APRIL STOPPED HERE
Suspicious of night
for a sax player
in the English garden
wrapping us around in love
together
as cherry trees and wreaths
that we love
yet winter seem to loiter forever
as field mice on mounds
at a football stadium
try to annoy us at the game
but no mouse can cast us away
from a past romance
but returns like seaweed
along the home harbor bay
when holiday gifts
from London
or birthday cards
bring fresh inventory
making us not overlook
our jazz history's voice
those vagrant nights
to write better lines
or to send out love letters
more often,
yet we are drawn
to our nature's memory
which comforts us
that future words
like jazz riffs
will always be discovered
here even on a cold porch
while we eat,
or drink some rum
a day old muffin
or play a soft tune
having fun.
PERHAPS
Perhaps glued to
the Konwicki film, "Salto"
with the Polish James Dean
Zbigniew Cybulski
this weekend
brought back the times
after Cambridge lectures
we would sneak into
small art theaters
for two foreign films
those miracle days
when we would rest
on picnic blankets
with other students
intertwined with grass
by the Thames.
GREEN BOTTLE
The green bottle
we found on the wave shore
imagining pirates
on a circular blue island
feeling bloody cold
but determined from this map
to discover on secret
and it was here
with Spanish writing
telling us of a poisonous tale
as my girlfriend suspected
that every zigzag of a life
has an astonished story
for any poet or musician
who spins the bottle.
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