Saturday, May 2, 2015

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


Joined in a nascent spring
in a Blakean mood
here in England on May Day
a crocus in my hand
by the country dark road
the wind whispers to me
by unblocking first light
on my sunglasses
hearing the waves 
in echoes of mourning doves
a poet who dreamed of peace 
awakened on my knapsack
blowing my sax riffs
by the Thames
wanting to splash down
my disjointed rhythm,
soon crowds hear me
reading out loud
on these stoned hours
poisoned by ex lovers,
starlets, soap opera stars,
who in my youth
seduced and enticed me
to believe that a night's love
was more than cloth
of an unfastened dress rehearsal
for a new playhouse 
in their bedroom eyes of words.


There are few Puritans
here of any sort
under the flaring sun
round heads need not apply
or hidden royalty
of Cavaliers
in their collars
only tourist dollars
are their loyalty
at any last resort
yet there is a boy by the rocks
with his sports gear
by his backpack side
reading my poetry
in solitude, out of sight
and an ex bride of a few years
with long blonde locks
stretched out
on the white sand
with a seared copy
of sexy Restoration plays
in her small hand
with a fragile sunflower
you hold on
so why fear
the early morning
when you dream
on the ineffable earth
of the last icy winter
at the early hour
love glances at your guest
changing the  first light
on your face
there is a limpid smile
you had in sleep.


Aware of the power
of water, sand ,tree
in the honeysuckle
by the Charles River
on revolutionary fields
at Boston Common
near graves
by a poet's hushed light
on a feathered warmth
from muddy streams
green moss, lichen, stone
to open the springs
by fountains of pruning lilacs
no song birds are missing
only a thrush
calls on us to open a blanket
where mad lovers
on river beds
make out for a night
in the glimmering shadows
with faint sounds
who rub our initials
on Evergreen trees.

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