Windows and Mirrors

    faces of sad and happy life 

      lightning in crystal

   thunderstorm traps

frost-seed granulations

     water at freezing and melting

sunlight through museum panes

    the glare of volcanic glass

a bird’s reflection in its shadow

pearl of time in the face of night

    last looks at last faces descried

the binding of souls

bridges over limitless waters

view from a window at Le Gras

 time driving backwards

     mannequin transmissions

the vague “she” of poetry

nakedness dressed in its reflections

   sunset in Emma Bovary’s eyes 

blue mirrors of Shallot

the soaring of Zeno’s stillness

the flight of the alone

the surgeries of Dr. Glas  

the surface of vertical

the spaceless dimension

of duration

buried in glass

flower store windows bare

barbershop empty

travellers on a Greyhound

morning     the breath gone

Three Keepers

Rinat Dasayev

Dasayev’s save against Scotland
Off a glancing goal-bound header
In the 1982 World Cup
Was like a release in the fabric of space
And a save I now save, in tribute.

Gordon Banks

How do you save the shadow
Of a bouncing ball?
Raise your hand up to God.
How do you save a moment in time?
You save it forever.

Thomas N’Kono

Le chat noir had to save his team
While saving his race
In Europe’s arenas of racism.
He gave hope that hate could end
A goal worth saving.

Dreamt Barbershop

Passing a barbershop I see my father.
He’s reading his newspaper, as he often did.
He looks trapped by the mirrors
In which he worked, like a living specter.
I ask for a haircut and shave
But my father doesn’t recognize me.
I’ve grown too old to be his son.
As he cuts my hair, I feel the same touch
And his same skill with a razor.
We talk about sports, as we always could.
After the haircut I pay and leave.
I don’t wake the barber from his dream
Or myself, from my own.

Nonna Sewing, Sewing

Since childhood I’ve been unraveling
The spools in nonna’s sewing box
Needles for the handiwork of the moon
Pins for the sky against the sky
Thimbles for the chalice of the invisible
Measuring tapes for night’s endless garment
Scissors for the unseeming of space
Scraps for the patchwork of time
The white thread from the black
And the blue and white threads
She passed through the eye of a needle
Unspooling her own life in shadow

Extra Time

Let’s save the world,
Let’s play the earth into its net of stars,
Let’s put one goal up for humans
And zero for the enemies of time.

All you goalkeepers, let’s save the goal,
Let’s save the earth in its net of stars,
Push asteroids clear of the post
And intercept each crossing moon.

Football fans and players,
Together we can save the earth,
We can pass love through a ball,
Kick ignorance to a lower hell
And play with joy on celestial fields.

Diego Maradona

Who was Maradona?
He didn’t even know.
He kept trying
To be so many things.
He was dervish and dancer,
Panther and pirate,
Magician and juggler,
Monster and deliverer,
Animal and Angel.
Then one day a ball
Hung in the air,
Defying gravity, and he died.

Paolo Rossi

Scored through the eye of a needle,
Into the mouth of a fish
And the fishermen’s nets.
He scored through laundry lines
Like day moons in sunny blue,
And in the memories
Between fathers and sons
He scored into forever.

Father Time

Have the trees lost their leaves
Or am I seeing through my hands?

Have the leaves fallen
Or have I risen from the ground?

Have autumnal abscissions concluded
Or am I like you, deluded?

Have I reached old age
Or everlasting youth?

I don’t know. I don’t know.
Where I’m asked, I’ll go.

So Far Along the Forest Path

The youngest sassafras branches are green, like rose stems.

A broad-winged hawk lands on the hydro tower like one of the gods of voltage.

A cooper’s hawk and kestrel round out the day’s raptures.

Also came across a stand of young honey locust trees, like dancing partners dipping and swaying in the wind.

Along a path of reeds the whispers are like the voices of many lives in parallel universes.

Yesterday I found a dying mantis on the path, with a day moon in one eye.

Fall is falling today like an adagio only I can hear.

As though a Van Gogh of the wind had painted a brush dipped in sunflowers across the forest.

A female cardinal separates her shadow from her shade and turns up in neither.

When a cardinal and a blue jay cross the same path at the same instant, the discernment of truth cuts through the silence of beauty.

“Men are men, but Man is a woman.” Chesterton

Because rivers are women
And mountains are women
And savannahs and jungles
Are women with wild hearts
Because seahorses are women
And caves and seashells
And the wheel of the stars
Because language is a woman
And bread is a woman
And willows and wisdom
Because baskets of shadows are women
And deepest depths
And the moon and sun
With her golden raiment
And forgiveness has no fiercer mother
Or more frightening war cry
Because I know no man born of man
I know only woman
And she who turns the year

Mama Matrix Most Mysterious

Separating children from their families…
That’s like preparing for holocaust,
Blaming children for parental poverty,
Caging the infancy of their spirits,
Terminating their earliest heaven,
Punishing childhood for eternal hope,
Severing the heart from itself in itself,
Killing love on the road to the future,
Like poisoning your own waters,
Spreading rot to your own children,
Like trimming branches that bear fruit,
Disuniting yourself from the mama matrix
most mysterious,

Pounding the hammer of patriarchy,
Beating your simian chest
And gorging on your greed,
For Jesus said, “let the children come to me,”
Let the children be children,
Don’t break the petals from the flower,
Don’t strike out the sun like Ahab
For the insult you presume is yours.

Pensato

There’s one piano note my daughter plays
it’s like a pearl has appeared in the room
quasi niente like sunshine on water
ineffably tender like a white rose at the limit of its stem
a snowflake forming the keys of its crystal
a moonlit seashell butterfly instant and dove of light
a soundless note that absorbs all other notes
and like an afterimage
rings with the absence which it struck