A Consensus of Bouquets (for Sakineh)

In the garden a nunnery grows of sunflowers
in rows all nodding to themselves in solemn
agreement. They seem to be communing in
approval of an event unfolding, as yet unseen.

Under blossoms of gossiping jonquils are
clusters of belfries among others, early arrivals
in trembling anticipation of a jubilant union
of unanimous assent. Here, a mantis is poised

atop sun-stroked palm-smoothed ancient stones
stacked loosely, overlooking warmed earth-
bound cradles embedded deeply in the cultured
roots living below. On the cusp of indecision

are sanctions that lack sufficient intent surrounding
the wordless white rose of Iran, recently plucked.
Butterflies rising in swarms are hovering,
humming repeatedly, thrumming the spread

of good news near the temporal groundswell
of trees astir in celebration of the agreed upon
reprieve & we are beginning to hear the wings
of freedom beating. The unappeasable tender

of the plot is briefly assuaged by the pungent
scent of wild sage, content to be distracted from
the vacant nest of exotica. Earth-bound crow-clawed
jackdaws spring to the air, suddenly, as if sliced

from the ground by a saber or scythe, filling the sky
with darkness, while nearby a scaffold erected
to tie unruly tendrils down, stands aside with
slipknots withdrawn for awhile. Bowing

to a sighing wind are bleeding hearts united,
as a miniature cavalcade of bobbing lobelia
parade in blue sanctuaries of blooms growing
round rocks not thrown. Now the sun hangs low

& mayflies warn an early dusk in glowing columns
composed of twilight-dancers in fluttered demise
as night closes in on the end of their lives, unlike roses,
gifted with the fragrance of another day.

Aubade after a Midnight Bathing Scene

The following is a poem written in mester de clerecia, or cuaderna via (the way of the four,) a style of poetry used by 13th century intellectuals of Castile. This style of poetry consists of four-line stanzas of alexandrines. A conventional alexandrine consists of rhymed verses of six iambic feet. A more detailed research indicates that an alexandrine has seven iambic feet. To split the difference I chose to create a work with eight syllabic measures in the line prior to a caesura, followed with six syllables to the end the line.

Aubade after a Midnight Bathing Scene

Last night my garden must have been tossed in diamond dust,
lost it seemed beneath a sheen of glazed and frozen crust.
A sleepy palm of day had wiped the dark away unwrapping
sheets of freshly laundered sky that hung in folds and trapping

dawn. Through frosted windowpanes in dreams or half awake
the silence palpitates below the furrows of each drifting flake
that falls upon my still closed eyes. And thin blue flames of ice
are stars that fell and bloomed in my back yard or peonies twice

caught in nets of grass are but spilled clouds of pale and sifted
passing thoughts afloat and like some drunken angel drifted
off in slumber. In this stiff and shining air that hovers
just behind late evening's veil of slipping silver covers,

midnight's moon-swept bathing scene delights a crowded grove
bent low in iced anticipated glow. And roses move
in bundles blown in rings of rubies careless thrown about
the ground and watching too for morning's song to sprout

in warming leaves of daylight tucked and pressed away to stay
the night. As though they might by some sleeping vow allay
aged petals dropping in attendant garden rows of seams
portray a never ending wash of light between flawed dreams.

“Devolutions” from In an Ocean of Grass

The following is a poem written in mester de clerecia, or cuaderna via (the way of the four,) a style of poetry used by 13th century intellectuals of Castile. This style of poetry consists of four-line stanzas of alexandrines. A conventional alexandrine consists of rhymed verses of six iambic feet. A more detailed research indicates that an alexandrine has seven iambic feet. To split the difference I chose to create a work with eight syllabic measures in the line prior to a caesura, followed with six syllables to the end the line. “Devolutions” was inspired by an earlier poem of mine, “In an Ocean of Grass I,” & “In an Ocean of Grass II.”

Devolutions

In a skiff tethered gently to tall reeds & leathered sedge,
below the glowing Ibis wing just rising from the hedge,
I’m watching twisted beams descend in rosy sheets
across a sky piled high in clouds & crowned in feathered pleats.

Rainbows are dissolving in the rising mist of distant shores
& twilight is evolving through a purple rain that pours
high above the canopy & seeping through the leaves,
piercing wide the panoply & sloughing off the eaves.

Whispers of a sighing breeze are dying near Cape Sable Bay
where a blushing sun sets low, kissing horizons away &
while sketching the loss of a small devolving Cypress tree,
I’ve captured instead fragments of latent fragility.

In an Ocean of Grass I

In a skiff gently tethered to reeds and sedge,
while sketching dwarf cypress, heron, and ibis'
white downward slide, I saw rising from the edge
of Cape Sable's horizon, arching rainbow's iris

descend. Late August colors of rain switched on
in twisted bright shafts of beaming sun, lifting
whipped peaks to heaped heights of piled sky upon
sun's setting after glow, standing still. Sifting

pure rose covered mist through frosted-gray and blue-
white streamers adrift with scuffled blown tails
dragging silver bright tendrils of light through
sheets of snowy-white alto-cumulus veils.

Hammered bronze boundaries seemed roiling between
that panoply of pierced Gulf sky, with a trace,
too distant perhaps, or surreal to be seen,
of miniature shreds of ice-green outer space.

Clouds swollen with flame shut down by the rain
poured curtains of rainbows drained from under
curved clusters of molten glass, spreading the stain
across the forgotten sun. Crashing thunder

drummed out every sound, splitting columns of spray
into spirals of wind spilling from cracked veins
opened in scars of jagged lead. As pale gray
evening shades closed on liquid counterpanes

over rock and rim, flooding for eventide,
I seemed balanced between a pelagic sea
of grass and shadows cast alongside,
while passing through in preludes of lost memory.

Waiting Again for the Snow

In the hills above a river with the hunted,
undercover of the frozen bone marrow trees,
I see someone is checking on the traps below
the empty limbs of dripping lilac boughs.

He's tracking in the melting snow for scarlet
cracks and tufts of hair left on the ground,
for a leg or foot still quivering, caught between
the smell of rancid bait and winter's starving wind.

I'm haunted by the slaughter cast before my eyes
and huddle in the dust of my belongings, on the run
and wondering how long before my wounded
footprints show in the night of life and death.

Weapons of Choice (A Villanelle)

With paint to seal and onion skin
each artist draws a line
designed to hide the pain within

the heart of youth where scars begin
to either flame or grow benign.
With paint to seal and onion skin

an artist quells offensive din
& slander caused to undermine
designs that hide the pain within

the voice of reason is akin
to whom new discourse must align.
With paint to seal and onion skin

we’ve drawn historic links of thin
disguise to hide civility’s decline
designed to hide the pain within.

Each war an artist joins to win
unmasks a lie & helps combine
with paint to seal & onion skin
designs that hide the pain within.

From Dolphin to Whale & Back, Cont’d from November 27, 2009

The legacies left to a child of suicide (any parent will do) are an odd mélange of myths, legends & delusions, the most significant of which is the belief that life has an expiration date equal to the age & anniversary of the suicidal parent.

Too busy with crises, I hardly noticed when mine first expired. My friends & co-workers often called me “The Road Runner,” so swift & effortlessly were my tasks completed. Speedy Gonzales remained a favorite as well until this world became too PC. Never an elevator when the stairs were so much faster, most buildings in San Francisco were then under twenty floors & access more evenly distributed.

In spite of my father’s death-age limit looming over my head, I failed to register the information until my extension had at 38 elapsed, eclipsing my father’s death by three years. Yes, I actually turned 39 & stayed 39 for approximately three years before I realized it was too late for me to continue with the mantra of the 70s:

“Live hard, die young & leave a lovely corpse,” which was more than a philosophy, it was how I managed to survive long enough to raise & fully educate six children. If I had faced reality any earlier & acknowledged life as a series of decades each stacked with more misery than the present, I would have been too intolerant to last.

I would most certainly not have been courageous enough to divorce a misogynist & with six children under 10 years, earn a GED, commit to a double major at a local community college & earn a place on the dean’s list.

Nor would I have been brave enough to explore professional artistic opportunities in various disciplines, growing stronger with each success. I had somehow confused fate with my speed & outlived my father’s legacy. I then set a new expiration date for myself which coincided with the launching of the last child. I decided that my responsibilities as a caretaker would be considered complete & I could finally put an end to it all. Until then I sped through life in a blurry-eyed state of exhaustion from one job to another, some lasting only long enough to earn one paycheck.

Through the Rear-View Mirror of Morality: Like cigarettes, men should have a warning label attached.

On the cusp of an elapsed second chance, at 65 I paid a whole lot more attention & made drastic changes. On the re-set button: Time, no longer my enemy, is instead my best new friend.