Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be
at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips
and here is one of mine, for no reason I can think of, except
reading Garrison Keillor's book, Good Poems, I am inspired to post
one of mine, unpublished as yet:
Bach’s Suites for Cello Unaccompanied
or The cell in Cello
“Every union of parts must make a whole and exhaust
all the notes necessary to the most complete expression.”
Bach’s biographer, Johann Forkel, 1802.
Morning’s silent, snow-covered hills,
weekends at our highland retreat.
Quiet not to wake the kids,
we heat up the morning sheets.
Your tongue pulses deep in my cells,
rejoices in the salt and sweet.
We knit a union of our parts,
until, exhausted, pause, complete.
(as Yo-yo Ma’s rosined bow
dances to a nervous peak.)