This poem, placed in the box this morning, celebrates the small glories to be found in holding a grandson.
For Now
You've tied my murmurs,
Smiling face, my scent,
My arm beneath your back--
A firm support, a light embrace--
Together into what is was
That made you grin just then
Into my widening eyes as though
We'd shared some joke
Or treasured memory,
Just ours,
From some earlier time,
As though there was one.
Now there is and it is mine
To hold for you for now.
From time to time someone will leave something for me in the poem box. This beautiful hand-painted cork appeared there recently, with a nice note from the artist.
This poem was entered into the streetcorner box for the month of March, 2021. It was inspired by my niece, who is a student at the University of St. Andrews, and by my introduction to a form of poetry called the duplex.
St.
Andrews Duplex
Her nose
is rimed cool salt the air of place
A
football arcs toward Salvators and grace
Lay near the goal if that were grace
I held her like a kitten then amazed
She had
no fear was not amazed.
I was monstrous
fearful of my strength
Fearful that my balance was my
strength.
You found a place to gauge the speed
of light
The
lowering clouds mute time and place and light
A woman
came this way before this time
A young woman had no use for time
The oysters arced from her hand to
the land
Another
day ended silent or began
Her nose
was rimed cool salt the air of place
I've fallen behind in posting the monthly poems, which are still going out to the box for the passers by. The last two months have been poems about my father, now gone, who was a Sailor in WWII. This is the poem for May:
You Rest
You fell among the fishes for a while
Perhaps a sunfish saw you pass
One dinner plate of sight
Just catching the glint of brass
Too deep already for the mourning words
The tinny music there above to reach you
And the gentle rasp of the flashing shoes
Upon the coated deck
It’s left to me the imagining
The tumble through the cold
And darkening
The way you might have done
And the settling there a bit atilt
The dust of the universe drifting down
Around your place upon the silt
Where still you rest
I work at this but my command of Middle English is poor. I like the sound of it, though, for certain subjects and moods.
We are hopeful.
Arrival
Had you sneaked yourself here
From among the stars
A bit of mischief
Arcing across the quiet dark
To take your place before me
I’d have come up short in wonder
Listened for a boom or a whoosh
Cocked my head for a better look
To see you turning yours up to me
Ready to jump
Ready, ready, ready
Go
A poem for December, 2020, inspired by the twin boys who will make their appearance as members of the family in the early months of 2021.
Twins
Like you,
I know no moonlight where I sleep
A
swish—one passing car—wafts through
My
windowpane
I wonder
what you sense
Your
purchase fresh but strong now
There
within my girl
A world
without abstraction
Warm and
wet at least
But what
is that to you
You two
Entangled
in the mortal sprint to light
More like
me every day
Or what I
might have been at least
At best
my night surrenders to
The
morning soon and soon enough
We’ll all
three bathe beneath the moon
