Never Once My Dear Friend, Not Once

Something I have a hard time
Understanding about you
My dear friend
Even after all those years
Not once did you ever pen
A word of complaint

I mean there is nothing more deadening
In the whole fucking world than
Insurance law yet there you were
Ensconced as a corporate VP
In charge of legal affairs
For the Hartford
And never did
You manage a peep

Discounting all the fancy rhetoric
About the emptiness of the snowman and so on
Which you may have intended
As a coded lament about how
Your work life was utterly boring

But for that reason I content myself
At having been the more direct
If less artful poet
Having found similar means
To support myself I nonetheless
Don’t trend so much to abstraction
Or self satisfaction that scribbling
A line or two will ever amount
To a whole hell of a lot more

The Naming Ceremony

We sons of Marv
We partied hard
And learned to live
With immoderate risk
Whether we or the dice
Became more fully loaded
There’s room for continuing debate

But when the time finally came
For me to choose my own name
I chose Blue Flower Poet
With aspirations so clear
It still remains to be seen
Just how well
It may be said
I lived up to it

Poem for My Father

For all those reasons too
I have scribbled in obscurity
Through each day
The alembic drips

Whether defying received wisdom
Or spurning proffered sympathy
Yet still longing in private
For some crumb more
Than self-respect

Towards the Finland Station
You made your way
Constantly crisscrossing
The tracks proceeding
At your own good pace
So restless means seldom bored

Through it all
You composed a song
For a Jazz Combo
Where urban sets the beat
Balanced by a country air
As with strings of longing
Drawn forward
And from student days
Hear the flute's
Lyrical call
While a guitar provides
The loin's true heat

Even to those who
Consider themselves
Of animal or plant parenthood
I say the heart must stay strong
However divided
As two pieces of obsidian
Broken from the self same stone

And so I am
My Father's Son
I swear it
On this very ground
Where he lies today
I leave one half
While the other
I take away

Hey Mr. Archangel

Ending up
In your presence
Later tonight
Will not be quite
By accident

Whether sitting alone
Or with my wife
It was she who
First brought
The notion to mind

Although I should
Also mention
I personally arranged
For an extravagant bouquet
Of white flowers

Two geraniums
On either side
Of a towering
Snap Dragon together
Serve as backdrop
To a teardrop orchid
Ladled on top
Of a green chevron
Why don't you come in
And see for yourself

And this poem in the form
Of a prayer is what
I'm thinking right now
Whether it carries you
Over the threshold or not
Only time will tell

Two by personal invitation
One by intuition
And then as to
The three wishes
Let them come
Straight away
As my heart swings open
Like a garden gate

Perhaps Enlightenment
Always proceeds this way
Cross-crossing
City side streets
And narrow alleyways
Up the back stairs
Until St. Thomas and the others
Arrive with a rustle of wind
And unpack their bags
For a five night stay

To Fellow Members of the Academy

Unsure on which particular day
I first became a member
Of the American Academy
Of those who dabble in verse

I found myself sitting down
From time to time
In front of the typewriter
With an energy that was
Incredibly succinct

Though nearly capable
Of bursting through my capillaries
That’s how sharply it pulsed at times
And how much I found myself
In need of release whether
By means of measured rhyme
Or just the reverse

It came to me
Line by line
Like an extension of my very self
Yet also as if begotten by ghost hand
Powered or perhaps informed
By someone other than I

All the while
It resonated so deeply
From soles to crown
Measuring the totality
Of who and what I am

So now I say
Let poetry itself
Be the foundation’s rock
I don’t need Harriet Monroe
Or anyone else to help decide
In point of fact
And difficult though it may be
To get the news from poems
Let no man die for lack thereof
For want of trying

Qing Chou and Lao Nian

I trouble myself
Now and again
Thinking about
The three stages
In the life of man
Qing Chou and Lao Nian

Wondering where
In their midst
I presently stand
Betwixt the there I go
And the here I am
Not entirely sure
I still know the difference
Between Qing Chou and Lao Nian

At MOMA Wendesday Afternoon

By the Philip Guston
You stood deep in
Contemplation
For a long while while I
Blackberry in hand
Proceeded through
The arabesques
And swirls heading
Towards whatever
Next came to mind

Not long after
Pollack realized
He wasn't Picasso
You saw how he figured it out
Through a flick of the wrist
Paint thick on the brush

And in the room next but one
There it was again
An image that lingered
On the retina of
Barnett Newman’s inner eye
Abstraction made
More vivid through
The pushing and shoving
Until you stood
At the very forefront
Of daylight's parade

Then heading down the corridor
Twenty years in the making
By Rothko in contention
With failing light itself
Along the dimming path
Of a darkening palette

It was precisely then
I understood you
As a student in
In the same academy
The same impulse of light
Though sometimes
Inclined to take up
Disguise just
The reverse

With a firm grip on the brush
The horsehairs bristle with life
In a virtual reenactment of
The flowering act
You follow a genetically
Determined path just like
A bumblebee races along
The curve of light
Enfolding the tip
Of the hibiscus bud
Next about to bloom