From My Corner Seat Read online

  uncovering quiet in these hills,

  sequestered above the River Valley

  run beneath this crested rise we’ve seen.

  These hills allow these secrets room

  to loom in silent tales felt deep.

  WCF

  19 October 1998

  Implicit Solemnity

  At the stove, her back to me,

  she stands to stir whatever’s there;

  with hair drawn up this steamy day

  and frizz awareness present, she

  presents the close wrapped formula

  of woman at the stove. Bare arms

  and shoulders pare the stillness; one

  knee bent, the other firm, she holds

  a steadiness in symmetry…

  as if a solemn, stolid form

  intent on something past this norm,

  indulging for the empty house

  whatever she desires to leave

  inviolably behind. I weave

  a gentle smile, almost enough

  to be beheld should anyone

  have glanced my way—as no one would.

  WCF

  4 May 2010

  One Rose, Set Apart

  The roses bloom outside

  the glass, in sun and shade

  along the shop, beneath

  the deck end. Each

  assumes the end of stem,

  a coral red, alive

  and soft, allusive toward

  the beauty each prepares

  to grace. I see it there—

  the one atop the long

  and crooked stem, set off

  in shade and rich in tone,

  as open just enough

  to tease the glance and please

  the gaze that lingers—sees

  the preparation for

  the face that limns the shy

  and subtle afternoon,

  a lithe precision-koan.

  WCF

  15 July 2011

  In Howell’s Paean

  The sixths and sevenths complicate

  extruded Paeans wrought intact

  through writhing souls not seeking bliss

  as this. And yet the tortured chords

  massage neglected cleavages—

  the hoary clefts and crevices

  that punctuate the precipice

  that is the sutured soul unknown

  but latent, lately bared to be

  this unrelenting effort—here

  we must requite the gentleness

  so sternly sifting our remorse

  until this laden subtle course

  is as trajectory for grace

  to answer each abyss with blithe

  extenuating pleasure: bliss.

  WCF

  2 May 2010

  An Unavoidable Passing,

  As It Seems

  Necessity, it seems:

  I wait; she passes by,

  traversing to return

  from copying to find

  her needed place. As eyes

  divert, revert, converge,

  diverge, a murmur seines

  good morning from the reins

  of innocent desire

  for otherwise. She strides

  in fine conversion of

  this taut intent—but all

  is passing, as it must be.

  WCF

  2 May 2010

  He Watches Alzheimer’s

  In Rage

  The talk flows to and fro

  a restless, seething sea

  that ebbs and flows, begins

  and ends obnoxiously.

  In patter passions clash

  and writhe in throes of want

  and tethered despair. I see

  the words unheard and notice

  what agonies achieve

  within this hollowed vale

  of wizened misery.

  The thought of death prevails

  and percolates the soul

  with nihilistic growl—

  death is escape, despised

  for one whose mind is pared

  in day by day descent—

  death does not matter as

  the grueling pace of age

  elides all vital will—

  and death is nothing but

  the solitary rage

  one man in lonesome pain

  exerts upon his void.

  WCF

  27 February 2011

  The Familiar Crow Perch Tree

  The four crows dally on the limb

  stretched over and bent below the tree

  in overhanging presence. Slow

  persistence marks their patience—black

  along the branch beneath the grey

  of winter overcast. Kept still

  in this array, moved perched to perch

  along the gnarled, adjusted span,

  they contemplate the melting snow,

  the chilling dampness on the backs

  of black, the overbearing beaks

  and penetrating gaze. At last,

  the etching breeze distracts them; one

  by one they take to wing and scatter

  into their distances—and leave

  the branch’s angular arrest

  a solitary, empty perch.

  WCF

  23 February 2010

  Directions On The Air

  The telephone: he aims

  to weave description, how

  to cross the river, take

  the highway—third street—south

  until the corner (did

  he say the light?)—with Ace

  and BP on the corners,

  both on the right. It is

  the place to turn. It seems

  confusion intervenes.

  He never goes beyond

  the corner: not the light,

  the turning to the right,

  the passing over tracks,

  a couple four way stops

  and then a right to find

  this place he sits to conjure

  directions to the town

  and street and centerpiece—

  where he is eating now.

  WCF

  23 April 2010

  Shadow Work

  In the room the shadows slide

  from sight to slight allusion—then

  escape, return, rescind their mien

  of earnest on reality

  to leave imagination’s sleight

  of mind deceptions room to slide

  into obscurity. I hear

  the rattle on the dish, a spoon

  (I must assume) on plastic, steel,

  some other medium she sought

  for management of chores today.

  I find the shadows centering

  in flesh that moves to view—and out

  again, provides a voice, a laugh,

  suggested elegance of poise,

  perhaps a toss of head, a yen

  to calibrate the ceiling span,

  It’s all a busy afternoon

  engaged in this and that and all

  familiarity with chatter

  and many rudiments of calm.

  WCF

  23 April 2010

  Just Like That Maple Burl

  A world of make believe begins to serve

  reality as surreal image curled

 
; into some fractal approximation burl—

  the answer of a wounded wood to swerve

  around necessities in bird’s eye marl,

  obnoxious pretension on a wary whirl.

  WCF

  26 March 2010

  The Deer In Flight

  By scent, it seems, does Arthur lead

  his eagerness to stretch the leash

  around the bend and take his start

  ascending quickly up the slope.

  I see the two deer flash their white

  tails, scampering yet farther up

  the steep climb toward the crest above

  us all, below the structure sitting

  beyond that line. He yanks again,

  ears perked and muscles readied as

  the other two turn tail and wave

  their white announcements in review.

  They’re gone, too quick for Arthur’s pique.

  He comes back to the road and seeks

  to see them as they bound beyond

  our pace, and out of Arthur’s sight.

  WCF

  6 March 2010

  A Stark Night

  It’s night: the wind

  has died and cool

  hangs lazily

  beyond the screen

  within the moon-

  less darkness there.

  So weaned from day,

  from days of strong

  wind rattling chimes

  beneath the deck

  and chimes outside

  in front, we hold

  this laden pause

  as if it held

  a latent life

  too unexpressed

  to grasp—but let

  it whisper hush

  in a silent, still,

  remissive night.

  So subtly now

  some pleasure sifts

  the shy reserve

  of inner dark.

  WCF

  7 April 2010

  All From A Fluster

  for the substitute postal clerk

  A restless queue awaits her tact

  in ministering through the snarl

  the uncooperative machine

  had made. Persistent, though, she gained

  a freedom—full response: the tabs

  correctly flowed and all proved well

  enough to tally through the needs

  one customer allowed. The next

  had answers as her registry

  of questions took the start. A pert

  address assumed he knew the roll

  required of her. The queue proceeds:

  she greets the next, composed and calm,

  a confidence in smile, slight flush

  upon her cheeks, adorning her

  live presentation. Taking in hand

  the pieces, most in ready form

  and one demanding a foreign rate,

  she makes the ready moves, alert

  and smooth, while swaying foot to foot

  as hands arrange the stamps requested

  and all the chances—thence the change

  impressed on palm, receipt in time

  and with a supple radiance

  turns sight and pleasure to the next.

  WCF

  16 April 2010

  And Mrs.

  She pleased him, sitting there

  beside him in the pew.

  She followed at his lead

  as strange—but not with him—

  while at their standing, hand

  hooked on his arm, she staked

  her claim on place and all

  the pleased pride on his face.

  WCF

  4 April 2010

  He Went Once More To Normandy

  remembering a remembering

  Long forty years had come and gone before

  he went again to Normandy. He looked

  upon the beach in peace; he toured by hook

  and snare the cliffs and gained the top once more.

  Somehow the battle roar lay cloaked in hush;

  and on beyond were graves where soldiers lay

  who’d braved with him that hoary din that day

  in nineteen forty four, so full of rush.

  He tells the tale of trails in Normandy

  between the battles, tours of France and then

  of Belgium on the way to German soil,

  the land his father left—and laughs to be

  in Belgian pubs and lands and homes again.

  The rest “You do not want to know”: life’s boil.

  WCF

  6 June 2011

  An Explaining Of The Night

  a teacher-barmaid’s plight

  Retiring on a coy-cast grin

  with eyes lit in intrigue, this means

  leads toying on the settlement

  of ordinary ease. The times

  in thirty eight passed years have wrought

  an unaccustomed change. It seems

  insidious these days, the mean

  and vitriolic schemes that tryst

  with meaningless derision. There,

  as she explains, corrosion eats

  the patience, disembowels the wise

  comportment, all the wishing forged

  to make it possible for lithe

  achievement to surprise the young’

  with possibilities that have

  remained the unimagined chance

  of living in these furtive days.

  The telling of the tale is strained;

  her face enlivens, darkens in

  the blonde arrangement, blithely bright

  in sudden bursts that tease across

  the bar as at the barre in angled stretch…

  as if an angel in subtle flair

  of dance upon some pin—the point

  as solitary ecstasy.

  Between the misery that drives

  retirement’s earnest in the dree

  and playful sweeps, flirtatious sways

  of face expressing radiance—

  a glow that masters framing gold

  that collars throat and drapes below

  to haunt the supple rustle she

  endows—and in this mix we dare

  to share, the customers begin,

  and she proceeds to dally in

  alert preferment, poised to sate

  the night with dandled, pleasing sleight.

  WCF

  20 April 2010

  An Exchange: Modest Enough

  While coming down the hall

  I see her choose the door

  I sought—the men’s room. Well,

  I thought, emergencies

  arise and quiet times

  allow for compromise.

  I dally in approach;

  (another woman asks

  if I am seeking some

  one. No, I say.) I wait

  till she will leave the door,

  admit me to the room.

  And she returns; the door

  comes open. She admits

  she’s never been in there

  before. An earring now

  demanded a mirror’s face.

  I must suppose the room

  is much the same as that

  next door. She mumbles it

  is nicer—though I am

  not sure which one is “it”—

  and she
stayed not to let

  me question more than that.

  WCF

  25 April 2010

  The Sitting Still An Issue

  By seeming restlessness, her arms

  wrap round her body, stretch aside

  and lead her shoulders in a hunch,

  twine as she thrusts them forward, bend

  in agitation, trail a hand

  to scratch a shoulder, slide

  beneath the nape, reformulate

  in those unique gyrations. When,

  at last, a time for rising comes,

  she stands and hooks her right arm fully

  into his elbow crook, leans, lifts

  her face as he bends gently his

  to gaze upon her eyes. Then she,

  as satisfied, releases, eases

  her restless frame into a peace.

  WCF

  25 April 2010

  Tomatoes Win The Night

  for Julia Bolin

  Tomato acid scintillates

  the kitchen air, in steam that swirls

  at canning exercise. The garden

  provideth; the kitchen taketh, maketh

  the preservation for winter’s lull.