RIGA, LATVIA  (more revision)

 

I walk a narrow ledge far above the ancient city’s

teeming, it’s endless swerving cobblestones, it’s

Pushkin statue shining regal in the ribboned park.

 

(Poets loved and honored here).  A canal below

gleams blue near paths that curve through tall birch

trees where couples stroll among gifts of tiny fragrant

flowers, meandering lovers teased by Springtime’s

burst, this bloodless birth of beauty.

 

I a solo vagrant wander along the wild Daugava’s edge

in Riga’s chilly air. A stolid woman and her white-haired

man sit still so quiet on morning’s dewy grassy banks,

 

two fishing poles in thickened ruddy hands, long lines

thrust far out into the broad rolling river.  They wish

to land three or four glistening fish to later eat at dusk

 

with potatoes and beetroot boiled, washed down with

shots of vodka fire, then with bellies fat with gladness,

he’ll whisper lusty thanks to her, and mean it, for their

pleasing supper.

 

But now as evening’s northern light slants gold as melted

butter, as lush as vespers sung by god-soaked monks in

this Baltic state far so far from home’s Pacific palm-treed

 

ocean, you and I avoid each other’s eyes while time flows

fast deep and final into the Gulf of Riga for perhaps one

last embalming.

 

At this end of day in late May, mute we wait like a couple fishing--

where fresh grass caresses the vast Daugava seething—we wait

and wait for what’s unnamed unseen but breathing, for something

 

elusive and good that may persist or not, that might never be caught,

nor even understood.

               RIGA, LATVIA  ( early revision)

 

I walk a narrow ledge far above the ancient city’s

teeming, it’s endless swerving cobblestones, it’s

Pushkin statue shining regal in the ribboned park.

 

(Poets loved and honored here).  A canal below

gleams blue near paths that curve through tall birch

trees where couples stroll among gifts of tiny fragrant

flowers, meandering lovers teased by Springtime’s

burst, it’s bloodless birth of beauty.

 

I a solo vagrant wander along the wild Daugava’s edge

in Riga’s chilly air. A stolid woman and her white-haired

man sit still so quiet on morning’s dewy grassy banks,

 

two fishing poles in thickened ruddy hands, long lines

thrust far out into the broad and rolling river.  They wish

to land three or four glistening fish to later eat at dusk

 

with potatoes and beetroot boiled, washed down with

shots of vodka fire, then with bellies fat with gladness,

he’ll whisper a lusty thanks to her, and mean it, for their

pleasing supper.

 

But now as evening’s northern light slants gold as melted

butter, as lush as monastery vespers in this Baltic state far

so far from home’s palm-treed ocean, you and I avoid

 

each other’s eyes while time flows fast and deep and

final out into the Gulf of Riga for perhaps one last

embalming.

 

On this day in late May, mute we wait like the couple fishing--

where grasses caress the vast Daugava-- for what’s unseen

unnamed but breathing, for something elusive that may persist

or not, yet might never be caught, nor even understood.

                       RIGA, LATVIA

 

I walk a narrow ledge far above the ancient city’s

teeming, it’s endless swerving cobblestones, it’s

Pushkin statue shining regal in the ribboned park.

 

(Poets loved and honored here).  A canal below

gleams blue near paths that curve through tall birch

trees, where smiling people stroll and gather.

 

I wander along the wild Daugava’s edge in Riga’s

chilly air. A stolid woman and her white-haired man

sit still so quiet on morning’s dewy grassy banks,

 

two fishing poles in thickened ruddy hands, long lines

thrust far out into the broad and rolling river.  They wish

to land three or four glistening fish to later eat at dusk

 

with potatoes and beetroot boiled, washed down with

shots of vodka fire, then with bellies fat with gladness,

he’ll whisper thanks to her, and mean it, for their pleasing

supper.

 

But now as evening’s northern light slants gold as melted

butter, as lush as monastery vespers in this Baltic state far

so far from home, you and I avoid each other’s eyes while

time flows fast and deep and final out to the Gulf of Riga.

 

On this day in late mute May we wait on the vast Daugava

for what’s unseen unnamed but breathing, for something

that might last, or not, yet we may never catch, nor ever

understand.

 

'No More Perfunctory Kisses' 36"x36" mixed media on canvas

               Small Day On A Path

 

Underfoot, one eggshell unseen snaps in thin shreds.

Quick crunch of bird embryo muted by mud, dream

membrane on its last spindly legs.

 

Smooth boot sole slick viscous stuff caking

path of burnt sienna dirt. Strange path of

leafy insistence pulls you on.

 

You sit queasy on cold boulders, think towards

next steps, breathing Douglas Fir fully –cleanly

into your soft belly, you tie leather laces tight,

scrape bark with your strong hand just to touch

 

these trees and wonder where is the waterfall

father often told splashing our bedtime stories?

Soon you hope to smell ferns sprouting filaments

of green from wet stone like lover’s wine drenched

lips. You quietly roam, clamber easy.

 

Volcanic rocks make a towering cliff ahead, your muscled

fingers excitedly find cracks in black basalt to scramble

high into sky’s fire as your mind bleeds pleasing streams

 

of contentment. The day beautiful and blue like an egg

of gladness, like a small persistent sparrow.

                                    Minneapolis Breakfast

May the sky arising so blue behind these faces lined with fear,

these facades of lonely blinded worry, arising now inside

these several tables in a small café frenetic waiters clattering

cups of coffee plates of scrambled eggs hash browns

crispy brown,

 

may this sudden sky this exploding arc of silence so blue radiate love

throughout this room through every cell of them of you of me in

forever’s presence, such replenishment behind mundane screens

 

of anxious separateness, now grace unbidden how astonishing this

arc of wondrous kindness, infinite infinite in our earth-quaked

morning’s broken fast.

 

When all of reality was for this moment seen at last

unspeakably good immeasurably vast, a dove

 

in free flight

                                                                                       

and blue so blue so blue