STRING QUARTET NO. 4

I sit on my patio
listening to Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 4 in C minor
as the sun melds into the ionosphere,
dusk brushing the treetops

Unseen starlings chirp in counterpoint
to the morose movements,
violins evocatively weeping and celebrating
the composer’s vision

Lightning bugs spark in lockstep to the meter,
their jittery flight outlined in the gasping light.
Crickets, hunkered down in the shrubbery like insurgents,
provide the choral flourish that encapsulates
the flawless collaboration between Beethoven
and mid-summer dusk

MAGICICCADA

They are a tidal wave of life
          washing over farmland and forest
          yard and prairie

stirring from their seventeen year senescence
          to emerge en masse like a
          marauding army of winged warriors

eyeballs like ruby ball bearing
          wings as slight as Kleenex
          their mating call a staggering ninety decibel screech

like a million transmissions grinding
          in unison solely
          to attract a mate

I cannot blame them
          for I, too, would howl at ninety decibels  
          if I had to wait seventeen years between mating periods

TRAVELING LIGHT

I wish we could spend
         all our days together on the road

While I drive
         you would talk to me as America flashes by

As we tunnel
         past the predawn dew you would fall asleep

and I would adjust your blanket
         to keep away the snap of the morning chill

There will be corridors of silence
         where I will catch the sound of your breathing

And when we nestle
         like spring sparrows in the verdant arms of the Smokies

or flit over Florida sands
         like children in the throes of natural harmony

or hang glide in the clouds
         that crown the Rockies like a triumphant wreath

I will reach out and touch your hand
         as you gaze out the window

at the fixed path of highway
         as secure and preordained as our travels together

ONE JULY EVENING


Evening was sheathed
                    in a collective stillness

neither twig nor limb,
                   flower or bush

so much as fluttered or swayed.
                   It was as if nature held its breath.

The scent of milkweed and hostas
                   lingered like a lover’s perfume.

Mosquitoes twirled in the moonlight
                   to the locked cadence of chirping crickets.

And as the summer day
                   unraveled itself for slumber

its protracted sigh fell over the yard
                    like a gossamer blanket

under which we could wiggle our toes
                     and giggle till sunrise

July 1

It is pleasant in the shade

You sit across from me
absorbed in a novel
while I chisel away at a poem

However, I stop to watch you read,
the book laying flat on the glass table
as you lean forward, head slightly bowed

eyes fixed on the page.
Our cat, Smoky, creeps under my chair
to cheat the afternoon sun

that draws a shadow over half the yard.
Smoky stretches/yawns/brushes his head
against my leg.

Now you lean back in your chair,
oblivious to my stare,
just as I am oblivious to my poem

A restless breeze rankles the trees,
prompting impatiens to dance in the sunlight,
proving without a doubt
It is pleasant in the shade

YET AGAIN

She reads to him every night,
her eyelids as gummy as bread dough,
the words trickling out like wooden soldiers,
precise, regimented,
inflection as faded as bleached wallpaper

And his eyes locked on hers’
seeing but not hearing;
or hearing but not seeing,
watching the words form on  her lips
like ice crystals on glass.
His legs stir beneath the covers,
more reflexive than enthralled

She suppresses a yawn,
repetition surrendering to boredom,
the story unchanging night after night,
like the stars in the evening sky,
permanent and familiar,
yet unattainable in their scope

She bookmarks the page in the book,
knowing it matters not to him,
each page the same as the last,
the spoken words just one more exercise
of synchronicity between larynx and lips
but it matters to her,
for each passing page
is a measure of her own sanity

ESMERALDA

Esmeralda is a funny sounding name

like
the metallic groan
of faulty plumbing

or
a broken screen door
swiveling on its hinges

or
the squawk of
rain-drenched sneakers

When  I was a child of
five or so,
with ringlets of honey-toned hair
swiveling past my ears

there was a neighbor on our block
who, whenever he would see me,
would call out in that derisive sing-song
peculiar to all bullies

Hey, Esmeralda!
Hi, Esmeralda!

And I at age five or so
wanted to shrivel away
in my own skin
and throw up from my first
bilious taste of humiliation

And thanks to the thoughtlessly cruel
taunting by an adult,
this five year old learned

how to crawl inward for protection,
and how to distrust the human gaze,
                                                                                                       
and how to view oneself
as an oddity

He’s probably dead after all these years,
but in those odd moments
that hang like distended organs,

I can hear his voice
as wickedly sharp as a scythe
slicing my ego with the thrust
of every syllable
calling out:
Hey, Esmeralda!

My question has always been:
Why Esmeralda?
Why not Bob or Jane?
Mary or Charlie?
I guess he chose it
for only one reason:

Esmeralda is a funny sounding name