The Poetry Of..
Francis Masat..................................................
Shore to Shore
"Ol' swimmin' hole," so clichéd now.
Ours, a damn dammed creek on the edge
of the city park on the edge of town.
No chlorine here, no bottom to see.
But you could touch it in the green
and murky darkness - if dared enough.
Deeper and deeper with aching lungs -
must have been at least eight feet!
A rope swing and a board in concrete -
we had the best. And best times too.
No end to races from bank to bank.
A scum-net spanned the creek,
but didn't work in summer's dog-days.
By back-to-school, the "pool" closed.
Then one spring, the dam disappeared,
the swimmin' hole filled-in with mud,
though for years it had been filled
shore-to-shore with fears and triumphs,
with envy and life, sadness and love.
the glow
the glow and heat
the burning life-giving ache
all the hills these legs have run:
desert, mountain, beach, Rome, plains, ...
the glow and ache
the burning and the chill
all the air these longs have breathed:
desert, tundra, scuba, city, prairie, ...
the glow and embers
the red-hot burning warmth
all the fires these eyes have seen:
bon-, camp-, -place, house, forest-, ...
the glow and warmth
the near life-giving aroma
all the teas this tongue has savored:
black, green, oolong, flower, herb, ...
the glow and pulse
the overwhelm urge to feel
all there is to feel - and more:
love, sex, the senses -- life itself.
Night Flight
Fall air, heavy and full
with smoke and haze,
"Blood on the moon,"
the locals murmur.
The phrase is full -
there's more blood
in his urine bag.
Each breath rattles
through gray phlegm.
A monitor beeps -
and pumps drone on.
The sound is full
of flying at night,
of engines droning,
putting you t'sleep.
They say he's ready
to fly away tonight,
to be put t'sleep -
by his ol' engines:
one last- night flight.
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