19 Friday Aug 2016
Posted in poems
Music sweeps us up in a gentle rise,
a sirocco,
a slight swaying of hips.
Black and white in 1971
do not touch
on principle –
flags and floats,
white sheets and ropes,
cowgirl on horseback,
legs gripping the muscled spine of a piebald horse.
Black and white in 1971,
the dance –
startling innocence, electricity
– music is a strand of pearls haunting the air,
velvet breath, long boned fingers,
the golden flash of trumpet that joins us.
My grandfather’s hands are smooth, hard, polished stones. His once blue eyes now steel. Grandmother’s hair is the moon’s ashes, …
On difficult days I ask… Is it a dream, this milky sleepwalk from the sea? I used to believe in …
To see the snake there I am amazed I do not have to kneel on the wet ground. If a …
Our memories, once so sharp and short, now litter the landscape with the bones of our hopes. It is strange, …
This is an older poem with brand spanking new title… There was this once before the writing dried up and …
We learned it is less interesting to know …
The rain on the back of my neck reminds me to snap the yellow rubber coat. I think of the …
