STILL-LIFE WITH PRICKLY PEARS

Two prickly pears in a small bowl
of old majolica posed on a silken stole
ask will you be my valentine…
recall a sweet Venetian barcarole.

Cactus creatures pocked with tiny spines
they stab the skin like quills of porcupine
they do not kill but finely cut the wounds
of will you be my valentine…

Deep red the foreground drapery is strewn
with fruitskins and a plate of macaroons
heart-shaped, in bastard amber light—
eternity is where it’s always afternoon.

The atmosphere floods with gemütlichkeit
a goblet filled and ready to be raised invites
once more, then, will you be my valentine…?
The background says: I think I might.
.
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STILL-LIFE WITH PRICKLY PEARS

RAVELRY

it reminds me of Imelda
the beloved elder who
held my pudgy mitts
to needles and to yarn
to show me how
before I knew what for

it moves in steady rhythm
creates loops and knots
that hold together
do not brag but build
a keepsake and by touch
may tell sometimes of love

it is a zen
for western minds
old fuddy fashioned
an annoyance and
anachronism
to a world all thumbs

its text
the texture of a fabric
danced not twiddled
coaxed into patterns
of a mathematics
music understands

it is an ethic and
a discipline made
from the sun
the clouds
the grazing sheep
in fields below

gathered and woven
strand to strand
as they become
a cap or muffler
mittens made to warm
a pair of human hands

.

RAVELRY

THE ELEGANT USELESS

April is much too
late in March for snow
but I feel much more like I do
now than I did a while ago
for I’ve just seen a great movie–
don’t miss it if you possibly can–
it was like a flash in the dark
or a shot in the pan
and in three dimensions:
black and white and color,
you know, a casual affair
between a donut and a cruller?
The theme, I think, was LIFE
(but you really had to be there)
starring Beatrice Somebody
& Art Guesswho.  (I wonder
who does her hair…and why).
Anyway, these two were like
twins, though one looked
more alike, and listen to this:
“they read no more that day.”
And if that doesn’t take your
day and make your cake,
right there I gave myself
to Art, just for art’s sake.

(I wrote this 35 years ago and take it out for an airing
now in honor of April Fool’s Day.  The snowbanks
along the sides of my street are still five dirty feet high.)

THE MUSE

The Muse is usually a she
according to art history.
More than once I’ve
served in that capacity.

I’ve also known it as a he
a love, an ardent kind
of sustenance, a boon
to heart and mind.

In the end I think
it is a voice inside
wherever the best
part of me abides.

It is ancient, bardic,
will not be cajoled
or come when called
or do as it is told.

“Do the work,” it says,
“and leave the door ajar.
Do not worry.
I know where you are.”