ESTUARY

framed against 

a sinuous embrace, 

the red hand holds  

up its questions

before the day:

Might my estuary 

be the tides 

and streams

pointing

to a hidden river

and its vascularity

of light?

Is that what is meant

by leaf?

THE IRIS

          after Joan Mitchell

Maybe all the commotion,

all the contrasting color, 

 

the layering,

and the brushwork

swirling 

within this cosmos 

and gathered 

near the center,

like in so many 

of her other creations...

maybe all this is really 

an invitation, a come hither call.

When I finally heard it 

and felt it 

like a centripetal supplication,

I stepped closer.

And closer still. 

And when I could go no further

without crossing a boundary–

the curatorial line on the gallery floor–

I took out my phone of all things,

as if this overture, 

this transgressional gesture, 

might enable me  

to reach her, make

the deeper contact

I desired. 

But it was the camera 

I was after,

the aperture inside. 

It would allow me

to magnify her touch, her true genius. 

And so when I finally zoomed into

the splatter and push 

of so much color

and creativity

all the chaos fell away 

and there was only beauty.

It was then that I opened 

and found the framing 

and composition

within the composition 

I could love without restraint.

It was then I felt her most fully

and became a witness, I believe,

to the moment, it seemed, 

when grace itself, 

in the abstract, was invented.

The moment when,  

with a splash of lavender 

and a calligraphic sweep,

the idea of flower was formed.

The moment when blossom

attached itself to stem for the first time.

And it was this flower, this iris, the artist

offered me–as if to promise 

that I would one day make

my own masterpiece

with the touch, beauty, and love

of another.

THE ACCORDION 

It expands and contracts, 

heaves and moans

no matter 

who the player is. 

While the melody 

might be different 

from squeezebox 

to squeezebox 

the strain’s the same, 

the story’s the same: 

a pain bellows 

beneath breathing.

THE HUE BETWEEN US 

             Colors

             on canvas 

                          mixing,  

                 blending, merging 

                       dissolving 

                       difference. 

         We are like this: 

             dancing dalliance 

                         into 

                     design 

                

                                 into 

                        a new 

                    hue 

                  while somewhere 

           in the dream 

                        play 

                        the painting 

                                    asks: 

                 why are you 

                             here? 

            what have you come 

                 to let go of?

THE MAGICIAN 

There was no tuxedo, 
no top hat,

wand or handkerchief,

rabbit, coin or deck of cards.

Had they been a part 

of his daily routine 

he might have seen himself 

as the magician he was, 

directing his gaze away 

from his own denial. 

Like a disease that does not 

detect its own malignancy

 

his greatest trick was keeping 

his own sorcery from himself. 

Cunning, baffling and powerful, 

the magician was most dangerous 

when forgetting became 

his French drop.