid myth
forbidden to expose
any ancient absurd curse
in a less obvious underworld time
when children from a sung chant
flow as a haven of metamorphosis
to the bird chorus' fountain's abyss,
yet your words feed me
Wallace Stevens
with a new proclivity
hung as harps by your angels
from a Greek mountain
to mourn over a poet's longevity.

MY FIRST RECITAL

In my Uncle's Scriven's study
my Aunt Sarah brings me
a cup of delicious green tea
with a cheese croissant
on hand from the bakery
retelling me a children's
ancient library story
of a scholarly miracle
during the Chinese Han dynasty
she wakes me up to my Muse
with day dreams on the bed
as we hear the sky birds
outside the shed sing
I'm refusing to be monocled
or jostled by time this day
of my first recital by anyone
by arbitrary or capricious
as I'm about to play
on the tiny violin
"Thais" by Massenet
as my aunt would insist
on dressing me in a tweed suit
and school blue tie
in the classical library
wearing her tight satin gown,
as she presses on me
"Make out your daily list
put away your meditations
of clever Marcus Aurelius,
Jesus and Latin for now
and do your lessons later,
you must practice Bach
to be a greater violinist
than you expect
and focus on your solo
for a few hours,
forget the radio free jazz
of the Sixties sax
by John Coltrane
or Charlie Parker,"
as she waters the garden
of darker purple jonquils
crocus and April flowers
and tries to relax.

THE NEWS

When my stay at home neighbor
puts on the all news station
on his all day cable T.V.
with all that information
and argumentative leads
it overwhelms me from my years
of labor for language's beauty
that enables me refuse to heed
all these rages of commentary
from camera stars and seers
with their mass communication
in a twenty four hour station feed
posted continually in our ears
with pictures of so much suffering
that grows our many earthly fears
of war, violence,piracy and crime
in its dishy discursive public duty
yet not wishing to waste my time
rather to observe only silence
secretly sneaking into my library
to play alto or smooth jazz
in my sound proof studio
to atone for my failings
or read new digital verse
by my railings on the stairs
without a mobile phone
on my back bookshelf
filled with past collections
yet to desire some privacy
from a constant self quarrel
of my own arbitrary rants
taking a look at my selections
always critical of my own poetry
from the context of a secret pardon
within God's own heavenly society
as the painted religious figures
in sculpture and painted culture
of Chagall and Teresa of Avila
by my wooden carpentry bench
with my miniature portrait of saints
along my telescope to the moon
filled with a memory of stars
or play a hymn or French tune
based on Clair de Lune
by brushing up on my guitars
near my earthly garden cellar
hoping to rest on my laurels
at an obelisk universe in a shed
or being a guest of Edgar Allen Poe
with his grotesque masks
putting up my feet on my desk
along my own stone pillar bed.

WHAT IS DIVINE

Byron picks up a pen
and critics say
he is like the madmen
with ten fold oracles
of the Romans or Greeks
when he begins to dare
and challenge language
from the knowledge
of Whitman, Dickinson
Plath, Lowell or John Clare
whose verse retells
and reaches out to teach
each generation of our children
to be beware of entering
in the tents of a poet's station
while they pursue wisdom
as seers on a variant path
contented by human virtue
is their own valiant singing
for the freedom of their nation
and those like Byron
are truly universal
those few daringly born
convinced that their soul
is bringing all them closer
for a miracle of a universal soul
amid the hours of a new creation
for a peek at the finishing line
from a veiled goal and laurel
captures the sudden divine
away from the choice
of sword ,scalpel and strife
and in a word above all quarrel
in palpable mirth, harmony,and love
like Sarah, Esther and Mary
who chose the raptures of life
there is no limit to ring
a bell, sound a drum
or play timpani, flute or fife
yet to sing the vibrato of a chorus
of some heavenly birds above us
assuming an alto or soprano voice
without regret to fulfill a choice
of posturing to be anonymous
and agree to an angelic symphony
consuming as a bold composer
or a kick start jazz musician
or a virtuous philosopher
to empower us in a miracle
as anointed oil pours out
yet who liberally moves from
the prism of hard clay
of his bard's mortal coil
from an ancient potter's dream
of a taut stone wheel
for Byron was a keen listener
yet caught at the city of Ur
on highways and islets
at a finishing line for freedom
emboldened in Mesopotamia
the poet sinks into a hungry sleep
and puts up his feet
as Keats in his "Lamia"
by a tree aviary with honey bees
wakes in a day dreams of diadems
in bejeweled crowns
worn for his marathon verse
wishing to be a revolutionary
for Byron is for the Grecian cause
sounding as if in training not a culprit
or a warring criminal or accuser
but as a lover of humanity
by just writing
underground notes in his diary
now he imagines going toward
the country's scaffold prison
when his politics of freedom
goes forward to universal suffrage
will some day arise from Styx,
and Greece like Jason's fleece
will be released as a bas- relief
in an artful secret verse's billfold,
for Byron's heavy instilling anguish
is coldly maimed in a traffic of grief
his business in life
will be enrolling him
with a cleverly rewarded love
and justice consoling the nations
will shine above on a newly coined
name given forever as "Byronism"
gladly consoling us in declaration
as a thrilling new April leaf
appears in a spring jardiniere
and yet some people still laugh
by joining the crowd to dismiss us
in our earthly metamorphosis
wishing we were only after
what is divine madness
in a still life of disbelief.

ALONG THE SPANISH MAIN

The wind whiplashes the shore
laughs and swirls along the sea
its waves by the home harbor
as a minstrel bard saves
the newly grown saplings
hiding near arbors
of the trees in a back yard
of a Church
as Sunday bells spring out
the poet plays his Catalan guitar
his black eyes like stars vanish
twinkling at the people
leaving the Square huge chapel
by the tall Spanish steeple
where he sings the verses
of Juan de la Cruz
a mother and wife leaves town
with her young children
with an overcoat of seasonal signs
in loose winter worn woolens
and after midnight mittens
the guitarist rushes past
many bitter citizen lives
lined up at the city gates
to let a stranger in
by the obscure rafts
he makes his paths
without passport or identity
on the cultivated soil
from Spain and Italy
over the high waves of the main
yet asks for no bread
though he is hungry
with no cash purchase
unlike a beggar
he does not complain
without ripe fruit or libation of wine
as the poet pours anointed oil
on his own head and beard
yet only on a scintillas wind
hears him playing more guitar notes
covering the prison bars he feared.

THE GUEST BEATS

Drawn lines
of arbitrary proof
in the loveless gigs
of the furtive Fifties
changes for us
in a chorus of fiery voices
every midnight at midnight
opens its red light roofs
in a swinging dawn
of the Sixties
to sing in a new light
from shadows of cool jazz
as the hours of guest beats
with lively black eyes
play their soprano sax
mixes with the phosphorescent
new tuft of stars dancing
at sunrise at the High Hat
and transfixes the fulfilling
the sister and brother
of a flower child's knees and feet
as we relax and took photos
recreated from angel faces
pulsing from a stained book
of musical snowy veins
crying out for peace and justice
from red serpentine disgraces
and any icy bigoted remains.