From My Corner Seat Page 2
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.