Sunday, December 13, 2015

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


Between us
and pebbles from the sea
the dead stones come alive
from my noon daydream
of tackle fishing in December
on the other side of the Bay
here for a last run on the Cape
miles away from the shore
as trout survive
seconds, seasons, times
now remembering my headlight
of my motorcycle
needs to be switched off
e mailing my sailor friend
Ringo in another kayak
along these predicable waves
visiting me from London
who plays drums
like Ringo Starr
named by his
blues singer mom,
they go to my Big Apple
Beat poem reading
she hopes Ringo
would become an ecologist
like his father
to travel on sunny ancient
on roads of exodus
by outposts of crowded sails
living in tents
over desert borders
to protect and rescue turtles
sea lions, white whales
though Ringo decided to be
a Hollywood stunt man
running from burning cars.


Jolts in my body
hitting the wall
hearing barefoot fans
interceding for us to win
by road beds on river ruts
our shaken up bodies
near birds on statues
singing by tree stumps
at the first hour of dawn
by indelible tracks
on distant paths
crosswise near green hills
some recounting time
others wishing to make
a record for themselves
under bridges
soon with wobbling knees
and sweated shoulder pain
bodies with feet blisters
cramping hope
on rugged terrain
far from home
with one hand clasping
from two sidelined
recumbent leaning bodies
wishing us well
all in search for meaning
or here for charity
as our salt eyelids
rivet from its blur
wanting oxygen
and a bottle of water
rising to a jazz rhythm
keeping in the lane
forgetting past riffs
by helping one beside us
to get up from the grass
of a recent blueberry harvest
grinding around us
with four hours left
to mimic last night's sleep
yet pressing toward
the right landmarks
gambling I will survive
with no stop watch
not quitting until dark
until the yellow finish line
appears out of no where
on miles not acquainted with
falling short for rest
in my path by a golf course
near crooked peaks
as runner ups in landslips
over greensward dales
trying to be undaunted
but not fully understanding
why here at my age
still running without
much energy
taking turns over time
my sneakers
unlaced in a chalk circle.


Since awaking
at first light
lingering for a time
without sugar in a latte
from a huge coffee cup
this early December
listening to Dusty Springfield
as we turn the clocks back
remembering the pastimes
fighting over
a murdered English muffin
in a darkness of mirror
remembering you, Ruby
sleeping in your arms
amid a corridor of mums
from a yellow bouquet
grafted in your hair
with dahlias of fragility
ready for an urban read
and sax recital
now extricated in cold air
from my winter jacket
to share my chilled out riffs
from a taxi cab window.

B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, and fiction writer.

His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Hungary); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others. His newest poetry collection, "Everything, Everywhere," will be available from Penhead Press in September.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

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