Skylark

I heard a song
from the woods
a beautiful melody
it lifted my heart with it
what sounded like love
took wing
its music lighter than air
we soared
over images
from a high
but a long slow landing
left me reeling
when I wondered
was it just a lark

Winter

Dark bristles
on the light hide
of a boar’s back
of a mountain side
the boar roots
through bristles
of chestnut hulls
and hides

Cold
leaves me ravenous
rootless
I bristle
and look for sustenance
and find it
in the mountain sides

Tiglio Alto to Monte Forato

ancient cart wheels
abandoned
on their sides
on the valley floor
their spokes splintered
engaged
covered in moss
and vines
and stones
the ground is obscured
by morning mist
in the distance
an upturned skull
is dormant
against the sky
as though a step through the fog
to the far bank
is to leave the past behind

Swimming in a Sea with Emotion

Wrestling the octopus
One tentacle under control
Another takes hold
One grasps your wrist
You peel it off
One wraps around your rib cage
You wriggle free
One slips around your neck
You detach it
One slithers around your thigh
You slip through its grip
One grabs your ankle
You kick it away
One encircles your shoulder
And tries
To pull you under

THE RECKONING

Assiduously avoiding all signs of fall
I am savoring every flavor
Of this most beautiful summer

Hoarding the treasure like a thief
Figs bursting like a jewel box
Amethyst plums in my pockets

Like a party crasher
I devour everything at the banquet
Warm ruby ripe tomatoes basil and balsamic
Salty emerald pesto strands slipping through my lips

I smile at the invited guests
A sweet topaz corn kernel dangling from my chin
The juice of jade tarragon chicken drips through my fingers
Ignoring the signs of fall and failing
I look over my shoulder for the reckoning
And feel the chill from an open door

Perspective

Looking out
Over a vast network
Of mountain ridges
Covered by dense forest
Distant peaks
Deep valleys
Looking back
On unexplored paths
Bewildering intersections
Irretrievable trails
Breath taking climbs
To summits
Of heart rending beauty
And slow arduous descents
Looking in
To find a vantage point

MUSES

In the just cool
Of a late June evening
You drive down the long hill

They stand on the street
Tall, lean, beckoning
With long limbs
There’s a buzz
About them

You’re captivated
By their intoxicating fragrance
Fascinated with
Dripping yellow diamond
Chandelier earrings
And conquered
By their ruffled hearts

Scents and Sensibility

The first hot

Summer-like day

I walk the Tiglio Road

Through dense humid acacia

Clover and elderflower air

Like stepping into a shower

In any one of the many houses

In which I have lived

Or stayed

Full with sense and sensitivity

To smell the soapy steam

Someone has just left

SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY

Stand silently beside several dozen mostly male parishioners murmuring the words like chanting to every prayer outside a stone chapel which holds 12 seated, mostly older women, and the soft spoken Priest, who has been the priest of this parish for well over 50 years, while one old man and two children comb the hillsides for wild strawberries.

Sit at a very long table under a terra cotta tiled portico in the sometimes sun sometimes drizzle and pass small trays of tender succulent wood burning oven roasted venison, herb roasted chicken, tripe, sausages, anchovies, herb marinated bean salads, cold rice salads, potato salads, green salads, baked polenta with fresh porcini mushroom sauce, while people loudly and amicably discuss language, local wine making, the potential of the olive harvest this year, olive curing, and the ongoing recovery process of the land use rights of the people to 1700 hectares of property at Lago Santo ceded to them in the 1600's.

Taste a half dozen home made tortes and cakes while two children wander who knows where and then roll giggling down closely mowed banks.

Drink quantities of very good locally made wine, limoncello, blueberry liqueur, grappa, and finally coffee and not feel over full or drunk, except on the experience.

WANDERLUST

A crystal clear
Christmas day
A late afternoon walk
On a leafy path
On a steep slope
Above the river

Into
The low setting sunlight
Splintered
Through leafless trees

BOUNTY

Firm ripe red globes of pebbled flesh
Hanging hidden beneath and between
Toothed leaves
In dank dirt
On shadow washed banks
That with a feather light fingertip touch fall
Weightless into my palm
The taste of sweet perfume

WAKE UP CALL

There is an alarm clock going off somewhere
Beep beep beep beep beep beep
But then it stops
And then it goes off again
Is it in one of the apartments below
Beep beep beep beep beep beep
Piercing urgent insistent
Is there a warning buzzer on some machine here
Did I misset the clock on the stove again
Is my son playing his Gameboy upstairs
When I have specifically said he may not
Enough electronics for today
I told him
But he has been known to hide under his covers
Thinking I wont discover him
I stand and prepare to confront him
All is quiet and then I hear it again
Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
My attention is drawn to the window
It is a bird
Deep in the forest.

ART

I hate artspeak
I hate it
When someone says
I know
What the artist meant
I
Could do that

I want to devour
The design
Imbibe
The image
Contemplate
The content
Get off
On the form

There should be a sign
Silence

CROSSING

Crossing paths
Star crossed
Working at cross purposes
Calm frazzled nerves
Working a crossword
And
No
Cross
Words

WHO’S WHO

playing fast and loose with words going off half cocked saying anything and everything un-reasoning that comes to mind without thought or consideration as to the who’s listening and that that who or another who might be hurt by what this who is saying or not saying of the not inconsequential consequences of applying random heat to not inanimate objects like shooting into the void the not listening not hearing top down process of un-living.

OUTFACING GRAVITY

If you really want to know a woman’s age
Look
At her Hands

In a strange inversion
The less attractive I get
The more uninhibited
I become

In this top down process
Note to myself
Wear short skirts
The legs are the last to go

My toes show
Hardly any signs of age
At all

CREATIVITY

Creativity exercises its strict authority
The more beautiful the result
The more anxiety
Satisfaction is shortlived

To assuage this angst
I slam the water
Pump the bike
Hike the hill

It doesn’t help

REFLECTIONS IN VENICE

A blood orange sun hovers
Behind buildings
Anchored in an icy sea

A boat races through cold air
Away from the ancient city
Past tall villas

Red orange flames
Engulf interiors
Raging window to window
A heart races

Thumbs part
Nostrils flare
Soft liquid flesh yields
A spritz of warm bittersweet
Blood orange

SPRING FEVER

Streams shivering
Sap rising
Stems shooting
Light green filigree

Soft fur buds
On pussy willow
Sprouting
In high grass
Sweating

Tall figures
Of
Hot pungent
Heather
Hovering

Banks blanketed
in periwinkle

With flushed cheeks
Spring is coming

SPRING

Lashed.
Like a gale,
And then a
Lull.

Whipped.
A roller coaster,
Chugging up one side,
Careening down the other,
A sharp left turn,
And stop.

Thrashed.
One miserable day,
Dawns into a brilliant
Blue next.

Breathtaken.
Schizoid
Manic
Depressive
Bipolar
That is February.

MORNING

One voice shatters
The dark silence
Then another
And another

I saw it first
No, I saw it
No, it was me over here
I saw it
Then all at once

The joyous cacophony
builds
To a crescendo
I close the window
And slip back between warm sheets
Day breaks

IS IT LOVE

A shy breeze breathes
A heady mix of
Penetrating perfume

Acacia in bloom
Heavy clusters of
Delicate white petals
Its lady finger leaves
Lightly tracing shadows

Intoxicating elderflower’s lace antimacassar
Searching for a smooth sofa shoulder to lie on

Standing proud firm full figs
Not yet hanging soft

Ever the consummate gentleman
The linden proffers his heart shaped leaf

Is it love or is it just
Spring

GRASPING THE INTANGIBLE

My head is spinning,
All this talk of technology
It brings us together
Keeps us
Apart.

In touch
A touch screen
Are ironic
Like some prophylactic
Some curtain in a marriage bed
The wall of the stall

So many messages sent
Devoid of scent

We hear from each other
Without
Rhythm, timbre or tone
Of a voice

This powerful medium
Of self-expression
Is missing
An ardent expression
And a warm touch

bdsm D/s it’s all the same to me

Some like it hot
With a clip or a swat

Some like to say who’s on top
With a leash or a crop

Some like to give what for
With niqab or chador

We don’t all speak with one voice
For some it’s a choice.

SPACE AND TIME

According to recent reports
I’m at a stage in my life
When my hormones are telling me
To stop

To stop
Waiting on everyone
Like some waitress
In a coffee shop

To stop
Bending over

To pick up the clothes
Off the floor or
Load the dishwasher.

To stop
Laying back

Waiting for life
To come to me

To stop carving
The roast
And start

Carving out some space and time
For myself

PROCESS

The slip
Of a slithery silk charmeuse
Through my fingers

The undulation
Of the large rectangle
As it floats
Onto the cutting table

The scrunch, scrunch, scrunch
Of the scissor

Slowly developing three dimensions
Fingers smooth warm seams

The slide of silk over my shoulders
As I slip it on

SUMMER

Sun
Sand
Sea
Salt
Surf
Shower
Soon
To Sleep
What’s
Next

HORIZONTAL

The staccato

Beat

Of the strobe

Of the light

Through the trunks

Of the trees

On the slope

As I drive

The winding road

The blinding flash

Of white

When I come

To a stop

THE LONG HOT SUMMER

Ends
In a downpour
Of water
And words

Sun
Hits
Warm wet dirt
Vapors rise
Grass glistens
Scents
Permeate

Grapes swell
Figs burst
Chimneys
Smoke

Chill
Creeps
Skin crawls

Light glows

LATE NOVEMBER

Ground Ginger
Saffron
Cinnamon
Dried Parsley
Turmeric
Cayenne
Nutmeg
Ground pepper

From ancient kitchens
Hot
Spots
Of savoury light

As the glow fades
For the winter hillsides

SEPTEMBER

A fat black fig

A frosted violet plum

A firm gold ear

Of sweet American corn,

That goes splush.

Round hard cherry tomatoes

Ripening in the

Hot

Sun.

I imagine one

Squirt

In my mouth.

THE GARDENER

Irrepressible, insatiable
You sow your seed incessantly.
We strive ensemble
To process
The love of your labor.

SLICE OF LIFE

Blood red
On my hands
Seeps
Between my fingers and
Stains

The knife
Slides so easily
Through the warm flesh,
As I slice
Your magnificent
Sweet
Beets

YOUR SALAD

Bitter radicchio
Peppery rocket
Ripped

Crisp scarola
Spinach raw
Torn

Blanketed in sweet balsamic
Savored with salt
And olive oil
Tossed

Aroused by the scent
Of black pepper
Crushed

Obsessed with food
You indulge my appetite

Obsessed with thought
My mind wanders

I WOKE

Now I lay me down to sleep
I Pray the Lord my soul to keep

Goes the child’s prayer

If I die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take

Gave me great pause

If ever you forgot
To say
See you in the morning
I was terrified
It would be my turn

How was I to know
It was yours

Shooting in the Dark

your first son has a three hundred piece collection hoping he can assail the pain of your memory and your second son keeps searching for you in a series of mothers for his children and I baptised my son, who was himself born on your lost husband's, his grandfather's birthday, and consecrated a chapel in Tuscany that same date in late May when, 39 years ago, at point blank range you, blonde beauty, life of the party, last woman standing, too bright, bored stiff, prize winning horse woman and expert marksman, were guaranteed not to miss.

To Barga

with love.