From the Dugout

I wanted to stand well,
knees flexed, arms loose,

anticipate his pitch,

hold the bat ready,

know the sweet spot
(no junk, no sting).

In dreams, in practice,
our game was play;
we danced around the bases.

I was not ready for the curve
he threw, body blow:
"You are not a player."

Hard hit, hurting,
I dropped the bat,
the ball, the game.

Coast to Coast Blues

Sequoias drum a riff
across the miles
through swaying chants
of cornfields, psalms of snow,

to sea, flat cool-
white sand, jazzed
waves, the syrinx song
of oystercatchers.

Micanopy Palms, oil on canvas
by Mary Bast

Edward Hopper days:
palm trees etched
on turquoise sky, a painting
lonelier than death.

To halt the salty
appetite of blue
I think of
risqué words,

of robin's eggs
and Bessie Smith:
no one to tell
your troubles to.


Published in Silver Birch Press, "Where I Live Poetry & Photography Series," March 2015

Tall Boy

  The exact moment
  she first saw him?

  He simply appears
  in her memory.


  High school senior,
  new boy,
  tallest on the
  basketball team,
  all the girls
  want him. 

  She is his
  steady girl.

His skin softer than hers, Scandinavian, hair blond crewcut, lanky limbs. Loves her, she knows it, because he’s jealous, grabs her arm tight. Finger marks finally fade. She’s offered a part in the school play. He’s not. Does he say If you love me, if you love me, you won’t? Does he pout? Does she gaze into his blue deep eyes? Does she drop out, surrender something vital?

vital surrender drop gaze play part know deep pout appears jealous not if love offered does she grab all fade memory?

 

Book Talk

Rose has bartered her German dinner for a talk
about my book. “I got to page 4,” she says
over spaetzle bubbling into glue. Rose is tipsy
but her several glasses of wine have left me
far too sober. Peppered with “blah-blah-blah”
her word-gush: “Children and dogs adore me.
Isn’t that true?” she asks Suzie Q, whose rheumy eyes 
never leave mine. “Agreed, Shatzie?” (To dog 2.)

The nuzzling canines hound me into deep communion:
dropped ears showing how keenly they wish not to hear.
Desperate to leave, I make a temperate excuse.
Rose barks,“But first you must read my children’s book 
written through the eyes of a puppy.” I look to the mutts
for confirmation. They shuffle away – would say
“blah-blah-blah” if they could.

Don't You Know Who I Am?

we praise poetry
a turn of ankle, the first
flight into space
while scientific treatise
philosophical cant
assure us we're awake

coveting costly art
designer shoes, we
follow models, applaud
images, trends, views
desperate to be remembered
yet becoming ash

all of that refused

Peggy's Brother Bill

for William Stafford

I cried when e.e. cummings died,
for loss of those eyes, the layers.

So I wondered about your poems’
undergrowth, your soft voice
covering the way you humored things

in case stratum three's edge 
should razor through, tendencies
honed more than you knew. 

ode to my coffee grinder

you’re red sweet thing
and hot to go though not
so hot that you abide

the residue of peppers

which my ex  the con-man
tricked you into grinding

no you thrive on dark
French roast   I hear your sigh 
when I approach  you dear

I fear that we have secrets

you and I because

though born at Starbucks
you disdain their beans

our secret love is Midnight Oil
the 15 seconds waiting
we think only taste

and yes we hate the cleaning
much like coming
down from orgasm

on the blue ridge

wild acres, russet oaks
    big dog bark
        little dog bite you
blackgum, sassafras
    chickens crowin'
        on sourwood moutain
evergreen, sweet red maple 
    careless love

witty Irish-Scotsman
    I'll be no man's wife
we danced, remember
    my true love's
        a blue-eyed daisy
he won't come
I'm too lazy

Extreme Sport

Do not imagine earth
from Meru Peak -- the pull
of miles, the drogue, your flying hair;

do not remember months adrift
on icy seas, the pole, the dark,
your wrapped cocoon;

no need to fear
your catapult toward the end;
today, tomorrow, then...



(See trailer for film, "Steep" about extreme skiing)

A New Age Drug for Personality

(a prescription in ten lines, ten syllables each)

What a task, to pull ourselves together

in eight decades only (maybe seven).

Starting out intact with psyches pure, we

take the only steps we can—the simple

antidote to youth becomes to age, and

age we do, but mechanistically, our

Egos in control. We think we know all,

but illusions grow instead, maturity

the matchless remedy. So how cure youth?

The formula is clear: An Old Age Drug!

Ta-tas Rap

My name is Mary and I'm rappin' tonight,
so come on, get the beat, I got a story all right
about my ta-tas. Yeah! I loved 'em so
but I got the big C, had to let 'em go.

I'm talkin' ta-tas, and I ain't foolin' around
about my hooters, I got the low-down.

Didn't seem right to have no boobs,
didn't seem fair -- knockers down the tubes.
My chas-chas was pretty damn swell
but had to make a choice, decided What the hell

Tah tah, ta-tas! No more foolin' around --
them tired old mamas tried to take me down!

I junked my jugs, nothin' left to say,
didn't need them mothafuckas anyway!
Yeah, I'm alive, got the big green light,
everything is cool, gonna be all right.

About my ta-tas, ain't no foolin' around,
them broken headlights was too run down.

Now hear the word from a sistah who knows,
long as I got the LUV, anything goes.
My rack is gone, don't give a shit!
I'm movin' on, movin' out on my tits.

Uh huh, my ta-tas, ain't no more foolin' around,
them saggy-ass bitches was slowin' me down!

(Lyrics by Dylan Schwab and Mary Bast)

I pull you home on the kite strings of my eyes

For all your wildness,
free of the hard facts of earth,
you float with arms furled,
lose the breeze, come to ground:

life-sized, feet of clay, you fear
dissolving when night falls,
when love's rain turns grey.

With gardener's hands
you plant daily, cool contours
cushion the stems of flowers
leggy like women who moisten
your dreams, firm girls
with faces open like tulips,
white with longing for your
lyric breath, your fiery words:

unable to move past the promise
of your own beauty.

betrayed

when I am blind with hurt whatever bralle-
less truth you tell me can't be read

when this pain gropes
my fingers reach for any spelling

hear what squeezes me – I cannot breathe
the counting grows: I'm owed

my blind pain claims its space
for handicaps – it wears dark glasses

when you move toward me
flinches from your touch

because you know I can't see
yet would violate my heart

and you will never
have this chance again

...

Mirror Image

The day you were born -
small homunculus
already in charge - 
never spoke or took in small
affections or knew how to cry.

Then yesterday a man of soul
read poems that made you
hear with baby ears.  
I saw your face
grow tender into innocence.

Is some fierce part of me in you, 
that brash, profane, fuck-me
self turned tender, sentimental?