Carl Kaucher writes

Collateral Damage

She said, "I’m not usually like this

but I think I’ll need a cab."

She was talking about her mixed drinks,

old stories of dust and running up a tab.

All the tables were full in the bar room

but everything was empty inside.

She said she was alone and far removed.

Her sad eyes looked like they had died.

The years broke hard since Seventy Seven.

She had a large stain on her soul.

I don’t think she expected miracles

just an answer for getting old.

I caught a whiff of her lost beauty

but could be she just passed gas.

I thought I should say something meaningful

but that theory did not last.

She wore an old hat and tattered coat,

her visage from another time,

and though joy and laughs surrounded her

she was like a withering poem with no rhyme.

A tear accompanied her thin smile

as I left her at the bar.

Outside a cold wind cut me

and her tear became a scar.

Dans un Café (In a Cafe) [detail] -- Edgar Degas

Carl Kaucher writes

Ceiling

Lying on the floor,

I am pondering the patterns,

the lace of lines and lattice

on the ceiling.

And, the dust on the fan

has been there

as long as my gray hair

but, I don’t care.

When I let go of myself,

I become the ceiling.

When I turn on the fan,

I am of the dust.

The cat in the window,

excited by leaves blowing by,

tries to catch them

if they come close enough.

He is destroying the blinds

but I resign

that they are not mine.

I’ve let them go.

For, one day they will blow away

like the leaves.

Anyway, it’s a sunny day.

Sacred beams of Buddha light

shine on the backdrop

of a pale blue Autumnal sky.

There is nothing to do but be.

There is nothing to be

but what I do.

And, when I go out

I am within you.

And when I am in

there is nothing I am without.

At 3:00 I fell asleep

and dreamed of Irish Mountain.

I’d tell you about it

but I’ve already forgotten.

Irish Mountain -- Lois C. McLean

Carl Kaucher writes

Sophia (wisdom)

She emerged from the bus

right in front of us

gracefully flowed into the park

and though it was getting dark

she was like a flower in bloom

at high noon

She was a song of eternity

a compassionate divinity

a maritime maiden of Maine

free spirit filled of delight

and at first sight, when the blues began

she atoned a summers day in Acadia

and established the heavens again

she traced the foundations of love

and has mingled her wine with the sea

She wore a prayer flag in her hair

and a spiritual music permeated the air

as she danced the village green without a care

rapt in a serenade that began before time

fashioned its sinuous flesh around our souls

and the songs of experience played

seasons of streets carved years upon her.

She was dancing freedom's tapestry,

sun catching, drifting and dreaming

like a shaman child all native wild,

blossoming sweet heroin eyes

she had the left hand of God

in her right pocket

and her moves seemed scriptural butter

like a fluid earth mother

A poetic breeze blew off the harbour

and the puffins gathered in her honour

whales sang a sweet rhyme sublime

by the island at the end of time

for Wisdom was the first to doubt

and that's how the world came about

and I was simply passing by, in a sigh

as portions of the universe

flowed from her

like words encrypted

with the genesis of bliss

 Sophia -- Greg Spalenka

Carl Kaucher writes

Emily

Making love to Emily Dickenson

for the love we never made

on sweet sumptuous nights in the garden,

in words, dissonance... not pondering

metaphors, but lyrical scraps of sun

glistening golden beams of delight

suffering through the windows of her soul

quietly in shadows of her room upstairs.

In the meadow on Sunday we caressed

her silk scarf fallen about

her long brown hair flowing.

We talked of gadflys, grief and goodbyes,

took long walks in the Amherst rain.

And, though in joy she wept alone

she never spoke of it

the day she went out in dreams,

a beautiful stillness in her eyes,

lonely in probabilities of Eden, in poetry

we shall return to each other, then God.

There are daffodils in my Garden

the daffodils are dying.

Emily Dickinson Poem #1101 -- Will Barnet

I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—

I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—

I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—

I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when ’twas time to see—
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—

I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?

They’re here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—

Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—

--Emily Dickinson