Subject Matter

Triptych With Granddaughters

It all started with that damned self-portrait.
A square meter canvas,
the entire palette
slapped urgently on-
me through my eyes
as well as meagre talent
and an unholy dose
of honesty allowed.

Not pretty, but not bad either.

I've both ears and the jarring,
(if seen too nearly)
mildly manic juxtapositions
of chartreuse, mandrill-ass red,
blue-black and fuchsia do acquire,
at a middle distance, with patience,
over time, a sort of equilibrium,
the dissonance contributing
to an admittedly difficult but
not wholly unrewarding composition.

It's a good semblance too.

I was thrilled she
even looked twice,
stood across the room
(a bit too far for me)
in earnest, cross-armed,
purse-lipped assessment.

For a week of Sundays she returned,
asked me some questions,
was altogether pleasant,
witty/chatty/funny/comely and,
if ring-fingers don't lie, unwed.

And, sure, I allowed myself
a few nanometers along
the infra-red edges of hope.

Then the microscope,
and the vastness yet between us
multiplied exponentially.
Glued to the oculars,
the startling aquamarine
of her lively eyes
not otherwise occupied,
my homely humanity
(nose pores, sundry scars and
rogue, gray eyebrow hairs)
grew, perhaps, grotesque
and unsettling to her.

Immediacy had much to do with it.
The word myopic comes to mind.
But I shy from its cool-blue
gunmetal tang and deem it
unfit for the kinder kind
of composition I here intend.

She came, she looked, she split-

that is all.

So, with details culled from her
nimble, pre-flight conversation,
I painted her a poem,
a fantastic triptych
in grandmotherly hues.

Left panel:

the backyard of a modest clapboard house,
unmown grass, deciduous trees,
a robust mom hanging clothes on the line,
children running, eatin' rabbits
(destined for the stew pot)
among them, their pens behind.

Middle panel:

a tan girl of six or eight,
tallish, long-limbed,
dancing at a wedding,
her skirt rising and rising
as she's wheeled and whirled,
the joyful dizziness mounting,
her mouth a dark and happy oval
replete with toothy glint,
the squeal suggested.

Right panel:

gramma and grampa
(of radiant, kind-brown eye)
seated and sweatered on
a bench beneath a limonero,
her head drowsy on his ample shoulder
in the white-gold, Mediterranean morning,
nietas idling in the foreground,
their hand-sewn dolls nestled neatly
in their skirt folds, the story,
how gramma and grampa met,
just told for the upteenth time.

Apple Trees

Some Grown Ups

Fallen into the fruitless habit
of voicing, almost only,
joyless impossibilities.
Psycho-spiritually defined by
unimaginative, nauseating negations.

Mindless of the Lilliputian parade
of miraculous quotidiana,
small accomplishments
waltzing always to the
second hand’s palsied progress.

So much scuttles by them
unbidden, unsung, marching
with miniscule majesty
toward the horizon-
vanishing blithely
while they stay behind embittered,
reloading their arms,
unsmiling,
shooting fish in a barrel.

4cast

Falling Up: Precipitation

Below ground
(on Brooklyn’s 3 train)
a supple-hearted man
keeps his smile to himself.

Around him
a host of small, mean mouths
clench tight to win imagined battles-
as if they mattered.

Above ground all’s expansive,
mild-mid-November, Indian summer,
a parade of cheap umbrellas
down 7th Avenue-

a drizzle-dream city
fit for an grinning fool
whistling and greeting
strangers as the miles
evaporate beneath his
loping gait toward Central Park.

Rain

Puddle Wonderful (post coital)

Like coming up for air,
as in those first
snug seconds,
when one comes to at dawn-
awash in the wake
of some clear dream.

A pain soothed,
a valve opened,
a note struck true
and round.

Wobble legged meanderings
through rain laden Central Park-
the air all tang and leaf rot.

The visceral revulsion to
plodding patterns of
public pablum is,
for a time, eased.

The world, a surface,
a seeming silvered pool
gone ringing into slivery
splinter musics in the
mirrored mind's shard garden.