Carolina
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Red Sail Boat
In the corner
of the picture
a small red sail boat
riding on pointed waves.
The boat bleats
in its sails like a lamb
far from the pasture
far from the steaming barn
and its hewn beams low overhead.
As if it were pulled thoughtlessly
like a toy boat, its slicked keel diving
into fathoms.
From shore,
someone is watching
crossing, uncrossing their
arms under the racing grey
clouds.
Holy
Bread
I am a little Italian lady;
wispy grey bun.,
pale eyes.
I am my grandmother.
rocking in a dark corner
of the dim
light
where you lie
still as a holy candle.
.
Run away now and play my little orange
I have baked holy bread.
Mewing distractedly,
I whimper like the cat.
I am an old woman in black
in the dark corner
in a shiny black dress;
my grandmother.
How cold you are.
Your little hands.
I can kiss them. I can sing
in broken English
a foreign song I do not understand.
I am a quiet little woman,
old and bereft and ignorant.
Soft soft, not to wake you my darling.
My hands twist on rosary beads.
My rose, my butterfly,
my inscrutable icon, I will kneel
at the bed and pray to you.
I will be a miracle that never stops
weeping.
Though you begged me
I could not help you
I could not hold you inside my heart
Though you said soft, soft “mommy help me”
I could not listen.
Now I am a winter root
twisting upon itself
in a corner where the earth is cool.
The Loneliness of Things
My pens slouch in their holder like regular customers
or morning commuters waiting for the bus.
They must copulate (although this has not
been witnessed);
new ones arrive every so often.
And they grow old too…
and are discarded.
Sculpted with the exactness of a truly
divine J. Seward Johnson bronze;
“man reading newspaper”
on a bench in Buffalo
or “man hailing a taxi” in Manhattan,
the pens exude a patient loneliness
that is at once sweet and infuriating.
I want to say to the fine point Pilot,
“Oh you kid” or “you’re too sexy for your cap"
or maybe “macho, macho, macho man”.
Shake him out of his ordinary elegance.
Make him speak to me of meaning.
___________________________________________
J. Seward Johnson, American artist born 1930, J. Seward
Johnson Jr.is known for his life-like sculptures of people in
everyday life. He is the disinherited heir of the Johnson and
Johnson dynasty.
#1 in the style of Simon
what color the eyes unavoidable like
grey or blue dripping from the letter
that grief again and her hair I want
to show someone the picture but
when I choose the jealous birds watch
from the bent tree clouds coiling over
the eyes so obscure closing and opening
cannot read the sweetness if only
and people say dear heart and mean
exactly how the real hell is burning
and burning and all the kids come
running and she fell at the sink or
was it over the cup
so God died and what was beautiful
was lost and dear heart it is there
there where you the water lapping
the little dog looking
In the corner
of the picture
a small red sail boat
riding on pointed waves.
The boat bleats
in its sails like a lamb
far from the pasture
far from the steaming barn
and its hewn beams low overhead.
As if it were pulled thoughtlessly
like a toy boat, its slicked keel diving
into fathoms.
From shore,
someone is watching
crossing, uncrossing their
arms under the racing grey
clouds.
Holy
Bread
I am a little Italian lady;
wispy grey bun.,
pale eyes.
I am my grandmother.
rocking in a dark corner
of the dim
light
where you lie
still as a holy candle.
.
Run away now and play my little orange
I have baked holy bread.
Mewing distractedly,
I whimper like the cat.
I am an old woman in black
in the dark corner
in a shiny black dress;
my grandmother.
How cold you are.
Your little hands.
I can kiss them. I can sing
in broken English
a foreign song I do not understand.
I am a quiet little woman,
old and bereft and ignorant.
Soft soft, not to wake you my darling.
My hands twist on rosary beads.
My rose, my butterfly,
my inscrutable icon, I will kneel
at the bed and pray to you.
I will be a miracle that never stops
weeping.
Though you begged me
I could not help you
I could not hold you inside my heart
Though you said soft, soft “mommy help me”
I could not listen.
Now I am a winter root
twisting upon itself
in a corner where the earth is cool.
The Loneliness of Things
My pens slouch in their holder like regular customers
or morning commuters waiting for the bus.
They must copulate (although this has not
been witnessed);
new ones arrive every so often.
And they grow old too…
and are discarded.
Sculpted with the exactness of a truly
divine J. Seward Johnson bronze;
“man reading newspaper”
on a bench in Buffalo
or “man hailing a taxi” in Manhattan,
the pens exude a patient loneliness
that is at once sweet and infuriating.
I want to say to the fine point Pilot,
“Oh you kid” or “you’re too sexy for your cap"
or maybe “macho, macho, macho man”.
Shake him out of his ordinary elegance.
Make him speak to me of meaning.
___________________________________________
J. Seward Johnson, American artist born 1930, J. Seward
Johnson Jr.is known for his life-like sculptures of people in
everyday life. He is the disinherited heir of the Johnson and
Johnson dynasty.
#1 in the style of Simon
what color the eyes unavoidable like
grey or blue dripping from the letter
that grief again and her hair I want
to show someone the picture but
when I choose the jealous birds watch
from the bent tree clouds coiling over
the eyes so obscure closing and opening
cannot read the sweetness if only
and people say dear heart and mean
exactly how the real hell is burning
and burning and all the kids come
running and she fell at the sink or
was it over the cup
so God died and what was beautiful
was lost and dear heart it is there
there where you the water lapping
the little dog looking
Carolina was always a dreamer.
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