To Sit in a Lounge

not a disco, and not the kind of “lounge”

that is really a roadside bar,

or one filled with ferns

from the nineteen eighties,

but a real, not-on-the-Vegas-strip

where some slightly overweight guy

sits at an old fashioned electric organ

and plays music somewhere

between background and theme.

Nobody sings, and some people probably

sip martinis and Manhattans, I never did,

I overpay for a glass of wine, or diet and rum,

til I tire of alcohol and switch to coffee,

and they have pretty good coffee.

The organ music was the thing,

that and the lighting, not dark,

like a dive bar, but subdued,

and the colors ivory and black

with gold accents, not bright gold,

more old rubbed gold and if I am lucky

the booths are upholstered in the shade

of olive green my dad’s Naugahyde recliner

was in nineteen-sixty-five.

We would sit and talk

when the music wasn’t too loud,

and then just relax when he decided

the whole bar needed to focus

on this verse or that, still no singing,

as words would ruin the moment.

There were places,

where someone would sing,

but it was never the same.

I am Writing an Opera

not a libretto, nor an aria

every word, every sound,

every stage direction

first written in simple English

then transformed into

eighteenth century Italian

shapes and sounds

with intricate curlicues

long pauses and high escapes

into words sung as to be untranslatable

how the knife enters the heart

and love like blood drains

on to the stage with the mistaken

murder, the misdirected rage ,

the moment of self-loss,

and when I am done,

I will sing all the parts

and plunge the knife

into my heart for the finale.

I Watch the Swallows Dive

With my eyes closed

through windows that are not

there on the low cinderblock building

and I think of when my time

for leaving comes and wonder

about a villa overlooking the Spanish coast,

where the rocks look like Greek islands

but the food is better,

near the French Riviera,

but still far enough away a million

dollars can buy a view like this.

The swallows cast shadows

on the trees reflected

on the far wall until I open

my eyes to the darkness,

and see they were birds

of prey all along.

Bonus Army (Not about Palestine)

Nineteen-thirty-two, nineteen-sixty-eight,

two-thousand-twenty-four,

there are barricades and big burly policemen

all around the encampments

full of women and children,

full of those who care about justice.

The policemen are there to keep the peace

safely locked inside the camp.

while those who chant

for violence and oppression

are free to roam the great world.

Barricades and big burly policemen

are pleased to be in the service

of the powers that be, in the service

of the little men behind the curtains,

in the service of death and destruction,

for those who love peace

will always be the terrorists.

Stick like Pancho

Rides on a stick figure donkey

both black against an orange background

with Don Quixote stumbling

along on brave Rocinante,

truly as horse with no name

and yet one can imagine Pancho

wishing for a good meal at the inn

instead of a sound beating.

All this on the wall, on a great canvas

in a dinner in Meridian, Mississippi

a favorite layover and lunch

of veal cutlet and French fries.

Lucy’s Red Ball Dinner,

attached to a motel,

closed before my time,

but there was still an empty concrete

swimming pool and a pretty but rusty

young girl on a sign, prepared to dive

in with her close fitting bathing cap.

I remember the painting and the sign,

but I don’t remember much of the veal cutlet,

 though I know I ordered it

everywhere too fancy

to order a fish sandwich.

The Shade is a Blessing

The Shade is a Blessing

Especially for an old man 

on foot, limping 

with a walking stick 

where in the clearing 

the summer sun beats 

down even through 

the dirty straw hat.

A series of oaks, 

massive limbs covered 

with mossy fern fronds 

arching to make a near 

perfect  canopy 

over the dusty road.

The sandy red clay loam 

beckons for a sit 

in its coolness 

but he walks on 

in his shade, 

fearing a sit down 

would only mean 

a painful and feeble 

arising after awhile.

A Blessing

Grace be unto us

Those of us

who eat dark chocolate

and drink black coffee

and love the burn

of a hot pepper,

for we have learned

to love our suffering,

which comes in so

handy as one ages.

The Last Time I Had Cherries

Inspired by a wonderful discussion of a Louise Glück poem, led by the equally wonderful Mandana Chaffa:

The Last Time I Had Cherries

This morning, I broke the seal
on the plastic bowl the cantaloupes came in,
pre-sliced from the produce market
and carefully measured out
one cup of chunks into a hand-painted white bowl,
glazed by an amateur artist from Kentucky.

I don’t remember her name,
but she carefully painted red cherries
and then green leaves and brown stems.

I have used and washed this bowl
many times, the glazing is chipped and cracked.

With a case knife,
I cut the chunks
into bite size pieces,
sitting in the light
of my kitchen
as the darkened night
waits outside for morning.

There is no irony,
there is no hidden message
in this bottle of a poem,
unless you choose to find one
here.

I Smell the Ocean

in the quiet of my Tallahassee living room.

for as I like to say:

I like the ocean except for the sun,

sand, and salt water. In my old age,

I love a spring, or even a city pool,

filled with old people soaking and kids

squealing and splashing and having to be

told to not run on the wet concrete deck.

This ocean I smell is from over fifty years ago,

where two young boys played in the blue green water

and snow white sand, standing alternatively

in the knee deep water

and standing against a chest high breaker.

Doing this for hours at a time,

sun burning, and freckled all over,

so thirsty, but not wanting to get out

and cross 98 to the kitchenette where

Mama had us cold bottles of Coca Cola.

Thursday Afternoon Nap

waking up hit hard

like a Christian getting

old-timey religion

like Sister Jackson.

All four foot eight of her

running flat out, blue and white hanky

waving in the air, eyes closed,

with that high pitched sound half way

between a prayer and calling the hogs

And Jesus standing there with both fists

pounding down on your back knocking

them sins right out of you,

and almost knocking the breathe as well

But I hit the snooze button twice

then get up and find some ice water

thankyoujesus ice water

and make a ‘loney sandwich

and now I feel like I might make it

to heaven, or at least suppertime.