READING OVID IN NORTHEASTERN SPAIN*

Atalanta disrobes,

wearing little but ribbons

that flutter at her ankles 

and knees.

Hippomenes’ heart takes fire.

As they race, 

side by side,

Atalanta sighs --

languishing on his face,

she halts,

to pick up the golden apples

he lets fall,

losing the race.

I am no Atalanta,
but am I Lilith?

*In 8th Century Spain there was a myth among the Khabbalist community

that Adam had a first wife named Lilith. She was formed from the clay

of the earth by God at the same time he formed Adam. Lilith refused to

abdicate her equality to Adam, refused to submit to his will. She fought

with him about sex. She was a seducer of men and a strangler of  children.

One day she uttered the four-letter word for God and flew off into the sky

never to return.

TIME'S PASSAGE

There is a richness to life
that comes with old age.
I am glad to be here.

Somehow young,
yet somewhat old,
at 62
I savor life's riches.

The glint of memory
bathes each day's bounty,
giving dimension to events
in geometric proportions.

What riches await me
as age travels on?

YESTERDAY

YESTERDAY

There is no evidence of yesterday

existing as a place.

Yet we go there often,

visiting old friends,

licking old wounds.

How would the road signs

to yesterday read?

Would their shape and color

be the elongated yellow

of a passing sign?

Or an inverted triangle of white

signaling a merge?

OLD MEN'S EARS

Old men’s ears hang

large and lobed

against grey heads filled with

life’s knowledge.

The words they hear

formed by past years,

echos of experience,

a flood of life.

Old women’s voices,

caress those ears,

accost those ears,

fill those ears

with memories of

dreams once drempt

in young men’s minds.

Don’t box those ears,

outfox those ears,

remember years 

of sound have filled them.

A child's laugh,

a lass's gaffe:

True music to those ears.

A Morning to Savor

I like the pale, cool greyness of this morning.

Mist veils soft green foliage
billowing against the sky.

Problems seem so far away,

shrouded by the fog.

The world is quiet

and soft,

cloistured and safe.

I savor the moment,
a neophyte ready for her oath.

"O APPETITE"

Wildmen

often chew

on the edges of books

rending their pages ‘till

tattered and frayed.

Choirs of ladies

ingest

translucent,

incorporeal bonbons,

jouet jouetes,

sweet and lilting,

ephemeral  and light.

Bijoux

presentations

10 cents a show.

The ardent reader

moves across the page

eyes intent 

catching each allusion

savoring each construction

feeling the metaphors

Kantingly engaged.

Mrs. O’Clary

marks her page

with a bit of buttermilk.

2 tbsp. b. p.

3/4 tsp. a. p.

a dash of almond.

Little Jenny

tucks V. Rabbit

under her arm pit

sucking

her thumb

in she digs 

pulling handfuls

of buggers

which stick on the page

like so many glots

 of white alum paste.

O appetite

thou hoary beast

ye’ roam among the briars

and lead a lad and many a lass

to complicated Dryers.

The Victim

Her eyes were vacant,

flat slabs of black in a swollen face

that emanated hatred.

She barely moved her lips,

Her words falling flat:

The facts were wrong

She had three broken ribs

and numerous contusions.

My heart ached.

How could one human being

inflict so much distress

on another?

What would drive a person 

to so completely wound 

and damage this woman?