Poetry
Poetry
Gwynne
for Gwynne Stolle in loving memory In her garden, as in mine, the earth is let be earth, and flowers grow where flowers will, not where she wills them to. In her garden, as in mine, light falls through the green it’s made, softened, dappling everything below it, even me and the dogs. In her
Ornithology
People remember Charlie Parker Rode into Minton’s on a horse Dressed in overhauls Lip drooping a piece of straw. People remember Charlie Parker Hocking his alto for a fix Living just anywhere Raving out of control down a rainy street. People remember Charlie Parker Worked with the higher extensions Of the chords, worked with strange
Ike’s Moebian Putting
He leans against an invisible wall upright, his head cocked lawnward. It is Ike standing over the ball Patient, his knickers immaculately laundered. He lets his wrists do the work. The arc of the putter’s head is minimal. He never presses or jerks. His putting style is inimitable. His haberdashery has reverted to that of
Garden Constellations
The yard looks still. Winds riffle green-coin leaves, slim white-preened bark. Sage blooms rust and scratch, each purple nodule at last breaking in breeze to settle in a riverstone crevice. Pale roses wilt. Ridges curl, brown-strafed. Below, roots mottle and twist, an endless lurching and creeping through undersoil. Ants hustle through flagstone fissures, scream a
Moon Song
Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon– Over the crinkling sea, The moon man flings him a silvered net Fashioned of moonbeams three. And some folk say when the net lies long And the midnight hour is ripe; The moon man fishes for some old song That fell from a sailor’s pipe. And some folk say that
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Novels and Collected Works
Gwynne
for Gwynne Stolle in loving memory In her garden, as in mine, the earth is let be earth, and flowers grow where flowers will, not where she wills them to. In her garden, as in mine, light falls through the green it’s made, softened, dappling everything below it, even me and the dogs. In her
Ornithology
People remember Charlie Parker Rode into Minton’s on a horse Dressed in overhauls Lip drooping a piece of straw. People remember Charlie Parker Hocking his alto for a fix Living just anywhere Raving out of control down a rainy street. People remember Charlie Parker Worked with the higher extensions Of the chords, worked with strange
Ike’s Moebian Putting
He leans against an invisible wall upright, his head cocked lawnward. It is Ike standing over the ball Patient, his knickers immaculately laundered. He lets his wrists do the work. The arc of the putter’s head is minimal. He never presses or jerks. His putting style is inimitable. His haberdashery has reverted to that of
Garden Constellations
The yard looks still. Winds riffle green-coin leaves, slim white-preened bark. Sage blooms rust and scratch, each purple nodule at last breaking in breeze to settle in a riverstone crevice. Pale roses wilt. Ridges curl, brown-strafed. Below, roots mottle and twist, an endless lurching and creeping through undersoil. Ants hustle through flagstone fissures, scream a
Moon Song
Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon– Over the crinkling sea, The moon man flings him a silvered net Fashioned of moonbeams three. And some folk say when the net lies long And the midnight hour is ripe; The moon man fishes for some old song That fell from a sailor’s pipe. And some folk say that