Grounded by a sailing injury, Arthur still finds solace in the Irish Sea.
The old man finally just went away
to live in the mountains. Two goats,
a dog for company. The wind
made a harp of the pines.
Too many missing from this year’s mailing list.
Looking back I’m humbled to remember
how many stupid things I’ve done and survived
Some of the artists of the ’60s are revising their hits with new lyrics to accommodate aging baby boomers.
Our culture is hungry for voices of elders to share their wisdom with us, to counter the fierce energy of adolescent flames that insists on “my” and “me” to the exclusion of “us” and “we.”
Flat lines of black clouds
rolled over the Everglades, pelting the land with cold rain,
then, briefly, almost impossibly, hail, over the wetlands and dredged
fields, reminding us how fragile the grapefruits and oranges.
He sketched in charcoal
the arch of a shoulder
the movement of a hand
the woman’s head
turned and tilted slightly
toward the man
My muse is fast; her legs, long, relentless,
churn like propellers. She seldom stops to
explain where we’re going.
There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened
between us, like ostyt, which can be used
for a cup of tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room,
and return, it is too cool
The village bar is still serving lunch on the weekends, which is welcomed by us as a way of entertaining without having to cook the food, lay in some bottles of wine, find a dessert or make our own pastries. We just come in, sit on the terrace, order whatever is the main dish of the day, and slurp some cold rose or white wine while we amiably chat with our invited friends.