HONEYMOON SWEET
A woman, on a bed,
examines her body
in pale motel light.
A man in the bathroom,
shaves and sings.
Like a small fire
in a far corner hearth.
he warms her skin a little
but not as much as
the confirmation
of her own touch.
She moves calmly
from stomach to chin,
from breast to thigh.
outwitting the shadow
of her hand at every turn.
She’s reassuring
beauty it’s safe
to stay where it is.
She’s feeling
how smooth the truth is
in those years before
the lies take over.
AFTERTHOUGHT
The fog is lifting.
Mountain face is revealed,
right down to the furrowed brow.
Trees zig and zag.
The wind is in morning heaven.
And, at their roots,
swirling ferns ask the
gray-brown trunks for the next dance.
Not a blade, a tuft, a wildflower,
out of place.
The vastness bows down to particulars.
Light speckles brook.
Brook shimmers stones.
Stone cusps the tiny violet,
trembles it with light.
And what can I do here
but stand my awe to attention.
I am what I ought to be,
an afterthought of scenery.
SHARED GUNMAN
I open the book at that familiar picture
South Vietnamese police chief holds up gun
to the head of Viet Cong suspect,
is about to pull the trigger.
It’s never the snapshot where the young man
brushes the cheeks of the pretty girl
with the tip of a rose
or a teacher reads from F Scott Fitzgerald
into the attentive ear of a wide-eyed student
or where someone is just there with another,
strangers maybe, but close, and safe,
no fear, no hatred, no violence,
just everybody in the frame
Maybe those photographs were never taken
or they were but have been discarded
for lack of drama, of interest, down the years.
Instead, I look once again
at an execution I’ve seen a hundred,
maybe a thousand times before.
A camera turns its lens
on what it thinks is history.
A killing says “cheese”.
A woman, on a bed,
examines her body
in pale motel light.
A man in the bathroom,
shaves and sings.
Like a small fire
in a far corner hearth.
he warms her skin a little
but not as much as
the confirmation
of her own touch.
She moves calmly
from stomach to chin,
from breast to thigh.
outwitting the shadow
of her hand at every turn.
She’s reassuring
beauty it’s safe
to stay where it is.
She’s feeling
how smooth the truth is
in those years before
the lies take over.
AFTERTHOUGHT
The fog is lifting.
Mountain face is revealed,
right down to the furrowed brow.
Trees zig and zag.
The wind is in morning heaven.
And, at their roots,
swirling ferns ask the
gray-brown trunks for the next dance.
Not a blade, a tuft, a wildflower,
out of place.
The vastness bows down to particulars.
Light speckles brook.
Brook shimmers stones.
Stone cusps the tiny violet,
trembles it with light.
And what can I do here
but stand my awe to attention.
I am what I ought to be,
an afterthought of scenery.
SHARED GUNMAN
I open the book at that familiar picture
South Vietnamese police chief holds up gun
to the head of Viet Cong suspect,
is about to pull the trigger.
It’s never the snapshot where the young man
brushes the cheeks of the pretty girl
with the tip of a rose
or a teacher reads from F Scott Fitzgerald
into the attentive ear of a wide-eyed student
or where someone is just there with another,
strangers maybe, but close, and safe,
no fear, no hatred, no violence,
just everybody in the frame
Maybe those photographs were never taken
or they were but have been discarded
for lack of drama, of interest, down the years.
Instead, I look once again
at an execution I’ve seen a hundred,
maybe a thousand times before.
A camera turns its lens
on what it thinks is history.
A killing says “cheese”.
