In Passing

In Passing

The poet’s occupation,

death,

more gentle than the quill and stand,

softer than shorn fleece,

and kinder than she seems

to man,

is a poet’s inclination

toward

the graveclothes of a passing friend;

much more his own epitaph,

his someday’s final paragraph;

his end.

To My Cat

To My Cat

Even while saying it, I know it's a lie

I could no sooner leave him

Than I want to die.

I could no sooner stop this way that I feel

Than I would make up from my nightmares

And wish they were real.

I could no sooner walk thru this life all alone

Than I'd pack my belongings

And leave here, my home.

I could no longer function even as well as I do,

      If ever, oh ever, I had to leave you.

The Painting

The Painting

How long was she watching me?

I saw the brush dab furiously

And thought of her infinite subject with awe, touching envy.

What possible colours could her palette hold

Able to catch the wet, breathing coast,

The sky and sea fused as perfectly as they were?  What stroke

Could ever hope to bring the waves

Licking and foaming to canvas?

Amazed, eyes glazed by the wind

I looked again at her staring.  Was she sharing

The thoughts that I had, with me?

She smiled.  She motioned.  I went forth, and frozen

Saw a painting of me watching her watching.

For Julie

For Julie

Probably

No snowflake fell

On crackled tree

Or rosebush bendings

As lovely as

Your smile.

No rainbow arch

Encanvassed in pavement,

Resplendent in oil

From a passing car

Could catch the colors

In your hair.

Probably

A kitten or violet

Breathes closest

Your beauty –

Or a Russian winter

On a postcard

From a friend.