Return of the Native Son
he fled two generations ago;
moves in garbage bags of clothes,
albums of blues, unburied hatchets,
worn slings and bloodied arrows
to the cheering street of widows
Woman without Dog
in shade and size
her shadow is lessened,
the cadence of her stride
no longer hastens, led by
a rolliciking burst of storm
that pulled her along
arms hang lax of what
to do or hug or caress
or beckon; hands are inert,
missing a lifeline fallen
and gone like a summer's
vine on a winter's pond
Swift Boat
another year of wars
and another fall's bloom
of cut flowers and torn glories
drooped over bronze slabs
borne by the tired grass
you stood and stared,
they said, as the incoming
missle snaked from a child's
shoulder and made an arc
over green, rippling silence
it was what Ishamel saw;
a cobra of tarred hemp leap
and soar, streak and smoke
as the whale dove, rushing
to Creation's molten core,
bearing us down, sailors all,
lashed atop the Leviathan
Valhalla for Poets
rivers murmur in rhyme and winds coo
verse in all tongues (Esperanto, too!)
fountain pens grow on trees; college
nymphs circle you with loving dance
riot cops fight off frantic editors
as you arrive and Yankee Stadium
roars and you, confident and strong,
stride to the lone spot-lit center
the planet is hushed and anxious
for you speak its buried heart
BIO: My desire in writing is to make poems that will stalk readers as boars in the tall grass do.
