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Archive for May, 2013

         

        The chimes on the porchIMG_1779
         sing so loudly
        in this easterly wind
        that I am lulled
        by the sweet afternoon
        concert
        in the shade of
        a walnut tree
        back
        to our silent discourse
        under the mango trees
        where we spoke
        in our own special language
        of smiles and looks –
        and gestures:
        not unlike the words
               of children at play
        all wide eyed,
        flinging arms-
                       faces
        only inches from
        each other – so close
        I could see the light blue
        ring around the pupils
        of your dark eyes:
        like a bright orb
        around a  dim planet
        gifting it with luminescence
        and uniqueness-
        something else we share
        beside our propensity
        for gloominess
        and love of words-
        irony of ironies
        for two poets
        to sit in a long muted pause.

        Today the wind chimes
        and mating starlings
        have taken up your cause,
        breaking the permanent silence
                      only death can bring:
        they sing relentlessly
        almost violently
        as if I needed a reminder
        that even now,
        and more so then ever
        you are to be heard,
        insisting my last
        promise
        be kept,
        and so I whisper
        to myself
        I will not stop writing …….
       
        These words
        are now our
        only discourse,
        and like the chimes
        that hang quiet
        until the perfect wind
        creates
        an elegant
        and sudden
         harmony of notes,
        I live day to day
        weighing
        the value of an image:
        the movement of spring leaves
        in the evening light;
        as nuthaches
        climb the newly greening
        branches
        of the walnut tree
        like tiny tightropes,
        spinning their orange
        creamy breasts
        180 degrees
        like the daredevils
        they are,
        or honing the syntax
        to be as clean
        as clear
        as precise
        as the hole
        some flicker
        has bored
        on our street’s light pole,
        day after day
        hour after hour
        drilling
        with its
        weapon of a beak
        so it may
        swoop deep
        into the cavity
        and sit
        in all its
        redcap glory
        peering at those below
        like the unknowing
        uninterested
        peons that we are.

        But I do notice
        for both of us –
        capitan,
        you have taught me well.
       

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