I have nothing to say. I write that down assiduously.
I used to think I’d be a writer when I’d themes
and wisdom, from experience. But, invidiously,
I’ve learned nothing matters as much as it seems
it will before I chase it hard and jealously.
The ending of the chase keeps best in dreams,
and here, in winter sunlight, by the sea,
I am happy saying nothing, merrily.
The weather up north’s German (as they say, ‘wetter’).
Dutch polders that aren’t frozen float in rain.
Down here in Spain it’s drier. Warmer. Better.
Though Oslo slows from powdered snow, the pain
of seeing that on TV does not fetter
my feckless glee. Orange blossoms help me gain
perspectives that permit me to endure
my winter where the sea today’s azure.
published in THE ARMCHAIR AESTHETE and in THE OLDING MAN
December night acquires a fuller moon
that lights the whitecaps on the Ijsselmeer.
I pace to warm myself, attempt a tune
the wind absconds with, wiping off a sneer
from my chapped lips. A sleepy heron stands
just inward of the rocks that take the spray.
It dews his feathers, flecks and chills my hands.
Winter’s Blessed Wind Chill appeared in The Olding Man
The wind less dark than coal tar still sufficed
by jiggery-pokery to keep us in the dark.
It scrambled clouds and ringed the moon with ice,
eclipsed it with the world. No solar spark
traversed Earth’s molten core to light the ring
of atmospheric ice around the moon.
The walk home in the dark was twice as frightening
as we had dreaded all the afternoon.
You walked ahead and waved to keep your torch
alight and upright so we’d not get lost.
I saw the large dog pad down from the porch.
Your light blew out precisely when you crossed
your arms to shield your throat as I had dreamed
you would, and since you could not then, I screamed.