MAY MORNING
Who astonishes the sea
along the ruddy shore
like a May morning
in view at a port of entry
from my new sun shades
setting out like Ulysses
unshaven as Whitman
asking a boat motioning sailor
from the Azores
with a rose of Lisbon
in his girlfriend's clasped hands
if he could help me to unloosen
the anchor from my kayak,
following my helpless shadow
in a yellow raincoat
hovering in the high tidal waves
which rocks
his ditch water arms
that my back is not as strong
nor is my neck as smooth
as his young figure resembling
the curved lines as a man
in the Medusa's raft of Turner
against the showered heat
and boldly in one swoop
he cuts the anchor loose
as the hour is redeemed
against the flaming sky
along a surge of the dark sea.
A NEW WORLD
Those wild strawberries
in our cool hand
which keep us in sweetness
on May's long airy days
we hike on Concord trails
ablaze the meadow flowers
in well-worn denims
through kicking a ball
by cypress
catching my breath
over tall grass shade
against the west wind
of swarming hum of bees
by Walden Pond
reading to a circle of students
overcoming the pine combs
on common ground
over Indian blankets
of spreading light
all of us in turn
reciting words from Thoreau
everyone responds with perception
among the relentless sunshine
on these dales and hills
as nature reveals
the same language, love, nature
that the songbirds call.
RETURNING THE FAVOR
Six seconds
as blue jays appear
in the museum courtyard
awaiting Picasso
and the Old Masters
in our white sneakers,
by our own drawing easels
expanding their imagination
in the hill background
of our jostling crowds
expecting no artistic recognition
in my sequence
of anxious words
being the fourth in line
suddenly taking out my sax
my fingers are lucid
on a scaled sensitive mouth
as riffs in pages of shadows
plays out its snowy notes
in cabins of disarray
and moments of blues
from cherished B flats,
in luminous memories
from my reed of alto range
mingled in fathomless rhythm
why do I always make raves.
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