After Sappho’s It was summer when I found you

Summer’s heat drips sweet &
salty sweat from forehead,
eyes blinded, astringent droplets
seep into ducts, steam clouds

glasses as I stare straight into
the morning’s haze hovering
over meadow’s grasses
moistened by recent drizzles.

Tall legumes bairn’s steal
my heart. I do not lust, but love
what tethers me to sanity.
Swallows dart, catch insects.

Wet and ecstatic I revel
in this universe, my umbilical cord.

seal the                                        moment

         by way of
                          a        talisman,
                                   an
    experiment          of                             turning-
toward                                         the next
                                                            place

  to

             grip tightly,     pinch into   a  

knot,                              making

            tension,
                                                               the urge to
                flatten a              wrong.
                               Know the story;      go             still;

             find
     a               center.

      ~ Erasure of Lia Purpura’s essay “Two Experiments & a Coda,” p 142

It’s always enough –
the way the mountains
turn their thoughts into cypress and song,
how lightning tickles ocean’s swollen belly             
and crackles with laughter
while slumbering clouds stumble and snore,  

enough            how morning blue reclaims its rule
over night-drenched sky
by raising its sun-clenched fist,
enough            how birch glows green with ecstasy
while wind fondles our limbs
and satisfied        together       moan.  

Everything                  is as it should be.
It could be no other way.
And so, my playful lover
you must know also how you make me feel
you know this the way an inhale expects an exhale
your foreplay              always enough            to make me gasp.

A word I learned from Lemony Snicket
which here means: the next to last poem
or twenty nine of thirty.
Poetry pushes profundities
through the poet to the perusing reader.
Pointing to and painting the poles
of the compass of human existence.
You’ll find beauty and anger
peace and despair
pointed questions, painful lessons
perhaps you can put yourself there.
Each poem part of a polymorphic anthology
to create each piece we
pierce the soul to draw forth
polysyllabic monstrosities.
Read this aloud
in front of the mirror.
Behind all the spit,
is your face still clear?

1
There was a fine signora in Louisa
on a visit from Italy on a visa.
She’d make a suggestion,
you’d ask a small question
& she’d say Sì, if you please-a!

2
There was a young pilot from Morehead
whose cockpit had a nuclear warhead.
No matter your gender
he’d make you surrender
& bombard you right up to your forehead!

3
There once was a gal from Cynthiana
whose favorite snack was a nice firm banana.
She had a special skill
& would give you a thrill
while humming the tune of Oh! Susanna!

take me back.

not too far,
just two-and-a-half(ish) decades
when I caved and agreed to have lunch with you

take me back.

not too far from where we sat that day,
but a lifetime of memories ago
when our conversations grew
like the mouth of the Hudson after the rain

take me back.

a walk through Central Park on a late summer day
homemade lunches remain untouched
tossed into a metal garbage can
with the Delacorte in view

take me back.

to the moment you remembered
to the moment you repeated what I said countless conversations prior,
to the moment I knew our love planted itself
in soil that would one day hold a towering oak

that we nurture(d)
that we grew
that we find with purpose as each season passes

take me back.

because I want you to see where it all started for me
because I want you to see how I see you
because I want you to see how I see us

you smile and say:

we have never left, my love–
as we sit hand-in-hand under oak-spun shade

Rabbits congregate
on dark lawns. Birds tune singing
voices. Audience
takes seats on dew-bent clover.
Sun rises like a curtain.

Black boys and white boys didn’t get along
those fraught first days of forced integration.

There were fights on the hour every hour
when halls were crammed and pressure-loaded,

bumping into one another led to standing toe-to-toe, 
chests out, taunts exchanged, fighter’s pose, 

spittle on a cheek, forbidden name, fist thrown,
the surging crowd rolling in close 

to urge the boy of shared complexion on. 
The fights, spirited, if not technically sound,

would only end when the principal
or basketball coach stepped in

and half-marched, half-hauled the boys 
off to the office and on to detention.

The white boys by and large held their own,
the black boys bowed to no one, 

the chants telling each boy to kill the other,
still ring in our ears all these years later.

Actions speak louder,
But words said between the lines
Are important too.
Observe them both with great care
Lest you misconstrue intent.

To Fanny Hawkins (ca 1855 – 1872)

I rushed and beat Demons to the pool
dusking, ready to shield you from the curse.
Let’s run, I begged, till the shadows disperse.
Gloriously clad, unforeseen, wishful

dreaming in the dead of a night cruel.
Uninvited, bearing blueprints and a thirst
for reunited state and golden verse
to hail the devils asking for your mule

and all you could ever have been, now rushing.
There is no deed good to turn the old law.
Your resolve crushed my complaisant flaw,
absolved the knight in the armor lacking.

In the bushes burning, deaf i cower
lest the whip-poor-wills might herald louder.