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 Préludes 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]