through my window
I
it’s morning
I look through the frame
catch the brilliant blue of Magritte’s sky
I think of writing poetry
but what could I say that has not been said?
the moment’s lost now anyway
drifted behind the neighbor’s fence
fallen into the mulch of bougainvilla blossoms
while two young birds vie for the same twig
II
transparent curtains are drawn
against an afternoon sun
there’s a hint of gold in the Bird of Paradise blossom
its head jutting as in conversation
to a neighboring stalk
while a ceramic frog looks on as if amused
it’s time to water the yard
but I gaze at shadows, the curve of a fence
III
the sky reminds me of a painting I once saw
swirls of ochre heat across a Van Gogh field
my tongue and throat burn with thirst and dust as
Santa Ana winds crawl along my skin
burrow in that maddening way
until someone hands me
a star-filled glass of water
we sit together until a rare crimson moon
comes to rest in a vast tie-dyed sky
IV
there was a poet in the garden
he drank a cup of tea, ate a biscuit
we spoke of this and that
of words mostly
and how their meanings are usually skewed
by carefully wrought and embellished frames
gold leaf, shellac, perhaps an ornament or two
"I refuse to be bound by the edges of things" he said
then reached his arms up to brush beyond the canvas
I traced his movements
felt the motion of his hand
thought, here is a poem I would like to read
| textual plaything
She really wants to be his textual plaything,
so he can punctuate her words.
She needs to be his blank screen,
so he can show her a few verbs.
She's ready for his word play--
see how she looks at him?
She's pointed to his full page,
says, "I'm your latest whim!"
But he's got something coming
that he didn't think to consider;
she's more than a screen saver,
and a few clicks won't delete her.
She's turned the page over;
he's lost his verbiage.
She's put her voice on top,
and sent him to the edge. | Finding Two: A musician’s guide to love
in the beginning, we shared stuff
words mostly, then music, books, lots of coffee
an occasional slice of pizza
there were a few nights, sitting on the porch
where you made me cry
and that was a good thing
then you bought me Anne Sexton poetry when I was depressed
great timing
for a musician
"your rhythm is off" you said
"practice with a metronome"
like love has a sense of time
you’re playing on the beat
I’m playing off it
so we meditated instead and
I listened to the crickets outside the window
tried to place my breath in sync with their’s
that didn’t work either
I’m not a cricket
I couldn’t tell where one breath began, the other ended
couldn’t single out a voice to follow
found my own, though
it said, "not two"
 | Terrie Leigh Relf writes the Poet's Workshop column for WritersMonthly.com
Email Terrie | |
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