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The Poetry Of.
Karen Corcoran Dabkowski


Those Moments

Life
will sometimes
shoulder its way
in front of the poem I'm trying to write.
One that comes at me, cape flying. So today
I stood in the kitchen at work composing something about
rendundancy-
when from the corner of my eye, a chorus line of ring-
necked geese
had claimed the ground outside, framed in the picture window
white and brown and tan: graceful curves
upon the grass, now long past green, but seen
in the context of a print, a living Audubon washed of all
but essential hues and wearing
emerald
scarves.

The most magnificent part was seeing
goose breath

...... puffed
from pinpoint nostrils.

I'd never seen their breath
appear-
...... a steam of duck ships
docked
.......... on a Mississippi
of grass: riverboats
frozen on the frozen straw, drawn up to the edge
of bluff, about to roll on down
to the parking lot of the building next door
that makes deodorant
cakes
for urinals.

I think
they were appalled
at the maraschino
smell of air- they stood stock still and stared
then one by one, they goose- stepped ominously
to
ward it.

What they had in mind
I do not know, but I wanted
to join them.
Instead,
I poured some coffee, sat at my desk
and emailed myself
at home
for later: Remember to write
... the poem. Perfect moment
.......... always

without a camera
..... shutter.
Goose breath
......colors.





Something Sighed
In The Limbs Of Trees

That old black rider
under the cloak, the one
you think
you'll hear a
comin',
might just be a
highwayman, and rob you
........ broke. Only some

will get a calling
card.





Peaks

There I was,
breathing out smoke
on a clear
thirty degree
morning
and making
cardinal calls
that were answered out of the mist
toward the coming sun.
I breathed
the sweetness of being alive: I was an
antiphon, and part of the robin sky-
as near unsullied
of soul
as the day I was made
mortal, but a very close
second to this
was the bliss of hearing, twanged and perfect
Willie Nelson
croon his Stardust melody
on the drive home this afternoon that left me o
pen as a
door.





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