a cautionary tale

grad school

has changed me

but not

for the better.

---

Thanks for checking in. I know it's been quiet around here lately. Check back next Sunday; I plan to get back on a weekly posting schedule. And happy start-of-the-school-year for everyone who's starting fall semester.

A too-prolonged winter

I understand, dear Winter.

We’re all afraid to die.

But I think we’ve been buried under glaciers long enough.

Untitled

It was grandma who told me

that Heaven is great and wide

and full of power and sway,

but still very far away.

Conversation with Melody

Your spine was the string of a violin

stretched tight and fine and strained across

some sounding board I couldn’t see.

As your voice played the metronome

we found ourselves a common time

and sang ideas into words

that rang. My belly was a drum

that beat its own accompaniment

stretched taut to bursting, round and firm

across some foreign element

only half mine.

You told me our songs were the same,

just harmonized in counterpoint.

I’d not affirm, nor disagree.

Yes, I’d like to accompany you,

but only when I’m reassured

your song suits mine.

So name your key.

Fragment after Sappho

Fragment after Sappho

 

Love’s fortunes swing without warning.

I can’t balance as they sway.

From desire to disaster,

it’s so hard to stop halfway.

[Author's note: This week I'm up against one of the most stressful deadlines of my life to date. I'd appreciate your good thoughts.]

The Sky over Saint Peter's

Sorry for the late post. I'm grading the second midterm this week, on top of at least fifteen other enormous deadlines. Please enjoy this poem that I wrote when I was living in Rome. 

The Sky over Saint Peter's

No rain, no clouds, no sadness yet

just blue on blue on top of blue

so blue it hurts my eyes.

As not-so-early morning traffic

swirls around the fountain

and dies into the night.

Or pre-dawn glowing gold-on-blue

over the buildingtops too greet

the day that’s paused in coming.

I skirt the fountain, yet alone,

can’t quite define the color

suspended in the air.

Stars are hard to find in Rome.

From my terazza, certainly

a dark spot in the city,

I count no more than twenty.

So frightened by the big-town bustle

they slink into the corners

and wink out as I chase them.

But molten gold glows slowly, surely

filtered through the leaves of trees

as light begins to fade.

Behind me blue melts into pink

as one lone airplane traces high an arc;

you’d think it was a star.