Saturday, December 03, 2016

Grayer Truths

I saw it in a horoscope
Yours not mine
Trumpeting grayer truths
I wondered why
That was fine

I wandered off the grid
Of black and what
A vacant landscape
No rock, sand, water, air

Is this horoscope for real
Something neutral
Less invested
Cooler scale
Achromatic
Hues of medium

I wondered
And wandered unbleached
Undyed
Indeterminate and old
Searching for grayer truths

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

autumn other-than-haiku 1


She said she had to sort things out
I figured it was her and them
She had to sort some things
I found it was me and her
This and that
Those and them
What's the difference
Besides black and white
Far and wide
Me and you
Then and now

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

autumn haiku 4



oak beech elm maple
 
spare bronchiated branches

squirrels scurrying 

 

Monday, November 14, 2016

Saturday, November 12, 2016

and this is America . . .

We sat in tiny chairs at tables made for kids. In the school library, the tops of tables and the seats of chairs were closer to the floor. We paired off, a dozen adults and a dozen first and second graders. We were reading. We read to each other. The adult would say a word that the child stumbled upon. The child would repeat it. (Incidentally, this is the sort of quiet volunteering that Supreme Court nominee Merrick Garland has done for many years, but that's another story. Or is it?) Some children wrote letters on erasable white boards. One could hear the mysterious sounding-outs of letters and their combinations, the gentle coaxings and coachings that shed light and pattern. Sight words, flash cards, stapled pages we called books. Voices blending. Encouragement. Ears yearning. One boy reached out to touch a man's gray hair. The child seemed baffled and amazed at the hair's texture, its novelty. Sometimes a child would navigate a whole book, maybe twice. And at other times, the adult and child would mirror each other's narration or take turns in some improvised manner. Perhaps they'd discuss the new words or the plot or the informational content. The boy remarked on the veins in the old man's hand. "My hand is a different color," the young fellow observed matter-of-factly. "Yes, I see that. Isn't it wonderful," replied the man. They turned to tackle another book, the chorus of learning filling the room.

Monday, November 07, 2016

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Manhattan paean

The Slavic voices at Starbucks near the Asian straight black hair cascading off shoulders; the woman talking to herself or the sidewalk air loudly declaring 'I ain't that bad'; leaving the $37 for 24 hours garage on 110th, pivoting from Broadway to West End Avenue, the green lights in synchronicity, counting the cross streets down, even ones one way west to east, odd ones one way east to west, with a few thrown in for both directions, such as 96th; yellow cabs white NYPD black Mercedeses red Mustang silver VW; Verizon cable being snaked downward cranes upward; a city reinventing itself old new old new flashing like brilliant Times Square HD billboards; skimming the tops of skyscraping apartment buildings the splash of late-afternoon sun; amber then red light; honey locusts maples poodles schoolkids fire engines sirens; filigree pedigree wrought-iron gateways doorways window grilles and bas relief designs in concrete from the Gilded Age; uniformed doormen; strollers nannies headphones crosswalk scarf-wearers in the wind; grocery carts; bicyclists insanely threading a life-and-death needle of time and space and daring; tall apartment buildings by the trash transfer station with the tall stack by the car dealers where last time more than a decade ago I parked in a cheap lot with razor wire now gone; West End becomes 11th no one told me; the Hudson River Jersey light nearly blinding; breeze downtown; Lincoln Meatpacking Chelsea Piers; by the water; boulevard; contours; swerve; smooth. Manhattan.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

dream lover

At the stoplight, he glanced into the rearview mirror. It framed a vision. She was looking down, obviously at her phone, at a text or a message, who knows perhaps a YouTube video. She was young, with dark hair, dark eyes, dark eyebrows, long, dark hair. Time stopped before the light changed. What a dream, he thought, relieved the light was turning green, relieved she never locked eyes, as can happen in those mirrored exchanges. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream" floated into his head as he put his left foot on the clutch, pressed the gas, and turned left.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

autumn haiku 1



rolling green meadows / tawny cornstalks sunset-drenched / before bonfire sparks