Marriage

To know a woman, you can only wait,
in hope that time will bring some revelation;
and may your patience and your will be great.

The smallest word might move her to a state
of blank disgust, or wide-eyed indignation.
To know a woman, one can only wait

until those sudden, sullen moods abate.
In the meantime, you'll get an education,
if both your patience and your will be great.

Think hard, lips sealed; and join in no debate
you cannot win. In your determination
to know a woman, you can only wait,

for a quick tongue will trip, and seal your fate,
and even a head shake is a provocation;
but if your patience and your will be great

you will not argue, or recriminate,
and find it's mostly sheer humiliation
to know a woman. You must learn to wait,
and may your patience and your will be great.



December 30, 2003

At Wounded Knee (revised version)

Three days, and no-one comes to close my eyes.
I am as cold and quiet as a stone
on the white ground. I wait and cannot rise.

Death steals less swiftly than a bullet flies:
the ache has time to settle in the bone.
Three days, and no-one comes to close my eyes.

Snow falls and whips; the wind still rips, and cries.
Here I remain like something broken, thrown
to the white ground. I wait, and cannot rise,

nor yet lie easy, as a dead man lies,
though surely death has claimed me for his own.
Three days, and no-one comes to close my eyes.

My spirit beats its awkward wings and tries
to take the air, but, like the snow, is blown
to the white ground. I wait and cannot rise

to charge like lightning through these winter skies
with ghosts of kin who see how still I've grown
in three days. No-one comes to close my eyes.
On the white ground I wait and cannot rise.

This is Going to Take a While (a shortened villanelle)

My love, we said that one day we'd forget
exactly how this all began, remember?
I've not forgotten. I remember. Yet,

it seems so short a time. I'd rather let
another summer pass. Let's say September,
my love, we'll choose the right day to forget?

You know that when the summer's past I get
morose and sentimental. Maybe November?
I've not forgotten. I remember. Yet,

November's dreary: half snowed-in, half wet;
a month of indecision. In December,
my love, let's choose the right day to forget.

Remember how we argued when we met?
I said it was a spark, and you, an ember.
I've not forgotten. I remember yet.

My love, we said that one day we'd forget...





8.13&27.2012

Vanity

Amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons,
clean, patterned table cloth and lemon rinds:
your hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands.

Was it a dream, or did your hands pronounce
those rites of morning, near the open blinds,
amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons,

with all my body stirring? What sweet dawns,
to be awakened by the brooming fronds
of hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands.

Yes, I believe. Imagination reigns.
There is no other ear your touch commands
amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons.

Let the mind falter while the heart contends
it is not reason now that recommends
your hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands,

but vanity, that never comprehends
the silence. No, I never heard them once,
amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons—
your hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands.

Villanelle

I do not care for Villanelle
no, not in any circumstance:
She cannot tell a story well.

She weaves a strange and moody spell
on some obsession or romance
I cannot care for. Villanelle

will not inspire me or compel,
but merely leaves me in a trance.
She cannot tell a story well.

And one can spy the little belle,
her echoing footfall, at a glance.
I do not care for Villanelle.

She is a witch, her ways are fell.
Your patience doesn't stand a chance:
She cannot tell a story well.

Avoid the little mademoiselle
and send her packing back to France.
I do not care for Villanelle,
She cannot tell a story well.

Guilt

That one bird singing in a crooked tree
I paused to listen to as I passed by
was like a bell rung on an empty sea.

From where I stood it wasn't hard to see
its blood-red plumage and its small black eye.
That one bird singing in a crooked tree

seemed desolate as any thing could be
for how it cried out; but that hollow cry
was like a bell rung on an empty sea.

There wasn't anything about but me.
The clouds were graven in the still, gray sky.
That one bird singing in a crooked tree

had only but to move to set me free,
to lean into the desert air and fly;
but, like a bell rung on an empty sea

it cawed its caw. I took the liberty
to cough, then cried; but still it sang. How sly
that one bird singing in a crooked tree,
like deafening bells upon an empty sea.