Poems

Sunlight dyed crimson by the lead-limned folds
of the master shepherd’s cloak
Turns auburn the coiled braid of the harpist
Leaning gently into her royal
Instrument inlaid with vines, a Corinthian column
At its prow. She weaves us melodies.
The stained glass sheep listen, eyes
Downcast or mesmerized, feet
On apple green astroturf. HOw sweetly
Jesus leads his flock.

But what is this we hear? What heresy assaults
Our ears? The seed that Origen
Implanted ran rampant like kudzu or bittersweet when
Rowed ashore by Murray, who was
Blown off course and washed up in New Jersey
Where crazy farmer Potter’s
Chapel waited for an anti-Calvin to unbolt
The gates of Hades and harrow
Hell and escalate sinners to God’s coffeehouse.
Not obedient sheep.

But randy goats, fauns, satyrs, Pan’s
Unspeakable obscene ilk were
All invited to a divine live aid
Amplified synthesized concert
After, of course, some brief retraining in the basics of
Remedial ethics: Miss Manners’
Finishing school for psychopaths, terrorists and sadists
With rehabilitation guaranteed.
Verily he would never insult us by calling himself
Pastor to a flock of sheep.

On the last day of classes, she and Lisa
Came up to the desk. For our most patient
Teacher, they began. Patient? I,
Who at home rages at my children’s litter?
“Wait,” said Lisa. Eleanor has made you
Something to suggest patience: a single stalk
Of ripened wheat finely drawn in ink
On gray rice paper matted and bordered.

Yesterday I snapped my fingers and laughed
At Eleanor’s faraway blank stare during review.
Often she came in late from art class.
I recall her running up the stairs
In painty smock, her champagne hair tied back.
One day she wore a blue-green-yellow
Batik dress dyed, patterned, cut,
Fitted and sewn by her own hand.

At the spring arts festival my child and I
Watch a boy with smiling eyes insert
Her flow-dyed filter papers in her lighted
Viewing box. The soft colors glowed.
Her last theme told of a girl who ran
Out of the house to watch a spring sunrise
And found in the meadow a second sun, a daffodil.
This lily of the field will light up my memories.

Here is an English garden of sun – and water-
Loving annuals. Tenderfooted, we step
Along beach towel borders enclosing clusters
Of marigold heads, pansy, faces and petunia mouths.
Johnny jump-ups explode in our path.
Cockscombs posture casually alert for photographers.

Clouds of dissonant sounds billow and swirl
In a summer camp kitchen: a helicopter eggbeats
Sea froth, surf launders jellyfish on the washboard
Of the sand, voices tinkle and clatter, like a swashing
Sinkful of enamel cups and steel utensils.
A delivery truck beeps like a microwave oven.

But as we wade along the shore, fog
Like stage smoke transforms the scene from circus
To hobbit barrens sparsely interrupted by turrets,
Moats and bridges, earthform architecture whose small
Engineers scurry to mound up dikes faster
Than tidal dragon breath can melt them down.

Venus-like vapors convince us we are treading the strand
Of an ocean planet where alien life forms
Sprout from the soil: two halfsize humanoids
Rooted at the waist, a monkey face necked
To a sanstone pyramid. But we are reassured we are still
Earthbound by frequent gleams of video lenses.

Reluctant to return to roles of cookery and housewifery,
We splash on until for brief interludes
We are the sole inhabitants of moonscape dunes.
Then we reverse course and teleport almost
Instantly back to the parking lot, pausing
Only for a fortifying shot of diet soda.