OVER A DARK GROVE
Over the dark grove
fighting the poisons
of false love
at the finish line
here in the Paris Marathon
of another generation
watching the quarter moon
to question every encounter
with my French girlfriend
under the stars over the Seine
midnight becomes the tree
where exiles are conceived
in day beds dreams
almost buried by the snow
yet an murmuring baby
emerges whole by the park
in a laurel crib smiling
in his stroller
who will become a poet
of the surreal
who speaks in two tongues
plays hide and seek
under hidden garden walls
watching as the winds rise up
from the dusty rain clouds
of a January first dawn
inhaling the snow flakes
round his eyelids
near the edge of the shore.
AT THE THEATER
Watching Chekhov's play
"The Seagull"
with my Russian friends
up in the balcony
with a confessional love poem
slowly emerging
in my smiling imagination
when there is no language
that could sabotage
or upstage the Beat in me
with my sax of a soul
out here in the provinces,
anyway it is starting to rain
off the islands
and my girl friend
suddenly asks me for tickets
to see Adele
wondering if our life
merely repeats
the family dialogue
from any generation
in any lyrical play
or musical language
sends me back
to my early childhood
making my thoughts
and aching spirit rise
between two continents
to rock the boat over me
knowing an aging poet
is always in exile
shipwrecked on the ocean
or by merely visiting
the company of another.
THE TAXI CAB MAN
The poet asks how much
as his Dutch friend
puts his hand
on the meter
does not dare
to talk about money
at new year's time
they are both tired
and stood up tonight
by their double dates
two bouquets of roses
lie on the front seat,
the poet needs to
study French
in the library
on the back bench
waiting for his exam,
but he will not take
the cab driver away
from his grave yard shift
lasting a life time.
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