NOVEMBER 9TH BIRTHDAYS


It's November 9th with
a wonderful birthday wish
for Anne Sextant
and James Schuyler
are still here in a city vista
seen by critics or academics
in a brief era winding by
to the extant that words,
suffering, identity, love
still matter between earth
above summits of the sky
in this time of sensation
publicity, and celebrity
of do, die or acquit
from a untamed anger
a competent shame
of deep benevolent feeling
and close enchantment
between poet and reader
that a life's pulpit confessional
was more than a scattered obit
like filtered water
for a returning bird feeder,
when a son or daughter
who discerned about suffering
was asked and then learned
to come out in practical life
not to be hidden as in a veil
or under a holiday's
forbidden mask
in a free pass
or press expression
or from a Village gossip column
for more than a concession
in a miracle moment's pause
but today there are few
solemn hours of care
for such expression,
yet why not for us
to remember them
with a single candle incident
as November 9th births
of Anne Sextant
and James Schuyler
for all their laughter and tears
of their vigilant fans behalf
after these writer's have gone
there is a now a neophyte
vocal chorus of shared souls
living fearless among scandal
in their local place
surrendered to leaving us more
than a loving covenant
of two added names on a roll
of all these unscrolled years
in a wired newspaper dispatch
as a crowded afternoon fades
they are not anonymous now
knowing how wronged they were
snatched only for our eternity
in their own famous
mad Sixties time and space.

THERE IS STILL ONE ROSE

There is still one rose today
by the icicles to make me alive
many shall pass its red petals
yet only a few ardent neighbors
or strangers will be impressed
by Vermont's turning nature
even think how the lonely flower
still survives in a sleepy garden,
for life is a brief page of news
to laugh or to weep,
as two adolescents with attitude
first in jest then in a narrative
not making any sense
to the garrulous eye
start a warring jealousy
of a fight on the wrong street
as a poet prays they will change
without any crime or violence
that tension of revenge will cease
in a submissive space of time,
as the geometry teacher
and a strong wrestling coach
intervenes as an arbiter
with a gesture for some peace
and the two boys leave alone
at a standstill in silence
with a high five,
here in a nest of songbirds
emerge from the Oak tree
by the chrysanthemum's river bed
who may be thirsty
for the springs
stop nearby for a drink
and to eat our bread crumbs,
the red rose wraps our attention
and this poet delivers words
or sings a canticle of St. Francis
to brother moon, sister sun
and pardon our thousand ways
of courting the ray's reflection
or relives a line of Tom Merton
in a morning's creativity
as windy leaves succumb
the last rose stands by
a broken wing of a bird
we will be a comfort
to the animal family
over this hill and Bay,
the bird suddenly flies away
there are still miracles
on this Autumn's Thursday.

ON THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

How close are we

to verge of our journey

up the Green Mountains

as our hiking boots turn

in an unseen silence

sighting a deer in first light

a morning fills with frost

encircled in a path of snow

sheltering words in these lines

which emerge outliving our time

from an earth-wise nature

on this Fall seasonable pike

as flakes drift trekking 

from Vermont's long memory

in white coated anonymity.

FIDELIO

In huge concert hall
crowded with patrons
of the symphony
lovers of music
that cool November
seat a boy in short pants
seven years young
already with the libretto
to study on his lap
with interwoven notes
of Fidelio's overture,
that my uncle and aunt
supplied the ticket
here on the balcony
of exported culture
to an eager nephew
soon to play on the piano
his own interpretation
of Beethoven.

MOZART CALLS

Mozart's miniature calls
upon me at the grande piano
over boundless notes
from a breath of sunlight
committed to the morning
whose motif and motes
reveal a culture of volatility
in music heard in corners
of my family music school
as a bass, horn and cello is heard
by our own metronome's
dark hours passed by
anecdotes of critics who visit
my solfege and piano lessons
for an early admission door
to college's muted realms
as a neon butterfly shadows
to rise on  cathedral ceilings
near the blue marble fireplace
by a bone china vase
of Japanese flowers
in my great uncle Linwood's studio
around yellow and blue gentian
below a cathedral ceiling
in a mansion's window
with Mozart's miracle signature
revealing a lively body
of a home for Thursday concerts
in even numbered rows
as my hand plays in recital
your twenty third concerto.

SINCE YOU AWAKE

Since you awake
from a first light
lingering in a change of time
without sugar in a latte
in a huge coffee cup
this early November
listening to Dusty Springfield
as we turn the clocks back
remembering the pastimes
with an English muffin
in a darkness of mirror
with undisclosed lips
of my favorite singer
to bond with ideas
and clouds of wishes
for a recital of a love band
on your sleeping arms
in a corridor of mums
from a yellow bouquet
grafted in your hair
in carriages of limbs
from dahlias of fragility
and sax sirens of exile
ready for an urban read
now extricated in cold air
from undisclosed robes
of keenly suited observation
sharing my chilled out riffs
from a taxi cab window.

AT RIMBAUD'S WATCH

Making the rounds
a nurse,
a chaplain,
a solitary
a bishop at Mass
a warden
a missionary
a wrestler
all falling yet rising
as Lazarus from the dead,
hidden in four corners
Rimbaud watches
lives in French routines
his eyes open at the windows
at a tiny coffee shop bench
toward a bake
of cinnamon croissants,
baguettes or raisin bread
with his three Charleville aunts
feels at times as a clairvoyant,
picturing a starving midshipman
who sails to Brittany country
by a Bay's thrilling seaside
craving La Tartine Gourmande
as thyme-infused sardines
sauteed with tomato sauce
from a old French marinade recipe
are basted on the grill,
as Rimbaud remembers
the kindly sextant who cleans
off the Virgin's statuette
feeling as an idyll bard
who dream tosses at his exile
while in Paris or Casablanca
wishing to make sleeping waves
rises over the body of the seas,
or once knowing an innocent man
on trial sent off to Devil's Isle
in his contrary engaging thoughts
he encircles the university
with its large library
roundabout the cascade
on narrow roads and streets
children watch a puppet show
still there between wars
or stands by on Bastille Day
for a revolutionary parade
near the city's cemetery grounds
assuaging the wise in adversity
always wishes to be astounded
or carry on in a tent
with a Casbah's surprise,
yet even pitying a limping beggar
in the alley before bed
under the bright and leaping stars
imagining the Christmas Magi
being put in the store window
as an absentee student runs
away from home at school
being teased for his belief
taunted and execrated
in the school yard snow
being named "sale petite cagot"
as his visionary shadow
winces at long suffering souls
trying to escape their foolish fate
now drinking cups of red wine
on draped stools behind bars
a vagabond asks out loud
for another round
among a crying out thief
once nearly executed
by rope's guillotine
here in the line ups churlish crowd
this proud fool cannot wait
to be free while he is blamed
yet this time exonerated
not seeking a peaceful relief
yet seen here as a collaborator
in another street pick pocket crime
loudly mouthing and proclaiming
his innocence spilled here
with his  hopeful brother
upon release.