Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Alfred Booth- Three Poems


Alfred Booth is a professional classical pianist, an American living in Paris France. He has written poetry since childhood and only very recently has become interested in publishing his offerings. He has dabbled in acrylic artwork, plays Bach on the ‘cello and believes in association between the arts. 

The Poems.  After Debussy’s Pr√©ludes for Piano, I have always titled my pieces after them.


Interflora sent yet another oversized
bouquet, a mix of oranges and reds
this time, overbearing on the piano with
six others. In truth I had no tears to stifle.
I could not cross the Atlantic to bury her
and have come to hate the assumption
that bright floral compositions are a good
stand-in for funeral wreaths delivered
directly to the cemetery. Hell, I don’t 
even know where they chose her final
resting place, if ever she could.  Damn
the doorbell. Chocolates from my best
friend, the card says “at least you’ll get
happy highs eating them …”  I stare
out the window, throwing wrappers
on the pedestrians four floors below.


 conventional solicitude
[2015.30.3…a]


 *******************

in the new moon's covering
beyond thundercloud turbulence
I surround myself in bleakness
pillow-cased in its softness
you have stolen my journal
and learned secrets that have no voice
tonight there will be a tacit bargain
in the bedroom staged as a temple of black
perhaps you will see new light in my soul
and let it guide the guile of your fingers
across the corrupted twists in my spine
we will both pretend I feel no pain
and you will love me
as gently as Christmas snowfall
for this alone is your gift
in exchange for tonight’s intimacy
I will forget the chagrined unwritten pages
my pen did not bleed into my red leather journal
and again caress the perfect boundaries
of the only guardian I allow


 boundaries
[2014.17.9...a]

 ******************************

I rushed back, every corner a finish line
neither instinct, survival, nor love
gave me wings enough
your fifth floor rooms
were empty, save the comforter
sixty-four blue patchwork squares
with orange flowers
under which we slept each night
in the abandon of these last months
did I remember how many days
I wept, curled
in the warmth of our memories
it did not matter
I did not run to the lake
where I carefully folded my clothes on the dock
hoping this hunger had weaken my body
I could not sink, following my heart


 after your last words
[2015.26.3…a]


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