A Poet

In so much as I have seen
The downtown skyline cast
Its shadows on the surface
Of the lake at sundown and

In so much as I have met
My muse asleep in the back
Seat of a yellow cab on a
Crowded street and

In so much as I have scribed
The way her head leans back
With eyes closed and her mouth
Hung open slightly as she dreams

 

 

Wings

She is a white-winged maiden
That Chagall might paint
Floating across a sky of lapis lazuli
Carrying a single feather
In her hand

Tilted slightly in attitude
And speeding azimuth
She flies on paper wings
Not her own
But that I alone give her

To a schoolboy she is
The first day of summer vacation
And exhales the warm air
Of June mornings
Holding hope
Promise and all things
Not yet here

She sings glad tidings
With a child,s voice and
Tickles me with
The white feather of newness

 

 

Fog

At night
Tall buildings
In Chicago,s skyline
Are lit like Chinese
Paper lanterns
And seem to float up
Weightless like
Fog that
Drifts in

After 2 a.m.
Off Lake Michigan
To subdue brightness
And obscure form
At night
When darkness
Runs like liquid
Along Lakeshore Drive

 

 

Run Softly

I run through the woods
On a path along the river,
Under the December sky
That moves from dark gray
To gathering deep purple,
Where trees and snow
Turn the landscape into
A charcoal and chalk sketch.

I remember the Frost I learned
As a boy, and mark his meter
With my footfalls as I run:
"Whose---woods---are---these---
I---think---I---know---
Made by the sandpaper sound
Of my sneakers on the asphalt
With a dusting of snow.

 

 

Blushing Sunrise

As in Homer,s Iliad
Dawn is a golden haired girl,
Painting the sky over the far
Eastside

Above wood frame homes
Needing gutters and new roofs
A boy watches
Alone

From the sunrise window
Of his bedroom as daylight
Creeps above the elms on
Holcomb street.

 

 

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