The Poetry Of...
L. Ward Abel.......................................................
Boomerang Whispers
You can't get here from anywhere.
It's true; all roads end at hedges or canals,
all trails come to precipice,
even if coming by air the sky is so blue
as to blind cockpits or copters.
You can't get anywhere from here, either.
There are obstacles that precede what would be
even more barriers beyond, so I'm at an outpost
of words and thoughts untransmitted,
cut off, flickering.
Consider this a random sigh, sent
as if by shore-bottle, shot by cannon
hoping for orbit and then descent
into your mists, landing in your field
or mine, just beyond your garden wall.
Newhaven
Always looking for signs.
I view
the crescent moon. Many times
this has been a good harbinger, that sliver
a hook to catch me if I fall, sharp
enough to hold but not to cut. The killdeer
flying across my predawn lawn
are my troubles scattering outward in protest
of their banishment. The grove huddles there
in mid-field, empty of all but Winter things; I'll
stand in it, open to sun, but sheltered
from what comes. The grove is my harbor.
Memories of Rue Regarde
We slow-danced on Rue Regarde
in one of many long brick buildings
that lined the slopes of asphalt.
We went no further, even with those kisses
of yours,
soft, full on my neck, sending seeds out
like microwave, tempting me. But no,
only music and movement. And
no one else was there.
We lay under blankets later on, a cassette
playing in the background, silk around
your knees, and my own attention, word-like,
being aimed under-wraps
just so, but no further.
Dormer-lights
faint enough to disregard
burned on that hillside that was the City,
each window a story,
as was ours.
Arrival as the night ended,
destination and sleep were one,
naked, but no further. No words passed
between us, only music and movement,
your chestnut peel a sparkle, wide in receipt,
the giver soon far away,
beyond,
looking back
sowing the heat-dried seeds
of that night
flowers for a later season,
and smiling
now.
