Thursday, September 3, 2015

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


The tombstone of a friend
in an image of the wounded
whispers breath
of the wind on a Beat
with words returning back
a thousand years
in the sun's glances
of lamentation
the Autumn disquiets
dazzling the waters
facing a Boston marathon
in memory
of your friend's passing
days fool you
like an embrace
of my jazz progression
on a canvas of belts and jackets
lining up for a marathon
by your running shoes
acorns fall from Evergreen
as a seagull cries and sings out
overhead for you
in a sun's hostage
as acorns fall
resting for a moment
before the marathon
to tie your open laces.


When we hear a song
a sonata, a solo on a sax
or tunes from an accordion
or whistling calliope
the recorded voice of Sinatra
or Peggy Lee
singing of San Francisco
become alive in their notes
for us alone,
the day becomes a memory
and all night thoughts
for the first time in years
begin anew, full of retraced
echoes of good times
on a city park bench
with a bunch
of fresh chrysanthemums,
remembering those journeys
between two continents
with undulated sails on an ocean
that once briefly capsized our boat
once at table
possessing grape leaves
surrounded by an absence
in being parted from a partner
not forgetting any exile's
loving evocation's
of skin and bones
near a favorite Greek cafe
drinking ouzo with lamb
and honey and almonds,
yet just as I am here
in a slack season playing riffs
on my alto sax
without many vacation tourists
amid an Autumn rain spell
to review past loves
amid the empty frozen stiff days
by a candlestick table
familiar music seizes me
to alter my own chastisement
over five reclusive dimensions
of my most transparent days
whose once forgetting echoes
has turned my life around.


On a graffiti wall, 2015
by the city's shelter
near the sea board canal
after a day
passed me by
taking this scrawled message
as a sign and high water mark 
for that day's urban read
resolving not to think about it
as any poet is burnished
by his rubbed out eyes
and runaway desire
to forget all burnt out
old relationships and affairs
which like dear John or Joan
sent burrs on a bitter fruit
with a mushroom candy
always seasonally resurface
like a bad nightmare
evinces my memory
by evocative flash-points
on my motor scooter
and wouldn't you know,
Budd with is endless
love conquest reports
sees me and waves
near my anchored kayak
wounded by hurricane storms
after his seagoing eyes
make out with intimations
of adventure in gestures
in his black magical 
and anti verse lines
saying in sexist fashion,
with his strong arm humor
in his patriot football jacket,
"There are more fish in the sea"
yet he graciously offers to help me
with the chains on my boat
by the edge of the dock
in this breakable noon low tide
and treats me to a lobster roll
in the local restaurant
where he waits on tables
and gets his love sick dates
from the weekend tourists
by the town's lighthouse.

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