The small white square of the Alamo
was a glimpse only as we sped past,
one building in a street
of newer, taller, wider forms
that had it surrounded.
It looked ridiculously tiny
but pretty; its crenellated rim
like an edging of lace.
It was natural, I suppose,
that my mind would turn
to the old, sweet song about
the rose: Rose of San Antone,
Where in dreams I live
with a memory …
An interlude of joyful
dancing music, players
like jesters and troubadours.
And the tall stranger afterwards,
talking of shades and angels.
Enchantment strange …
but we had to go.
Broken song …
It plays in my head now
each time I recall those moments,
a tender lament
for dreams half-remembered,
that never were, or might have been....
Deep within my heart …
by the Alamo ...
Submitted (several years later) for dVerse Poetics: Trip the Poem Fantastic
29 May 2006
22 May 2006
Morning Routine
1. Wake too early,
embraced by heat.
The local weather? Or is he —
already out and about —
sending me warm thoughts?
My own thoughts are warm.
I stretch and snuggle
and start this morning’s poem in my head.
2. Look at the clock
with the usual surprise.
Wherever I am, in what country,
my body always wakes me up
after only five hours’ sleep.
Don’t talk to me about eight hours.
It isn’t the light that does it.
It’s still dark and my curtains are closed.
3. Get up. Pee. Head for the kitchen.
Examine more lines of the poem forming.
Repeat them aloud so as not to lose them.
Boil water to brew coffee.
Leave breakfast for later.
Take the cup back to bed.
Pile up the pillows behind my back.
Settle with coffee, notebook and pen.
4. Think censored thoughts.
(This has actually been going on
the whole time.) Also think
soft, sweet, sentimental thoughts (ditto).
Experience delightful spasms,
involuntary, aroused by thought alone.
Start scribbling. Sprawl. Scratch head
with end of pen. Sip coffee.
5. Remember last night —
jumping around on a low stage
with poets and musicians.
Already, here with these youngsters,
I find community.
They love me. I love them.
I’m wild and funny.
They say I’m a legend.
6. Re-examine clock.
Not yet an hour.
Decide it’s too early to phone,
knowing it’s probably not.
Imagine a conversation.
Realise they never go as imagined.
Turn into awkward adolescent.
Defer the call for now.
7. Think of his voice. Roll over
on tummy and squirm. Think of
his hair, his eyes, his everything. Wish
he could have seen the poet last night:
no glamour, just herself, in old black daks
and t-shirt, having a ball. Be deliciously aware
that happiness is a cool scene and a hot lover.
Be deliciously aware that happiness is now.
April 2006
embraced by heat.
The local weather? Or is he —
already out and about —
sending me warm thoughts?
My own thoughts are warm.
I stretch and snuggle
and start this morning’s poem in my head.
2. Look at the clock
with the usual surprise.
Wherever I am, in what country,
my body always wakes me up
after only five hours’ sleep.
Don’t talk to me about eight hours.
It isn’t the light that does it.
It’s still dark and my curtains are closed.
3. Get up. Pee. Head for the kitchen.
Examine more lines of the poem forming.
Repeat them aloud so as not to lose them.
Boil water to brew coffee.
Leave breakfast for later.
Take the cup back to bed.
Pile up the pillows behind my back.
Settle with coffee, notebook and pen.
4. Think censored thoughts.
(This has actually been going on
the whole time.) Also think
soft, sweet, sentimental thoughts (ditto).
Experience delightful spasms,
involuntary, aroused by thought alone.
Start scribbling. Sprawl. Scratch head
with end of pen. Sip coffee.
5. Remember last night —
jumping around on a low stage
with poets and musicians.
Already, here with these youngsters,
I find community.
They love me. I love them.
I’m wild and funny.
They say I’m a legend.
6. Re-examine clock.
Not yet an hour.
Decide it’s too early to phone,
knowing it’s probably not.
Imagine a conversation.
Realise they never go as imagined.
Turn into awkward adolescent.
Defer the call for now.
7. Think of his voice. Roll over
on tummy and squirm. Think of
his hair, his eyes, his everything. Wish
he could have seen the poet last night:
no glamour, just herself, in old black daks
and t-shirt, having a ball. Be deliciously aware
that happiness is a cool scene and a hot lover.
Be deliciously aware that happiness is now.
April 2006
21 May 2006
This Morning
I wake hearing the ocean
thunder at my back door
like wind in the trees.
… I am not at home,
there is no ocean.
The trees outside are still
against the lightening sky.
The roar of the spirit wind
is full of you; I breathe in deeply
the knowledge of you in my life.
The sound of wind or ocean
surges again. It might be a plane
or a truck. I think you must
be awake by now. I imagine you
waking, stirring and stretching
like a big cat. I imagine lying
next to you, stroking your body.
A cardinal flits through the branches
outside my window. I breathe
in Texas, a new day begins.
Note: Texas is very far away from my home in Australia
Linking (nearly 11 years later!) to The Tuesday Platform for 13 Feb 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads"
thunder at my back door
like wind in the trees.
… I am not at home,
there is no ocean.
The trees outside are still
against the lightening sky.
The roar of the spirit wind
is full of you; I breathe in deeply
the knowledge of you in my life.
The sound of wind or ocean
surges again. It might be a plane
or a truck. I think you must
be awake by now. I imagine you
waking, stirring and stretching
like a big cat. I imagine lying
next to you, stroking your body.
A cardinal flits through the branches
outside my window. I breathe
in Texas, a new day begins.
Note: Texas is very far away from my home in Australia
Linking (nearly 11 years later!) to The Tuesday Platform for 13 Feb 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads"
20 May 2006
Fib*
Dave—
why
do I
get stupid
when I’m around you?
I become a 15-year-old
on her first date and terrified of not being liked
on closer acquaintance. Bear with her, please. She’s just
shy and awkward, stunned by your beauty.
April 2006
* This name is nothing to do with telling lies! It's the name for Fibonacci poetry (aka Fibetry) based on the Fibonacci mathematical sequence applied to syllable count per line. The number of syllables in each line of the poem is the sum of the previous two lines: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, and so on. (The last two lines above are really one line, which is too long to fit into a one-line space.)
In this particular poem the first line doubles as title.
why
do I
get stupid
when I’m around you?
I become a 15-year-old
on her first date and terrified of not being liked
on closer acquaintance. Bear with her, please. She’s just
shy and awkward, stunned by your beauty.
April 2006
* This name is nothing to do with telling lies! It's the name for Fibonacci poetry (aka Fibetry) based on the Fibonacci mathematical sequence applied to syllable count per line. The number of syllables in each line of the poem is the sum of the previous two lines: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, and so on. (The last two lines above are really one line, which is too long to fit into a one-line space.)
In this particular poem the first line doubles as title.
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