More poems

Mastectomy

The fog that forces season's change

has somehow seeped into her house;

no offshore breeze lifts the palm fronds

or stirs the curtains at her door.

Damp sheets cling to her

like lambskin gloves,

or hairs upon a mouse.

A misted mirror shows her face

behind a murky mask that tires

her with its epigraphs to love

or hatred or compassion.

The head scarf shrouds

beauty deep inside her

a mole in the dark

splashed upon her face.

Scales on her eyes freeze

when she removes her blouse,

sky caves in, soul flattens,

heart pinches, crucified,

alone on her bed of nails.

And still the fog hangs on

where long ago she walked the sands

daring the sun to burn her down.

Far off along the shore,

sea sounds mute the silent change

her tongue of fire and ice is still.

A POEM FOR EVE

She is an ice-blue distant galaxy
approachable but through a lens of fantasy;
In her I spy visions of fire and fury
exploding light and passion at her core.

If I could fly once more
to pierce the dark surrounding space
come into close orbit
I might revolve around her
Endlessly.

Space is so empty
galaxies so far
the gravity of her so great
that I will surely be drawn in
burned alive.

New Poem

Here's a new one for all you old Beatles fans:

I Want to Tell You

John’s been shot down,

taken down to the Strawberry Field

across the park

where he’ll live for a time

until time takes him by the hand

into some dim corner of a story

vaguely remembered

like the lost soldiers

of the great war

spinning out

across the universe.

But we still hear him singing

Give Peace a Chance...

Imagine, peace.

George, too, has passed

along with all things

that must.

Guitar gently weeping

like an old brown shoe,

he was with us

and without us

trying to reach us

with heart and soul.

It’s been a long, cold, lonely

winter since he passed.

But we still hear him singing

Here Comes the Sun…

© Joe Larkin

Joe Larkin's Free Poetry

Here are a few poems for your enjoyment. I'll be posting others as time permits:


Three Photos in My Wallet

I open to the smell of leather -- a young girl,

not yet ten, sunbathes on a dock in Lake Champlain,

unaware, it seems of the camera's presence.

It's the early '20s. My eyes are drawn to her,

not because she's my mother. The composition

points to her. She's been gifted with

timeless beauty to balance her not so lovely sisters

striking poses behind her.


Another girl, my daughter. Her newborn face

resembles the one on the dock; she'll be a real looker,

alert and present on that summer day in '74

when I cried with joy because of the long-dead

girl in the bathing suit.


It's '97. My daughter is grown. A small girl,

a toddler, her mirror image, sits on her lap

smiling up at me -- I see the sunbather on the dock;

she travels through time with me.



The sunbather on the dock. My mother, Elizabeth Reeves,
Lake Champlain, NY, circa 1920.



Angel

I'm hooked on your wind-curled hair

floating high above me in your troposphere,

thin, wispy, high-white and delicate,

ice-crystalled, you are my sunrise/sunset;

your silky translucent sheen brings change;

you color my mornings, evenings

crimson, rainbow-salmon, pure gold.


Emerald Isle

We drove on the wrong side of the road

on the right side of the sea

where green is greener than green

can be anywhere else in the world

and the sun and rain collide

in the stretch of an hour.

Kings, saints and martyrs

rest beneath the stones

that grow like grains of sand

or stars across the sky

lining the fields of night

with runes set in bygone days

but not so far they can't be heard

in a Dublin pub behind a pint or two

when music sings down every lane

and spills out on the streets of Temple Bar.

We heard it on the wind at Dingle Bay

from beehive huts of stone stacked upon stone

mocking time, marking time with the sun

and with the moon for all eternity,

songs sung from each thatched cottage

with gorse as yellow as sows' ears,

from roads that course with no intent

up and down, around and through

tiny villages where craggy folk

solid as rocks within themselves

lilt their way across the land

among the ruins of their past.


And we fit right in as each day waned

we paused for bed and breakfast,

settled in for a still night's sleep

and woke to a big Irish feast of cereals,

juice, bread and jams, coffee and conversation,

earthy talk with hosts and fellow pilgrims.


We inhaled burning peat as if

my grandfather had cut it from the land

and handed it to me.

We lunched on strong fish chowder

and the briny smell of the sea

was everywhere and wild

as the hair on an Irishman's head.


I know from where my rock hard stubborn streak

derives as sure as does my love of music and words.

I met myself each day strolling down the streets

heard my voice issue from the mouths of men

in pubs, churches, shops.

I live there now in them

and dwell there always in my mind.


Old Man to Young Friend

Please take me in hand,

show me how to read

your new world:

where to dine,

what to eat,

when to sleep.

You say you'll sleep

when you're dead.

I once thought that way.

I now say, why rush things?

I walk in circles

like Thelonious Monk

seeking lost chords,

bemused.

There is so little time;

decisions appear so fast,

make toast,

play with dog,

read paper,

cross to the mailbox,

swim upstream,

cautiously.

And the worth that I see in you

is unworthy of my expression.

While you fly on vaunted wings,

I sit here in my indolence

an old fart enjoying the scent

of years lived so fast

with only wisdom to impart.


Bird/Tree

The bird is just five black

lines, but it is a bird on a

limb, plain as day.

The limb is one long line,

thick here, thin there.

And the needles,

thin lines in a spoke.

A blue wash is the sky;

the bird, limb and needles

just three colors --

brown, blue, green.

Simplicity, space

defining form, and

my hand inspired,

guided somehow by

the breath that

animates me, and the

bird and the tree.



© Joe Larkin